The trill of overhead lights igniting woke us. Eyes that peered down from the slit in the door hit me with a layer of chill. As stated by 81, there were six minutes to prepare for departure. We only had the clothes on our backs, so that left the time to be spent on whatever we needed to accomplish with the sink-toilet in the back of the room. 81 allotted each of us a minute to go about our business, suggesting the rest of us give privacy when Jay looked appalled at the distance between our group and the “bathroom.” An attempt to do so was made by huddling in the farthest corner. 81 kept the three on standby close with a hand of more force than encouragement against our backs. Even if I was thankful for 81’s suggestion, I still kept a careful eye on the arm he’d wound around me.

“What are you? A wrangler or something?” I asked him while Jay scowled at our feet.

“Suppose I used to be.” He hardly lifted his shoulders.

96 claimed first dibs. Heading over to the unoccupied side, he growled a “get over yourselves.” and took two minutes in spite. I counted.

By the time my turn had come around, I knew the six minutes had been all but eaten up. I glared at the back of 96’s head as I crossed the room, hoping he felt some sort of terrible malice behind him. When the appliance was about as gross and rusted as I guessed, I was upset that time with the shitter had been a point of contention. I’d give it a kick if I didn’t think it would split off the floor.

On the ground was a flimsy, grimy cup with a tube of clear gel and four identical toothbrushes. Each one was the length of my pinky finger.

“Which is mine?” I asked, being short on time and quick in thought. There wasn’t any notable feedback that could tell one apart from the other.

“Right.” “Middle one.”  96 and 81 said over each other.

I took up the brush that I thought looked the most unused with unconfident hope I wasn’t cleaning my mouth with a stranger’s backwash. The toothpaste tasted like I was scrubbing liquid glue over my teeth, the consistency chewy when it slid between them. I vastly misjudged how much a routine task could suck. It was still a less gamey concoction than the meal I’d been served, and for that, I could give it some leeway.

Three heavy strikes hit the door. I bit down on my tongue. On cue, 81 cut the poor dribble from the faucet, grasped both my shoulders, and tugged me to the entrance. I didn’t have time to wash out the leftover toothpaste, so I swallowed the excess with half a mind that it contained something lethal. He deposited me in front of him as the line leader at the door. Immediately after a guard freed the hatch and waved us out.

We lined up with the rest of the cell’s captives trickling out and joining us. Guards mandated our backs to the wall, hands out, for a count and check. I felt stupid reaching out at nothing, palms up. A few people were treated to pat-downs for one reason or another, though I rose no suspicions to warrant it.

Trying to keep away from me, Jay stood with 96 and 81 between us, 81 at my back. He wasn’t trying to hide it either. When he caught me looking, he turned his neck away with a painful jerk.

After a certain point, they split the long line of tired faces into smaller ones and took them elsewhere. The end of our group was one person behind Jay, plucked from the rest of their cellmates. I couldn’t see the front of our line until we were mandated forward. Must have been about twenty of us. One parolee was vigilant to the bottom of the chain, the other at the top.

I watched my shoes as they moved through the shadows, feeling unrested. I was still able to ride on the coattails of my forced slumber, even though that would soon wear thinner than the soles of my flats. Perhaps sooner than it should when everything was something of a perpetual night. A small pressure bore into the base of my neck and coerced my head up. I saw 81’s hand displace from the corner of my eyes when I went to find the source. Proving he was getting incredibly familiar with putting his fingers on my face, he pressed back on my cheek to keep my eyes ahead. Instructing me on protocol or not, if he dared it again, I’d snap my teeth down on him.

I was soon to discover the mysteries that were Inertia prisoner’s itinerary. Sure, you had the basics of life in lockup: cells, sentences, and shared living spaces, but what filled the time? I was getting restless to find out. The perimeter of exhausted but neutral pretenses meant there wasn’t too much cause to be diffident. This same crowd was also relatively lax in the face of brutality, so I could be basing my expectations on an already tilted perspective. At least we weren’t being kept in our tight cells when I didn’t think the four of us could survive each other for long.

My answer came in the rock of washing machines and the scent of bleach. Making it difficult to discern orders, the rusted machines pounded as though stones were spinning inside them. I followed others when my ears could not pick up even shouts over the chorus of rocking metal. My assigned station was in front of one appliance along a copy-pasted row of them, with a mountain of grey cloth dumped to my side. Behind my back, more was tossed into the pile, making it slump over and wade at my ankles. I picked the pieces up considerably at first as their appearances and stenches disorientated me. Some wreaked of sweat, but others with more insulting scents I didn’t wish to inspect further. No matter how much I tried to suppress the urge to gag, it came for a different cause when overwhelmed by the stains of blood many seemed to possess. Some were in the shape of splashes or sprays, others were in large puddles at the crotch. Every stain was still damp and fresh. My lightheadedness came down in nauseating tides when I brushed the wet patches. My care not to touch made my speed slow enough to be noticed by monitoring guards. The attention edged me on greater considering the repetitive visual of bloody clothing resembling mine. Left with little choice, I picked armfuls up, shuddering at the touch, before dumping them into the machine’s mouth. After feeding it bleach, I slammed the top down with thankful large gasps full of the burning sensation from huffing cleaner.

When the wash cycle completed, we took our damp clothes over to the dryers at the room’s opposite end. I traveled over with my armful to find all the dryers in use. While waiting, my entire front became damp and the pile threatened to slip out from my hold. My arms began to ache with how tight I made my clutch to keep any article from falling. When I heard the stutter of the dryer’s final turns, a push forced me onto my hands and knees; my clothing spread around me. Heavy military boots were at my eye level. I swallowed and looked off anywhere else but up.

“You’ve dirtied them all.” He said with a drip of mockery. The lines on his boot’s soles left impressions on the back of my head as he pressed me forward, burying my nose into the clothing. “Wash the bunch again.”

I collected the pile off the floor,  face boiling.