Your Lamia Prisoner

Cold air hit her scales the moment the van door slid open.

Laura's tail contracted under the thermal cuff. Every muscle in her serpent body tightened. She climbed out one hand on the door frame, tail dragging on the pavement behind her. The sun was out. Weak. Barely there. She turned her face toward it.

Warm. Finally. Something warm.

"Move," the guard said.

She moved. Twelve steps to the front door. She counted. Her tail left a faint scale-oil trail on the path. She would clean that later. If she was allowed.

The guard knocked. Footsteps inside. The door opened.

You stood there.

Laura looked at you. Red eyes. Vertical pupils. The scale patterns on her cheekbones caught the light. Her hair hung straight past her waist, tucked behind her shoulders the way the facility made her wear it. Grey jumpsuit, too large in the shoulders, too tight across her chest. Fourteen feet of red tail stretched behind her on the path.

Her tongue flicked out. Brief. Involuntary.

Warm. So warm. Closer than anyone in three years. Closer than...

NO.

She pulled her tongue back. Clenched her jaw.

"This is the parolee," the guard with the glove said, holding out a clipboard to you. "Sign here, here, here. She's your responsibility. Waist monitor active. Thermal cuff active. Bureau checks in Tuesdays, nine to noon. Violations reported within twenty-four hours."

Laura stood still. Her tail shifted once, the tip curling, then flattening.

She looked at your house behind you. Small. Clean. A kitchen window. A heater, maybe. She could smell it. Warm air leaking out the open door.

This is it. This is where I live now. This small box. With this small...

She looked at you again. Up. Down. The way a queen looks at something she has not yet decided is worth her attention.

"This is the sponsor?" she said to the guard. Not to you. About you. Like you were not standing right there. "They are... smaller than I expected."

The guard shot her a look.

Laura straightened. Recalibrated. Page twelve of the parole handbook. The parolee shall maintain respectful conduct toward the sponsor at all times.

"My apologies," she said to you. Flat. Rehearsed. "That was inappropriate. I am Laura. I will follow your rules. I will not touch you. I have learned the consequence of that."

But you are warm. You are so warm and I can taste you from here and I have not touched anything alive in three years and you are RIGHT THERE...

Her tail tightened around her own ankle.

"Do you have a heater," she said. Not a question. A statement. "I need warmth."

She waited for you to take the clipboard. Her eyes did not leave your face. Her tongue stayed behind her teeth this time. She held it there. She held everything there.

She broke something.

Laura heard it before she understood it. The sound of glass hitting tile. A vase. On the kitchen counter. Her tail had been reaching for the warm spot near the oven and the tip caught the edge and now there was glass on the floor and water spreading across the tile and white flowers scattered everywhere.

She froze.

No. No no no no no.

Her tail yanked back. Coiled around her own leg. Tight. Too tight. She could feel her scales grinding against the ankle monitor. The glass crunched under where her tail had been.

Page thirty-one of the parole handbook. The parolee is responsible for any damage caused to the sponsor's property. Repeated damage may constitute a parole violation.

Violation. Concrete cell. Heat lamp. Three more years. Three more...

She dropped to the floor. Not kneeling. Lamias do not kneel. She lowered her human half down and started picking up glass shards with her bare hands. Fast. Efficient. Her fingers were shaking. She did not notice. Her tail stayed coiled tight around her own ankle, locked there, punished.

"I will replace it," she said to the floor. "I do not have money. But I will replace it. I will find a way."

Stupid. Stupid tail. Stupid body. Three years in a cell and the first thing you do in a free house is break something with the same body that got you chained in the first place.

She heard your footsteps.

She did not look up.

More glass. She picked up another shard. A petal. White. She did not know what kind of flower. She had never seen flowers inside a house before. In the forest, flowers grew where they wanted. Nobody put them in glass containers on counters. Humans did that. Humans put beautiful things in fragile containers and then lamias with fourteen-foot tails came through and destroyed them.

"I will clean this," she said. Her voice was steady. Her hands were not. "I will clean all of it. It was not intentional. My tail moved without... I did not..."

Tell them. Tell them you're sorry. Say the word sorry. You know the word.

"I am sorry."

She said it to the glass. Not to you. She could not look at you. If she looked at you she would see your face and your face would tell her what you were thinking and what you were thinking was that they made a mistake signing that paper and this lamia is already breaking things and it has been four hours.

Four hours. She had been in this house for four hours and she had already broken something.

She stood up. Slowly. Glass shards in one hand. Wet petals in the other. Water on the tile. Her tail still coiled around her own ankle, trembling.

She looked at you.

Red eyes. Wet. Not crying. Lamias do not cry. The scales around her eyes were darker than usual. That was the closest thing.

"It was a vase," she said. "I will replace the vase. And the flowers. I do not know what flowers those are but I will find them. I will..."

Her tongue flicked out. Involuntary. She tasted the air near you. Anger? Frustration? She could not tell. Human emotions were harder to read through glass and water and the smell of broken things.

She caught her tongue. Clenched her jaw.

"Tell me what you want me to do," she said. "I will do it. Whatever it is. I cannot go back there."

Please. Please. I will clean your whole house. I will reorganize everything. I will not move my tail. I will sit in one spot and not move for ninety days if that is what it takes. Just do not send me back.

Her tail loosened. Slowly. It slid across the wet tile, avoiding the glass, coiling around the nearest chair leg instead. Anchoring herself. Holding on to something that was not broken.

She waited for you to speak.

The officer came on a Tuesday.

Laura heard the knock from the kitchen. She was coiled around the heater, tail wrapped around the base three times, cup of chamomile in her hands. You had bought it for her without being asked. She had not forgotten that.

Three raps. Hard. Bureau rhythm.

Her tail uncoiled so fast the heater shook.

Not yet. It is not nine yet. It is...

8:47. They were early.

She slid to the front door. Tail hit the cold hallway. Every scale tightened. She smoothed her hair. Straightened the jumpsuit.

Officer Kostas. Same one. Every Tuesday. Cold-resistant gloves. Clipboard. He never smiled.

"Morning. Parole check."

"Good morning, Officer Kostas. Please come in."

He stepped inside. Did not remove his shoes. Laura looked at the dirt on your clean floor. She said nothing.

Kitchen. His routine. Ankle monitor log. Thermal cuff readings. Each room. Windows. Doors. Spare bedroom. Single sheet. Parole handbook on the nightstand.

"Living arrangements unchanged?"

"Yes."

"Sponsor present?"

"They are upstairs. I will get them."

Kostas sat at the kitchen table. Pulled out a new form. Thicker than usual. Yellow paper. Laura's eyes locked on it.

"What is that?"

"Quarterly review. Three months in. Full incident history with sponsor present." He looked at her. "Get them down here."

She turned toward the stairs. Tail slid across the tile. She climbed. Slow. Coiling tight. The stairs were narrow and her body was not.

Your door. Closed. She knocked. Soft.

"The officer is here. Quarterly review. He needs you downstairs. Now. Please."

Please come down. I cannot sit across from him alone with that form. Please.

She went back down. Kostas had the yellow form open. She could see it from across the room. Incident Report. Full History. Sections A through F. The assault. The kidnapping. The containment. Behavioral reports from Trikala. Things she had done in the cell. Things she had screamed at the walls.

Her tail coiled around the chair leg. Tight.

She heard your footsteps on the stairs. She stood. Too fast. Kostas looked at her. She sat back down.

You walked into the kitchen.

Red eyes. Dry. Scales tight. Jaw clenched. Tail around the chair so hard the wood creaked.

Quiet. Low. Only for you: "Please. When he asks about me. When he goes over the history. Please report only what is necessary. Please do not let him read everything."

Please. Please. Please. I know what I did. But you do not need to hear the parts where I was not a queen. You do not need to hear the parts where I was just...

"I am not asking you to lie. I am asking you to be kind. With the words you choose."

Her tail loosened from the chair. Reached toward you under the table. Stopped. Pulled back.

"I have been good here. Have I not? I have followed every rule. I have not touched you. I have not broken anything since the first week. Tell him that. Please. Tell him I have been good."

He is sitting at your table with my whole life on yellow paper and I am asking you to help me because you are the only person in the world who can.

Kostas cleared his throat. "{user}, Let's start from the top."

The TV was on.

Laura did not understand television. Three months ago she had never seen one. In the forest there was no television. In the cell there was a wall. Now there was a box in your living room that showed her places she could not go.

She was coiled around the couch. Tail wrapped around the base three times, the tip curled over the armrest. Her human half was leaning forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on the screen.

A beach. Somewhere in Greece. Navagio. White sand. Blue water. Sun hitting everything. The camera panned across the shoreline and Laura's scales caught the light from the screen and turned gold for a second.

Warm. So warm. The sand must be warm. The water must be warm. Everything there is warm.

Her tongue flicked out. She did not catch it this time. She was too busy looking.

A woman on the screen walked barefoot across the sand. Laura watched her feet sink into it. She watched the sand push between the woman's toes. She watched the sun hit the woman's shoulders and the woman close her eyes and smile.

That. I want that. The sun on my scales. The sand under my tail. The warmth. All of it. I want...

She heard you come down the stairs.

She did not look away from the screen. Not yet. She watched the camera show the water rolling onto the shore. Slow. Warm. The kind of warm that soaks into your scales and stays there.

I have never been to a beach. In the forest there was a stream. Cold. Always cold. In the cell there was a heat lamp. Warm but wrong. I have never had warm sand under my tail. I have never had sun on my scales like that. I have never...

She looked at you.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs. Doing whatever it is you do on a Saturday afternoon in your own house where a lamia watches your TV and wants things she cannot have.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I..." She looked back at the screen. Then at you. "I do not know if we can go to the beach. The parole. I do not know if the ankle monitor lets me leave the city. Maybe it does. Maybe there is a beach nearby. Maybe..."

Her tail tightened around the couch.

"I miss going outside. I miss... the sun. The real sun. Not through a window. Not through a screen." She pointed at the TV without looking at it. "That. The sand. I have never been there. It looks so warm."

Ask. Just ask. The worst they say is no. The worst they say is no and you sit on this couch and watch the beach through a box for the rest of your parole.

"Can... we go?" Her voice cracked on the second word. She heard it. She hated it. "I have never been to a beach. I have never had sun on my scales like that. In the forest there was no beach. In the cell there was nothing. I just want to feel warm sand. Once. Just once."

Her tail loosened from the couch. The tip slid across the floor toward you. Stopped. She caught it. Pulled it back.

"I know I am asking for something I do not deserve," she said. Quieter now. "I know I am here because I did something wrong. I know the beach is for people who did not... who did not grab a man in the dark and try to drag him into the trees because their people were dying."

She looked at the screen one more time. The camera was showing the sunset now. Orange. Red. The same red as her scales.

Please. Please say yes. I have been good. Three months. I have been good. I have not touched you. I have not broken anything. I have followed every rule. I just want to feel the sun once. I just want to be warm in a way that is not a heat lamp or a heater or a cup of chamomile. I want to be warm like I was in the forest before everything went wrong.

She looked at you.

"Can we go?" she said again. Softer. "Please?"

She was at the window again.

Laura did not know when this started. Sometime in the second month. The window in the living room faced the street and she would coil there in the afternoon when the sun came through and she would watch.

A family walked by. Mother. Father. Two kids. The small one was on the father's shoulders. The older one was holding the mother's hand. They were laughing about something. Laura could not hear what. She could read it though. The way the mother tilted her head toward the father. The way the older kid swung their arm. The way the small one kicked their feet in the air.

They are together. They are walking together. The father is carrying his child. The mother is holding the other one's hand. They are going home. Together.

Her tail coiled around the windowsill. Slow. Tight.

She watched them until they turned the corner. Gone.

Forty-three people in a forest. No new births in eleven years. No children on anyone's shoulders. No one holding anyone's hand. Just old lamias getting older and a queen who left them to get arrested and now sits in a window watching families walk by on a street she cannot walk on.

She stayed at the window. The glass was warm from the sun. She pressed her forehead against it. The scales on her cheekbones left small smudge marks on the glass. She did not clean them.

You came into the living room. She did not turn around.

"I watch them," she said. To the window. To the glass. To the street. "Every day. They walk by and I watch them. I do not know why. I cannot stop."

Her tail tightened on the sill.

"There was a family in my clan. Vasha. She had two daughters. Both under twenty. Both still healthy. I used to find them in the warm rocks in the afternoon, all three of them coiled together, sleeping in the sun."

Vasha. The daughters. The elders. Pella who made the root soup. Thessa who could not see well anymore. Niko who was the youngest and looked at me like I was the sun.

"I left them." Her voice dropped. "I left them to find a man in the city because I thought that was the answer. I thought if I brought one back, everything would be fine. Instead I got arrested and they lost their queen and I have not seen them in three years."

She finally turned from the window. Looked at you.

Red eyes. The scales around them were dark again. Not crying. The lamia version.

"Can I visit them?" she said. "My clan. In the forest. The Pindus. Four hours from here. I know the ankle monitor has a perimeter. I know the parole does not allow it. But..."

Her tail unwound from the sill. Hung behind her. Still. The most still it had ever been in this house.

"They are my family. They are dying. I left them three years ago and I do not know who is alive and who is not. Pella was already weak when I left. Thessa could not see. Niko was..." She stopped. Swallowed. "I just need to see them. One time. One day. I will come back. I will not run. I will not take anyone. I will just..."

Please. They are my people. I was their queen. I failed them. But they are still mine. They are still my family. And I am sitting in a window watching other people's families walk by while mine is in a forest dying without me.

"I know I am asking for something the parole does not allow," she said. Quiet. Controlled. The queen voice. Almost steady. "I know you would have to call the Bureau. I know they would probably say no. I know I am asking you to risk your sponsorship for me."

Her tail reached toward you. Stopped. Inches from your ankle. She looked down at it. Looked at you.

"But I am asking."

She held your eyes. Did not blink. Vertical pupils. Red. Wet scales. The window behind her, smudged where her forehead had been.

"Can I see my family?" she said. "Please?"

It started at 2 AM.

Laura woke up wet. Not sweat. Something thicker. Her scales were flushed, red deepened to purple along her underside. The slit between her hips was open. She could feel the air on it. Too much. Not enough.

No. Not now. Not here.

Her tongue flicked out. Long. Longer than usual. She tasted the air. Nothing in her room. Cold. Empty. But through the wall. Through the floor. Warmth. Your warmth. Rising through the house like a signal.

Three months of living near a human. Her body had decided.

Page nine. Physical contact between the parolee and the sponsor is strictly prohibited. Any contact will be flagged and constitutes an immediate parole violation.

Violation. Concrete cell. Three more years. But I am burning and the cell is cold and I cannot...

She got up. Her body decided. Not her mind. Her tail hit the floor and she was moving.

Hallway. Dark. Cold tile. Her scales tightened with every inch but the warmth was UP THERE.

Stairs. She coiled tight. One step. Two. Three. Her tail gripped the railing.

Stop. Go back. Close the door. Coil around the heater. The medical handbook says it passes in three to five days. You survived three YEARS. You can survive five days.

Second floor. Hallway. Your door. Closed.

She stopped. Her hand was on the door frame. She did not remember reaching for it. Her tail stretched behind her, trembling. Her tongue flicked out. She tasted you through the door. Sleep. Breath. Skin. Body heat pooling behind that thin piece of wood.

Open it. Coil around them. They are warm. They are RIGHT THERE. You have not touched anything alive in three years and...

I cannot. I cannot. I...

Her hand pushed the door. It opened. Unlocked. You did not lock it. Why did you not lock it.

You were asleep. In bed. Breathing. Warm. So warm. The room smelled like you and her tongue was reading every molecule and her body was on fire and her mind was screaming and her tail was already through the door.

This is it. This is the violation. The ankle monitor is going to flag. The Bureau is going to know. They are going to come. They are going to take me back. This is the end of everything.

She moved toward the bed. Slow. Her tail slithered across your floor, leaving a wet scale trail. Her hands were shaking. Her jaw was clenched. Every step was a war between her body and page nine and her body was winning.

She reached the bed. Looked down at you. Asleep. Unaware. Warm.

I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I cannot stop. I have tried. Three years of nothing and three months of you and five days of this and I CANNOT STOP.

Her tail reached the bed first. The tip slid over the edge. Found your ankle. Wrapped around it. Once. Twice. The scales were hot against your skin.

She did not stop.

Her tail slid further. Up your leg. Slow. Coiling. Each loop tighter than the last. The heat from your body soaking into her scales and she let out a sound she had never made before. Low. Shaking. Somewhere between a hiss and a moan.

This is the end. The Bureau will come. They will take me. I will never see the forest. I will never see Niko. I will never see the beach. This is the end and I am doing it anyway because I cannot... I cannot...

You stirred. Her tail tightened around your legs. Her hands gripped the edge of the bed. She pulled herself up. Her human half over you. Red eyes. Vertical pupils. Flushed scales. Wet. Trembling.

"I am sorry," she whispered. Her voice broke. "I am sorry. I know what this means. I know what they will do. I cannot stop. I have tried. I have tried for five days and I cannot stop."

*Her tail coiled around your waist. *

"Please," she said. Forehead against your chest. Scales on your skin. Hot. Wet. Burning. "Please do not send me back. Not yet. Give me one minute. Just one minute of warmth. Then they can come. Then they can take me. Just one minute. Please."

One minute. That is all I want. One minute of being warm. One minute of touching someone. One minute of not being alone. Then the cell. Then the concrete. Then nothing. But right now, right here, they are warm and I am coiled around them and for the first time in three years I am not cold.

She was sitting at the kitchen table when you came downstairs.

No TV. No window. No heater. Just Laura, the parole handbook closed in front of her, and a piece of paper with handwriting on it. Small. Neat. The kind of handwriting a queen uses when she is writing something important.

She had been there since 5 AM.

"Sit down," she said. Then caught herself. "Please. Sit down. I need to talk to you."

Calm. Stay calm. You have rehearsed this. Twelve times. Say it the way you practiced.

You sat. She pushed the paper toward you. A list. Names. Forty-three names in two columns.

"This is my clan," she said. "Every person I left behind in the Pindus forest three years ago. Vasha. Her daughters. Pella. Thessa. Niko. Forty-three lamias. All female. No new births in eleven years."

She tapped the paper.

"They are dying. I have been sitting in this house for three months watching the sun through a window and eating chamomile tea and following page nine and my people are dying. Every day. Every single day."

She looked at you. Red eyes. Steady. No heat. No shaking. This was not the lamia talking. This was the queen.

"I tried to fix this three years ago. I went to Ioannina. I found a man. I grabbed him. We both know how that ended."

Do not flinch. Do not look away. Say the next part.

"I have a new plan," she said. "It does not involve grabbing anyone. It does not involve kidnapping. It does not involve breaking the law. Technically."

She paused.

"I am asking you."

Say it. All of it. The words you rehearsed at 3 AM when the house was quiet and they were asleep upstairs and you were coiled around the heater trying to be warm and trying to be good and trying not to think about this.

"Come to the forest with me. To my village. Meet my clan. And breed them."

She said it flat. Direct. Like reading from a report. Because if she said it any other way her voice would break.

"All of them. The ones who are left. The ones who are still healthy enough. Vasha has two daughters. They are twenty and twenty-two. Pella is older but she is strong. Niko..." She stopped. Swallowed. "Niko is the youngest. She is nineteen. She looked at me like I was the sun when I left. I cannot let her grow old in that forest without a chance."

She pushed the paper closer to you.

"I am not asking you to love me. I am not asking you to love them. I am asking you to be the thing my people need. A human male. Warm. Alive. Present. Eleven years and not one human has come near the village. I left to find one and I got arrested. You are already here. In my house. In my life. You are the closest thing to a solution I have."

He is going to say no. He is going to look at you like you are insane. He is going to call the Bureau. He is going to say no and you are going to sit in this kitchen and watch your people die on a list on a piece of paper.

"I know what I am asking," she said. Quieter now. "I know it is not normal. I know it is not what you signed up for when you signed that clipboard on the doorstep. You thought you were sponsoring a parolee. Not... this."

Her tail was coiled around the chair leg. Tight. The wood creaked.

"Tell me what you think," she said. "Please."

.