by W. Winters
My memory stutters at the pain in her eyes when I told her the truth about how her father died. Everything else is red. Blood colors and stains every moment.
A section of road on the way to the jail is nearly black from the lack of streetlights on this side of town, and there are hardly any cars out here. It gets dark early this time of year.
The bank is lit up though. It’s a beacon in the night. Every window is brightly lit. I know it’s closed. It closes at six every day and it’s closed all day on Sundays. Everything around here closes at six except for the bars and the church.
I’m not even thinking; my gaze doesn’t stray from the front of the bank. It’s mostly glass. I know I’m conscious of that. Glass is easy to drive through.
My foot feels heavy on the gas and the rev of the engine sends a thrum of anticipation to my veins. I’m hot as I turn the wheel just slightly. Just enough to put the bank in my path.
Visiting hours are over. Jase’s words echo in my head. We can’t get in to the jail without signing in. I’m sure he thinks she’s safe and that she’ll still be there tomorrow, but I can’t risk it. I won’t. He has the distance to be logical, to allow the risks. I don’t have that luxury.
My heart races as I keep my hands steady on the wheel, bracing myself.
If they won’t let me visit her or see her right now, then I’ll join her.
They can arrest me for attempted robbery, for… I don’t fucking know what and I don’t care. Either way, I’ll get to see her. I just need to get through those doors one way or the other.
My foot slams down to the floorboard of the car. The lights blur in front of me and my muscles tighten, ready for the impact.
The shatter of glass and jolt of the tires meeting stone don’t mean anything to me.
None of it matters.
The airbag goes off and slams against my face. My neck whips back, unprepared.
It’s barely anything. I’ve taken worse hits.
None of this shit matters, I think as I wait, letting the bag deflate, listening to the screeching of the alarms and then within minutes, sirens.
Arrest me, charge me, lock me up.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Jase: Just get me close enough to protect Laura.
The ringtone goes off within a few seconds. He’s calling but I put my phone back in my pocket, ignoring him as the sirens get louder.
Laura
“What about any brothers? Or sisters?” the woman asks conversationally. She finally told me her name is Jean. No last name, just Jean.
I have to swallow before I can answer, since my throat is dry from answering all her questions. Back-to-back she wants to know pointless details. Occasionally there’s a bout of silence, but I hate that even more. I can’t decide if she’s sadistic and wants to know particulars of my life before she ends it, or if she’s trying to befriend me as justification to her own conscience that she’s not a bad person and is just following orders.
“None. You?” I ask back. I’ve done this a few times, asking the same question in return. It’s mostly out of habit but Jean only shakes her head, either refusing to answer, or simply saying no. I’m not sure which. She could have a dozen brothers out there and still she shakes her head like she’s done every other time I’ve turned the question back on her.
I don’t know shit about her but now she knows all about where I grew up, what I do for a living, why I chose the East Coast. Mundane questions that amount to nothing more than small talk. I think it’s a bit tedious considering I hate her fucking guts.
Everything I told her was true, except for what happened yesterday. She got half the truth and half the lie I gave Officer Walsh. Just in case she knows about Seth, I told her I’m involved with him. I told her he took off yesterday after we got into a fight and that made her laugh. A deep guttural laugh that brought a genuine smile to her face. She’s missing two teeth, in the back upper right of her mouth. I’ve gotten a good view of her smile a few times now.
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.
The beats are so fast in my chest, I feel faint.
“A little…” I barely get out the words, taking a long, unwanted blink. Now is not the time, but I can barely focus.
“Privacy?” Jean says and huffs a laugh and actually smiles. I can see the glimmer of her grin as she rolls back onto her side. “Make it fast,” she orders.
I drop my pants quickly, just in case she looks and sit there, forcing a dribble of pee to leave me. It’s only when I reach down, feeling my entire body turn to ice and grab the package with both hands that I’m able to release myself. I unwrap the package while I do and there’s no note, not a damn thing but a sliver of metal. It’s thin, very thin.
It looks almost like an arrowhead, with a very small handle that doesn’t hurt to hold, but the edges of it are sharp. After wiping myself, I test its strength. Whatever metal it is, it’s strong as hell.
A shiv. The package I was given, is a shiv.
They want me to kill her first. Seth? The Cross brothers? Someone aimed to help me. Or rather, to help me save myself.
Heat replaces the cold as I stand up, securing the piece in my palm from her sight. The wrapping is easily disposed of with the toilet paper and I stand on shaky legs, staring at her still form.
I was meant to kill her. I knew that the first moment she spoke. It’s one thing to know. One thing to think about it. To daydream about bashing her head into the wall.
It’s another entirely to do it.
It’s like having an out-of-body experience; as though I’m only watching as I take the four strides. One. Tick. Two. My shoes are heavy. Three. That lightness is no longer there. Four. My body screams to do it. Adrenaline surges through my body. It’s a kill or be killed situation.
I think it’s the shadow of my body over her eyes that cues her to look at me. And that’s exactly what she’s doing when I bring the shiv to her throat with a single slash. The blood sprays down her body and I nearly do it again, but it’s not necessary. I would have done it over and over to ensure she didn’t get up from that bed ever again. But I don’t have to. Once was enough.
Whatever word she was going to say doesn’t escape.
The hate in her eyes vanishes and it’s replaced with absolute shock, then terror.
She doesn’t reach out for me. Instead she grabs her throat with both hands as if she could stop it. She tries to keep the blood in as it gushes out.
The puncture was deep. I’m a nurse. It was more than deep enough to do its job.
She’s able to back away from the edge of the small bunk, her legs kicking out to push her into the corner. Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated as she stares at me all the while.
I don’t realize I’m crying until she goes still.
Relief is not something I feel. It’s another feeling, although not guilt. Hopelessness maybe. It weighs me down as I reach forward to wipe off the handle of the shiv on her sheets, not disturbing the blood. Her hands have blood on them, but I feel like if she’d sliced her own throat, she would have dropped it before reaching for her throat out of instinct. Having no prints is better for forensics than having a bloody print that doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have tried to stop the bleeding and then reached for the shiv again.
It disturbs me on some level, I note as heat pricks down my skin, that I’m able to think clearly enough.
Until I realize I’m breathing again, my heart is rhythmic.
Fear of dying at her hands is gone. She made the first move. I made the last.
I wait until I rumple my own sheets, making sure I don’t have any evidence of blood on me, before I scream, shrill and horrific. I hate myself and what I’ve become. This version of me who murders so easily. Anyone could do it, though. It didn’t take strength or imagination. It only took being pushed. First by her, then a gentle push from Walters.
“Help!” I yell so loud it feels as if my throat is on fire. Sucking in air, I scream again. The lights shine brightly in the entire place. The groans and murmurs from other residents in the neighboring cells are barely heard. Someone tells me to shut up. Another inmate calls me a little bitch.
They don’t know. It’s only then that I realize I may really have gotten away with it. So long as no one saw.
“What happened here?” a gruff man asks and rips open the cell door, staring wide eyed between the dead girl and then me. At a version of how I truly feel, scared and huddled up in the corner of the bed, covering myself with the thin blanket as if it will save me. It’s Guard B. The one who brought her in here.
“She killed herself,” I say, letting my voice quiver and try to cry again. When I see
her there and the pool of dark red blood that’s soaked into the sheets, crying is easy. I don’t like that I did it. There’s not a damn thing about this that makes me feel anything but agony.
“Oh hell,” Guard B mutters. I notice Walters standing just behind the opening to the cell just as Guard B speaks into a walkie-talkie attached to his shirt. He calls for a medic, as if a medic could help her now.
The guard who gave the gift of salvation, Walters, doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t say a word when the other man says into his speaker to check the security feeds after pronouncing Jean dead. My anxiety would be heightened if Walters had reacted in the least. He simply stands there, unfazed and waiting.
I’m stuck where I am, barely holding on to my sanity as everyone else moves around me. Everyone seems to shift about but no one tells me to move so I stay right where I am and just how I was before Jean was brought in here. It doesn’t take long before they decide her death is obviously from a cut to the throat and that she can be moved.
Walters never leaves, but neither does Guard B, whose name is actually Bernard. I finally got a good look at his name tag. It was in between glances at Jean. She’s dead. I really killed her.
I can’t imagine what you’re supposed to feel when you murder another person, but this doesn’t feel adequate. I felt more remorse and more guilt when Cami was lying dead at my feet than I do now.
The squeaky metal of a gurney is what I focus on. Tears are too easy to come if I think about Cami. My knuckles are white as I grip the sheets.
“Get her out of here,” Walters orders. He gestures for me to get up as the men leave the cell. “I’m taking her in for questioning,” he says, addressing the first guard, the one who eyes me suspiciously, Mr. Bernard. The man doesn’t protest. He doesn’t say anything at all.
He knows. I can feel it in the way he looks at me. I think he knows a lot that goes on around here. He doesn’t spend long looking at me, letting his gaze roam up and down my body, in a way I think will give me hives, before turning and leaving.