Clank, clank, clank, clank. Someone runs something down the bars of their cell. It came from the right and a bit of a ways down the much wider hall than the one in the holding area. There have to be twenty cells on each side of this wing. A guard tells whoever’s making noise to quit it. The voice comes from a man and it reminds me where I am, bringing me back to the present.
In two days, my life has changed to be unrecognizable.
A few inmates hooted and made a ruckus when I was blindly led back here. I didn’t pay attention to a thing. Not to where we were going. I hardly remember the sound the bars made as they were closing shut. Even the horrid beep of the lock is less than memorable.
They put me in here and I find it hard to care, but a piece of me does. A piece of me wants out and still has hope; the rest of me can’t believe this is real. Maybe it’s shock. I nod at the thought.
I want to wake up from this nightmare. From the moment Seth told me he killed my father, to the attack and murders in my apartment, to the doctor telling me, “It’s not a death sentence to be on the donor list.”
There are other options but they’re risky, and even worse, temporary. He worries the walls of my heart are just too thin for surgery, but that’s what second opinions are for. I keep hoping he’s wrong. I keep hoping I’m wrong. This can’t be real.
My head feels heavy so I let it fall, pushing my hair up as I lean against the cinder block wall. It’s suddenly bitterly cold and it takes everything in me to keep it together.
One breath at a time is all I need. Breathe in, my heart thumps, breathe out, it ticks too quickly this time.
The jarring sound of the bars to my cell dragging open with a heavy creak causes my eyes to widen.
I don’t recognize the guard. He’s got to be in his late thirties, at youngest. His jaw is covered with a five o’clock shadow and his cheeks are hollow from his age. They match the wrinkles around his eyes. There are too many guards working in this place for me to tell them apart.
“This is your stop,” he speaks and oddly enough, it seems like he meant the words for me. He stands there, his back straight as a rod as a woman wearing orange clothes that match my own, walks into the cell. He never looks at me, even though I stare at him. His embroidered tag reads Brown, I think. It certainly starts with a B.
I don’t like that he, just like Walters, doesn’t look at me. Or when they do, it’s with an air of righteousness. It’s possible I’ve made it up in my mind, but I hate it. I shouldn’t be here. The thought desperately tries to turn into spoken words.
Instead of speaking, I drop my gaze, picking at an oddly thick thread in the blanket and waiting for the bars to shut.
It doesn’t matter what he or anyone else thinks of me; none of this matters. Still, I want him to know I didn’t do it. There’s an itch in the back of my throat and a cold tingle that dances along my skin, giving me goosebumps, at the mere suggestion that he thinks I’m guilty.
I didn’t do anything wrong. The small piece of me that’s focused on getting out screams in my head even though it sounds like a whimper caught at the back of my tongue.
The larger part of me knows it doesn’t matter. Where I’m sitting doesn’t matter. I have no intention of moving if I can help it.
All that matters is that I don’t miss my next visit to the doctor and schedule with another to get a second opinion. To find out whether the bespectacled doctor’s diagnosis is correct. And whether or not I qualify for the donor list, like he said I did. That’s what matters.
A rough ball scratches its way down my throat as I swallow thickly, finally looking at my companion. She takes her time walking to the other bed, pushing up the orange sleeves as she does. Black ink scrolls its way down her arms. It’s a scripture of some sort but it’s no longer sharp, it’s faded and fuzzy from years of being on her skin. She blows a stray strand of hair out of her face.
Years of being conditioned to be polite and uphold formalities wins out. “I’m Laura,” I tell her even though her back is to me as she smooths the mattress sheet. Although I’m sitting, I know she’s taller than me, broader than me. Big-boned is an expression my grandma would have used to describe her. She carries a lot of weight, but it looks like she works out just the same. Her black hair is lifted off her neck in a ponytail that’s not smooth at all. It’s like she haphazardly pulled it up. I suppose to her, what hairstyle she chooses doesn’t matter. I get that.
The bed creaks and squeaks as she climbs onto it with a bit of a bounce that comes with aggression, mirroring my position and leaning against the wall.
She crosses her arms while she talks. “I know who you are.”
Thud, my instincts recognize that tone. It’s a warning cadence, a deathly low one that’s meant to strike fear. I’ve heard it plenty in the old bar I used to work at, the Club, and plenty on the streets. Instead of eliciting fear as it’s intended, irritation flashes through me. A match is lit and it gracefully falls to a line of fuel, igniting its way through me.
How fucking dare she? I deserve to at least revel in my pity party. How fucking dare she?
It’s then I see just how much muscle she has. Although I keep my expression calm and I don’t hint in the slightest at the terror I know she wants to evoke, I size her up. Every inch of her.
“Oh,” I say sweetly, “the guard didn’t tell me your name.” I smile naively at the bitch, staring into her deep brown eyes. Shrugging, I do my best to look pathetic. I’m sure with my red-rimmed eyes and tearstained cheeks, it’s not hard to appear otherwise.
I’m ice cold down to the marrow of my bones when she hisses in a breath, “Damn, you’ll be a hard one.” She shakes her head gently, that hair behind her head swaying as she does, as if she truly has remorse. The chill in my blood pricks harshly, sending a bite of frost to cover every inch of me. “You seem sweet.”
I let my lips part and feign confusion. The dumbass eats it up, leaning forward with an expression that tells me she’s oh so sad to inform me. “I’m waiting on a note,” she says.
“A note?”
“Telling me whether or not to kill you,” she says and I let my eyes widen, halting my breath. As if I didn’t know she was here to hurt me. Kill me? That part is new. Why, I don’t know. This could all be a joke, a ruse. I don’t give a fuck.
She might know my name, but she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know where I came from. My hackles rise inside and an angry girl I’m far too familiar with emerges.
I swallow and then quicken my breath, letting her feel what she wants. My fear, my turmoil. “I didn’t do any—”
She cuts me off, not letting my plea go on; thank fuck for that.
“I know. It’s unfortunate,” she says and tosses her head back. “I’m a killer for hire in here,” she confesses. I stare wide eyed and think about Seth, about my father, about my fucked-up heart, all in order to bring tears to swell in my eyes. Outwardly I’m fragile, stricken with her confession. Internally, I imagine this woman killing inmates and getting away with it. Calling them sweet.
I let my gaze fall to the ink on her arm. Tally marks and trophies. My eyes whip back up to hers when she speaks.
“I don’t want to do it, sweetie,” she tells me and I make a mental note that when I kill her, I’ll make sure to call her sweetie. A side of me I barely know anymore emerges. The side that kept a baseball bat at my front door and a pocketknife in every drawer of my home. A side that hates more than it loves, a side that doesn’t have hope, because it doesn’t want it.