After morning shenanigans in her room, and the D.O. pretty much catching us as we came out late for lunch (bologna sandwiches again), I was taken down to operations, where two huge cops, three sergeants, and to investigators put me into an interrogation room and tried to intimidate me into talking about the assault on my bunkie. They tried to pin conspiracy and other accelerated charges on me, then slapped a pair of handcuffs on the table as if to prove a point. I tried not to snicker since the thought that ran to my brain at that point wasn’t intimidation, but humor… I am already in jail-what are they going to do with handcuffs? Arrest me, Challen Miller!?
I was brought back to the pod after about two hours in operations, just in time for dinner. During lockdown, to help with the anxiety from the interrogation, I cut myself and once the blood was flowing, I felt much calmer. The cut was actually much deeper than I planned but that too was strangely calming. Across the pod country could see the blood flowing down my arm and she was getting incredibly turned on by it. She was signing to me frantically and sign language and later wrote me a poem about what she was seeing and feeling while we were locked down watching me from across the pod. The look in her eyes was incredibly sexy seeing the blood on my hands. The rest of the night was uneventful except a few fights between stupid high school drama girls and me prompting and succeeding in getting country to reconcile a lost friendship with her best friend that crashed and burned the day before I was transferred to F-18.