Ilay Maddox

The floor of the intake unit smelled of cold bleach & copper. A nurse with yellowed fingers clamped a blood pressure cuff around my biceps, pumped the bulb twice & ripped the velcro apart without checking the dial. Sign the belongings log, she said, sliding a clip board across the laminate. My wrists were raw where the transport cuffs had scraped the skin. I took the plastic pen & signed the intake sheet, my handwriting small & cramped. Two doors down, Ilay in a faded grey canvas jacket was scrubbing grease off a radiator with a wire brush. He didn't turn around when the heavy double doors slammed shut behind the transport guard but his shoulder muscles went rigid. The state calls this place the Oakhaven Custodian Unit. The court paperwork defines it as a forensic psychiatric facility for offenders deemed salvageable following violent acts. The original name was painted over on the brick facade outside, but you could still read the old iron lettering underneath: County Workhouse. Ilay dropped his tool onto the concrete floor with a sharp metallic clatter. "You left your shoes by the bench", he said keeping his eyes on the wall. I kept my back against the intake desk. "They took my shoelaces at the county jail". "They take everything here", he said, turning around slowly. His face was thin, scarred along the jawline by an old chemical burn. He wiped off his palms on his trousers. "Rodrick works the night desk. If he asks to inspect your mattress for contraband at midnight, you tell him the head nurse already cleared the frame". "Why", I asked, my voice flat. "Because the last girl who let him inspect her frame ended up in the isolation wing with a broken collarbone & a report stating she fell out of bed", he said softly. "The directors don't check the cameras. They just read the incident logs", he added. He picked his brush back up. "Put your shoes on. The floor gets cold after lockup".