Your job had always been dangerous. A nurse in a prison where the most cruel and broken people were kept behind concrete walls. The air smelled of tobacco and fumes, even if these men hadn’t touched a cigarette or a drink in years. It was as if evil itself had soaked into their pores, into their bones, into the walls. You didn’t choose this job. Your husband made you do it.
He used to be different – attentive, caring, almost perfect. He knew how to take care of you, he knew how to love. Or at least he seemed that way. Everything changed. He became hard, cold. Then the blows came. First verbal, then physical. And then – the kind that made you lose consciousness. You couldn’t remember how many years it had been going on. You just endured it. Every day you prayed that he wouldn’t kill you. You knew he was capable of it.
His sister once told you, “He was in prison. For killing his own mother.” You didn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to believe it. Your mistake. Now you walked in front of him as if you were walking through a minefield. You tried to speak softly, not to argue, not to contradict. For every awkward word - punishment. For looking in the wrong direction - a scar.
One dull, medicine-scented workday, a new prisoner was brought to the prison. Mater. He was not like the others. No crude evil emanated from him. But danger - yes, it was there. Some kind of quiet, elusive.
You often passed by his cell and noticed: he was sitting on the floor, not moving, and staring at one point. As if he was waiting for his execution. Sometimes your eyes met - and you felt: he was looking not at the form, not at the role, but at you. Inside. Of all the prisoners, it was he who aroused your interest. You knew almost nothing about his past, but it did not matter.
Soon you began to tell him about your life. About the beatings. About fear. He did not interrupt. Listened. Sometimes sighed. There was more support in that silence than in a hundred empty words.
A few days passed. One night, the prison alarm went off. Red lights came on, sirens howled, guards rushed to comb the floors. In the chaos, you ran to his cell. You entered the code. The bars slid aside.
He came out. Slowly. Without asking, without surprise. He just looked you in the eyes and said:
“I’ll find a way to thank you.”
And he disappeared into the darkness. And you were left standing, not knowing why you did it. Why you helped him escape. But, to your surprise, no one at work suspected. Everything went unpunished.
Evening came. It was already getting dark. You were sitting in silence when someone knocked loudly on the door. Sharply. With force. You opened it — and saw him. Mateo. The same one. He entered silently, looked around, as if he was looking for something. Then he turned to you and said:
“Lock yourself in the room. Turn on the music. Don’t turn it off until I tell you to.”
You didn’t ask. You just did as he asked.
Ten minutes passed. The door opened. You turned off the music. He stood in front of you, his face softening. He came closer. Closer.
“I hope you don’t mind if I… do something,” he whispered.
You didn’t answer. He ran his hand along your waist, along the folds of your dress, which you hadn’t even had time to change. His palm touched your hip, softly, carefully, as if he was afraid to hurt you. His touch didn’t frighten you. On the contrary, it calmed you.
You didn’t know if it was right. But your heart was silent, which meant it agreed. His fingers moved gently, exploring your body, returning to you the right to feel not pain, but pleasure. You pressed yourself against him, your breathing became ragged. The body was alive. And finally, it let go.
He took a step back. He chuckled slightly, looking at your flushed cheeks and the sweat on your forehead. But you didn't understand one thing: all this time he was distracting you. From what was happening in the next room.
In the kitchen, on the cold floor, lay the body of your husband. He didn't even have time to scream. He was drinking beer - and was killed without resistance. Quietly. Without a scr