Again she shakes her head, refusing to answer and lies back down, stretching easily, as if she doesn’t have a worry in the world.
I haven’t moved in the hours we’ve been sitting in here. My muscles are tense, every single one and my back feels stiff. Jean, on the other hand, moves easily in our cell. I haven’t taken my eyes off of her while she looks anywhere but at me for the most part. She has a habit of tapping the back of her knuckles against the bars of the locked cell when she’s thinking. I assume she’s thinking about something. She could simply be waiting for that note to float by.
I hate her. I hate everything about her. As time passes, the hate only seeps deeper and deeper into my psyche. I’ve imagined rolling up the bedsheet, slipping it around her throat and choking her. She’s taller than me, so I wouldn’t be able to do it when she’s standing.
It’s not quite practical, but the image of it happening has ingrained itself in me.
She’s stronger than me, so slamming her head into the toilet wouldn’t work. And the toilet itself is similar to one on an airplane—there’s no standing water. So I can’t drown the bitch.
I want to ask her how many people she’s killed and how she’s done it. Simply to justify the obsessive and hateful thoughts that suffocate me, but a girl who’s frightened wouldn’t do that. I’ve done everything I can to make sure she thinks I’m terrified. I’ve even begged her to spare my life. I’ve brought on tears.
I’ll act for as long as I have to, until one of these plots in my head becomes feasible.
A contented sigh leaves Jean as she lays her head back, staring at the ceiling but then closing her eyes as if she’ll nap. It has to be late now. Lights out was called a bit ago and this floor went dark in an instant, making my heart race for a moment until my sight had adjusted. It seems like lights out would be a good time for something like a hit to go down. Nothing happened though. Nothing has happened since she walked in here. Only question after pointless question.
The squeak of a cart rolling down the hall rips Jean’s eyes wide open. She props her head up with her forearms crossed above her, still lying on her back but other than that movement, she remains still.
Thump, thump, my heart is steady, but fast until the cart comes into view. It’s a simple silver, three-shelved cart. That’s when my beating organ falls down to the pit of my stomach. I swear I can feel it beating there. The nurse rolling it by doesn’t stop, doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t even look our way. I barely even get a look at her. It’s dark and her straight hair is black. She doesn’t turn to us and doesn’t come close to the cell. Jean sure as hell was alert though. I suppose now I know how she’ll be receiving her note. It makes me sick thinking about it and waiting around.
Even when the nurse is gone, the thumping still feels far lower than it should be.
“Don’t worry,” she says and her tone steals my attention and she smiles grimly. “When it comes, I’ll make it so fast you won’t have time to wonder if what I’m given is the note, or another smoke.” She says it so easily. Like it’s a kindness and not a threat to instill uncertainty and fear.
Jean cracks her neck and then rolls over, facing me even though her eyes are closed. Time ticks by and still, I don’t move. I don’t know how much longer I can go without sleeping. My eyes are heavy and dry. They’ve never been this raw in my life. How could I possibly sleep though?
I could close my eyes, and never wake up again.
I don’t know if she’s feigning sleep or if she’s really capable of dozing off right now. More time passes. Sleep threatens to take me and when I try to adjust my right leg, the idea of lying down and giving in seems so… alluring. As if my body could rest even if I stay awake.
I can’t go to sleep, but I have to. Maybe I could scream and beg for them to let me out of here. I could tell the guards she’s trying to kill me. Although she said if I did, she’d kill me regardless of whether or not she was given a note. If she’s sleeping though, maybe she wouldn’t hear.
With my hand over my eyes, I focus on breathing. I don’t know what else I can do. I can’t sleep, so I can only think about begging to be let out of here and risk calling her bluff. I hate feeling like a victim, but I’ve been backed into a corner with no way out.
Movement from the right, behind the bars, steals every ounce of focus I have left.
I recognize the guard, the one who was watching me when I was in holding. Walters. My gaze darts between him and Jean as he makes his way toward the cell. He’s walking toward me silently, not yet in view for Jean. I could ask him for help. I could beg him even, but there’s something about him, something that keeps me silent.
His eyes reach mine when I look back at him after noting that Jean really does look like she’s asleep, and he holds them for only a moment before dropping to his knee right in front of our cell. From here I can see him clearly; Jean wouldn’t be able to even if her eyes were open and she was waiting for him. He’s opposite me and not her.
I question if he’s the one who would give her the note and an animal inside of me screams in agony. He could have just killed me then. If he knew, why make me wait? There’s a piece that doesn’t fit, though. Walters lets me see him. He waited for Jean to be sleeping.
Again Walters looks up at me and I stare back, watching him place something just under the bars. He scoots it back, giving it a small quiet toss so it’s closer to the toilet in the corner of the cell.
With a small nod, he rises and stalks off, back the way he came. Jean never would have seen him. Whatever he left there, it’s meant for me.
My eyes turn back to Jean’s closed ones. She didn’t hear him, didn’t see him either.
The tension that’s been building in my stomach rises. It takes over my entire body until I feel like I’m trembling although I’m eerily still. I watch her for too long, knowing I need to get to it first. I need to see what it is.
There’s a feeling inside sometimes that urges you. It knows this moment will change everything.
The visceral reaction that takes hold when I slowly stand, giving Jean a tight smile as she peers at me through narrowed slits, is overwhelming.
The knots in my stomach nearly make me throw up. A cold sweat lines my skin and I pray the bitch can’t see it.
“Just have to pee,” I mutter and swallow thickly. Please don’t see. Please don’t watch me.
“Don’t be nervous, sweetie,” she says, giving me that pet name again but the spike of anger is nothing compared to the fear. This moment is decisive. I know it. Every part of me knows it. From the sweat on my skin to the very soul that’ll leave me if Jean gets that package first.
My lips quiver as I huff and I try to play it off like I’m nervous about her watching me pee and nothing else. She watches me though, following me as I walk in the small space that separates our beds and stalk to the only toilet just feet from where she’s lying.
My heart sputters. Don’t look down, I pray. Don’t let her look to the floor.
I’m still wearing my sneakers and in the few seconds it takes to get to where I’m headed, I debate on stepping on whatever it is in order to hide it. I don’t know what’s inside. I don’t know if it’ll make a noise that will clue her in. So I don’t do it. I stand there, knowing it’s by my feet and meet her gaze as my thumbs slip into the elastic waistband of the pants they gave me.