"What is wrong with you?" The doctor's voice rang out, sharp and angry, cutting through the thick tension in the room.
I couldn't help myself—a sinister smile crept across my face. For a fleeting moment, I savored the chaos. At least someone reasonable had arrived. Maybe now, we could have a mature conversation. I hoped. Though deep down, I wasn't sure. Instinct told me to tread carefully.
"Sorry, doc," Sargent Siyabonga muttered, stepping back reluctantly. His voice carried a hint of embarrassment, but his eyes still burned with frustration.
The doctor shook her head, disbelief etched into her features. "And what happened here?" she demanded, her gaze sweeping the room.
The acrid smell of urine hung heavy in the air, unmistakable and inescapable. Her nose wrinkled slightly as she caught the scent, but she maintained her composure.
"This piss of shit happened," Siyabonga snapped, his voice dripping with contempt. "He peed on himself. Can you imagine how disgusting he can be?" His words were more of a complaint than an explanation, his anger still simmering beneath the surface.
I kept my sinister smile firmly in place, as if I had just pulled off the bravest act of defiance.
The doctor's eyes flicked to me, taking in the scene. The urine was still dripping, though now in slow, deliberate intervals, pooling on the cold floor beneath me.
"I had requested to go to the toilet to pee," I said, my tone laced with arrogance. "But he refused to grant me even that small courtesy. Instead, these fine gentlemen teased and mocked me, practically begging me to pee on myself."
The three soldiers still holding their positions chuckled, their laughter low and mocking. The sound grated against the tension in the room, but it didn't faze me.
The doctor's lips twitched, almost betraying a laugh of her own. She quickly covered her mouth, stifling the chuckle before it could escape.
The soldiers' laughter subsided, replaced by an awkward silence. The doctor straightened, her expression hardening as she took control of the situation.
"Bring someone to clean up this mess," she commanded, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Chungu?" the doctor asked as she reached for my wounded hand, burying the earlier incident under clinical concern.
I let out a dry chuckle, shaking my head slightly. "My name is not Chungu," I corrected, my voice low but firm. "It's Contratino. And I am not well."
Her hands hesitated briefly before continuing to unwrap the bandage on my right hand. I watched her closely, studying the way she avoided my eyes, as if deliberately refusing to meet my gaze.
A strange confidence began to build within me. Why did she dodge my grimacing stare? What was she hiding? Was it fear? Uncertainty? Or something more... unsettling?
She gathered herself, exhaling slowly. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice steadier now, almost rehearsed, as though she had repeated the question a thousand times before.
Her touch was soft, careful, almost hesitant as she peeled away the bandage. My wound seemed fine to me—no reason to remove the dressing—but I didn't stop her.
I couldn't deny that I enjoyed the feel of her hands—so gentle, so precise. A stark contrast to everything else in this grim, suffocating cell.
For a moment, the tension between us was different—subtle, charged, hovering in the space between professionalism and something else neither of us dared name.
"Could you get me someone in charge of this place immediately?" My voice was firm, emphatic—demanding attention.
The doctor halted for a moment, eyes narrowing in calculated suspicion. "To what purpose?" she asked, her voice controlled, measured.
She wanted to know. Not out of curiosity—but out of caution. My earlier act had blurred the lines between defiance and madness, and now, perhaps, they truly believed I was unstable.
"I can only speak to someone in charge," I insisted, my tone edged with urgency. "And please, hurry. It's a matter of everyone's safety."
Mocking chuckles slithered through the room like poison. Murmurs spread between the soldiers, feeding off their amusement like vultures circling fresh prey. My jaw tightened, irritation creeping into my veins, pressing against the deepest core of my humanity.
"Did you hear that?" one soldier sneered. "He said it's for the safety of *everyone!* Now *this* is new—some fresh kind of madness."
Laughter exploded around me, rippling through the ranks, bouncing off the cold concrete walls. Their amusement grated against my ears, seeping into my bones like an unbearable itch I couldn't scratch.
"This is C-Max," another soldier added smugly, gesturing at the thick steel doors, the unyielding walls. "Equal to Pollsmoor in West Cape Province. There's no 'safety' here."
The doctor remained silent, her eyes scanning me, searching for something—perhaps truth, perhaps deception.
I refused to look away.
I had seen the signs. Felt them in my gut. Something was coming. And when it did, they would regret laughing.
The doctor sighed, barely concealing her exhaustion. "When I'm done with my duty here, I'll watch him for you," she said, her tone carrying the detached assurance of someone brushing off a child's complaints—just enough to quiet them, not enough to take them seriously.
The dismissal struck a nerve.
"This can't wait!" I snapped, my voice rising with frustration. "This is about everyone in this building! Safety *first!* Not my damn wound—it means nothing!"
She flinched slightly at my sharp tone but quickly composed herself, tightening her grip on the bandages. "I hear you, darling," she said, almost too casually. "*But things in here don't work that way.*"
The words settled into the pit of my stomach like dead weight. I gritted my teeth.
"Doc—" I exhaled sharply, shaking with urgency. "We are going to be *under attack* any time soon! *Damnit!*"
She visibly tensed, taking half a step back, startled by my outburst.
For a brief second, I saw something crack in her composed demeanor—fear? Doubt?
The soldiers exchanged amused glances, chuckling low under their breath. Their mockery festered in the air like rot.
"He says we're going to be under attack," one of them sneered. "Now *this* is a new breed of insanity."
Another smirked. "This is C-Max. One of the strongest prisons in South Africa—equal to Pollsmoor in West Cape. No one 'attacks' this place."
The doctor was silent, her eyes flickering between me and them.
She *wanted* to dismiss me, to move on. But something about my words, my urgency, my certainty—made her hesitate.
I stared at her, willing her to listen.
If she didn't—if they *all* didn't—then when the attack came, there'd be no time left to believe me.