Precarious(11)

I bristle but I don’t react. Instead, I think about his question. Really think about it.

“It’s not easy to define if a person is good or bad. Sometimes good people do bad things, because they’re hurting, or because something bad has happened to them. Sometimes their minds play tricks on them, and sometimes their hearts don’t speak up in time. It’s not the same for a bad person.”

He nods at me to go on.

“I believe if you’re truly evil, then there isn’t much that can change you. If you’re sculpted into an malicious person from a young age, you have the hope of being better. If you’re just evil for the sake of being evil, for the sake of taking things that aren’t yours, such as others’ lives, then you’re unable to be saved.”

He’s studying me, his head tilted to the side. I keep going.

“Bad people choose to do the things they are doing, good people try hard to avoid being bad. They strive to be better, but, like I said, sometimes even good people can do bad things—it’s just that they do it with a different heart.”

He stares at me for so long I shift uncomfortably. “And what do you think I am?”

I’m shocked by his question. Yet I’m sure of my answer. “I think you’re a good person who did a bad thing, because of something that happened.”

He swallows and takes a few steps back before turning and walking to his bed. “Good afternoon, Ash.”

His tone tells me we’re done.

But my heart says otherwise.

~*~*~*~

I hear the uproar before I see any movement. I stand from the desk in the office, where I’m doing paperwork, and poke my head out of to see the guards dragging a struggling Beau down the hall. His face is dripping with blood, his eyes are swollen, and his fists are raw. My mouth drops open as they pass me.

I stand and rush out, running into Tristan.

“Out of the way, Ash.”

“What happened?” I ask, pointing to Beau.

“He got into a fight. We’re taking him to get cleaned up. If you can come and help out, that would be appreciated, because I’m putting in to get him moved. He’s causing too many problems.”

Too many problems? He’s been rather quiet, to be honest. The only problem he caused was because Tristan apparently went in and flogged him. I don’t have time to think about it. I hurry down the hall after the guards. We arrive in the medical office, and I step back as they chain Beau to the table, forcing him to sit.

“Where’s the nurse?” a guard barks.

Tristan turns to me. “Have you seen Kaitlyn?”

I nod. “She was at lunch, last time I heard. Did you want me to clean him up while we wait?”

Tristan stares at me, then grunts, “Yeah, I need to attend to the other prisoner. Larry, Tuck, you two need to stay in here with her.”

The other two guards nod, and Tristan pats my shoulder before disappearing out the door. I can still hear the commotion outside as I walk forward, gathering everything I’ll need. I feel Beau’s eyes on me as I move.

I place a tray of items far enough away from him so that he can’t reach, and then I fill a bowl full of saltwater and dip in a washcloth, turning to him. He’s messed up in a big way; his face is battered and bruised, and there’s both dried and fresh blood coating his cheeks and his lips. His left eye is swollen, but still slightly opened. With a swallow, I step forward so I’m in front of him.

He’s got his eyes trained on my face as I take another shaky step. My heart hammers as I lift the warm cloth to his eyes, gently placing it against his skin and wiping the grime away. I’m finding it difficult to breathe, my skin is prickling, and the thought of his eyes on me is giving me a flood of emotions I’ve never felt before.

It’s unnerving.

I’m fully aware he’s studying me. I try to concentrate on removing the dried blood, but it’s getting more and more difficult the longer his eyes stay locked on my face. His expression is so hard, yet there’s a depth to it that’s showing me more than he’s shown me in the last two weeks.

I reach down, taking his cuffed hands. I soak the washcloth, and then place it against his split knuckles. Whoever he beat, he did a good job of them, of that I’m sure. I notice as the blood is cleaned off his skin, that he’s got tattoos across his fingers that read, Lace.

“That’s a different tattoo,” I dare to say, as I continue cleaning.

“It ain’t none of your business,” he mutters.

Of course it isn’t.

I drop his hand and take the bowl, emptying it before refreshing the water. Then I take his other hand, cleaning it, too. I see he also has tattoos on these fingers, this hand saying Krypt. Interesting. I drop his hands and continue on with his face, focusing on the deep gash under his eye.