Page 8 of On Your Life

Off.

Over and over. I scowl and throw the blanket over my head. I’m not in the mood for this bullshit right now. I’m not even doing anything wrong. I squeeze my eyes shut, determined to steal whatever sleep I can in this hellhole.

The door pops open before I even drift off and the blanket is ripped from my hands.

“No hiding under blankets, killer,” he spits. “You could be dead for all I know. Now, wouldn’t that be a shame?”

Cold air rushes over me, crawling beneath my clothes, but it does nothing to cool the anger burning in my chest.

I can either bite my tongue or stand up for myself. Every prison show I’ve ever watched talks about never coming off as weak. The second people think you’re weak, they’ll walk all over you.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I ask, putting every ounce of control I have left into my voice.

I’m so exhausted I feel like I could cry. I’m almost positive that’s exactly what this asshole wants.

He grins like a fucking Cheshire Cat and steps closer until he’s standing beside the head of my bunk.

His scent cuts through the stale air and I have to remind myself that I’m supposed to be pissed off and not fall into a well groomed mouse trap.

He’s eye level with me now, close enough that I swear I can feel heat rolling off of him in steady waves.

“You’re my problem,” he sneers, looking me up and down. “Have the night you deserve, killer.”

He turns on his heel and slams the metal door hard enough that it echoes through the pod.

This has to be a fucking joke.

The blanket barely kept me warm before. Now it feels like someone opened the door to the freezer. I need that boiling anger back because at least it kept me warm.

I search the room for anything that might cover me. For a split second I consider crawling beneath the mat, but the exposed metal frame would probably freeze me to death.

Relief finally washes over me when I spot the spare jumpsuit folded on the metal desk. It isn’t my shitty blanket but it’ll have to do.

I move as quietly as I can, stretching toward the stool before ducking below the window in case he’s still standing close by. I grab the jumpsuit and climb back onto the top bunk without making a sound.

The fabric is softer than the blanket, though it’s still rough as hell compared to the cashmere blankets waiting for me back home.

I’m not about to complain, anything is better than nothing at this point. I tuck every inch of myself beneath the material and force my eyes shut. Sleep finds me almost instantly.

***

A blast of freezing air shocks my senses before I’m slammed onto my back. My eyes snap open.

The dark-haired pain in my ass is hovering above me, seething, my spare jumpsuit twisted into his fist. His heavy breathing fills the room.

For one irrational second, I think about running. Before I can move his hand wraps around my throat. His body crashes over mine, crushing me into the bunk. Every point of contact drives my bones into the frame and fuck it hurts.

His grip tightens and my airway shrinks with every passing second. It feels like trying to suck air through a straw while someone slowly pinches it shut.

“It seems I didn’t make myself clear,” he whispers against my ear. His breath brushes the fine hairs on my neck sending goosebumps racing across my skin. “Let me help you understand.”

His grip on my throat snaps tighter. I claw at his forearms but his thick sleeves give me nothing to grab. My lungs burn. Tears spill from my eyes sliding into my ears.

My desperate gasps bounce off the walls but no one comes. No one even yells for him to stop. This is how I’m going to fucking die. In a dirty prison cell without ever getting to clear my name. The only thing that anyone will remember is that I was a murderer.

“You don’t make the rules in here.” His voice is almost calm. “I do.” His grip tightens again. “You don’t eat, sleep, or fucking breath unless I allow you to do so.” Black spots begin creeping into my vision. “You thought things were bad before but you don’t get it, do you?” He leans down, our noses almost touch as I thrash on the thin mat. “I’m going to make your life a living hell, little killer. If you think for a moment that you’ll have peace, think again. Before this week is up you’re going to wish that you were dead, and you will be begging for me to kill you.”

His eyes lock onto mine and then he lets go. Air tears into my lungs so violently it feels like I’m inhaling knives. Coughs wrack through my body until my ribs ache.