At first, county jail is almost tolerable, or at least neutral. That changes once my case blows up. Everyone learns who I am and why I’m there.
The Alpha Slayer.
The guy who shot four alphas in one go.
Early on, people keep their distance. They judge, throw careful looks at me from across the pod. For a while, that lets memove through the day without much friction. Then the seasoned inmates start pushing, checking how far they can go.
And really, what better trophy than proving you’re tougher than theAlpha Slayer.
I’m housed in a pod for betas only. Yeah, I’ve got my own cell, but that doesn’t mean it’s some kind of dream setup. Like all the others, it opens straight into the dayroom, and that’s where everything goes down. The TV is always blaring. People are eating, arguing, whispering in corners, trading gossip. And my name comes up way more than I’m comfortable with.
There are gang members from my area too, none I know personally, but I recognize the looks. They size me up, trying to read me. I keep my distance because I know better than to get tangled with gangs.
Senu and I always avoided that life. Even when we were teenagers sleeping rough, we learned how to survive without pledging ourselves to anyone. We could both handle ourselves in a fight, and we never let anyone smash our faces in.
That skill comes in handy fast.
A few days in, on the way to the showers, a beta lifer named Truk slaps my ass. A well-placed elbow shuts down his enthusiasm, but of course it does nothing to perk up the atmosphere.
The next day, out in the yard, I’m calmly smoking when Truk comes back for more. He starts running his mouth, calling me afake slayer, saying shooting people doesn’t make anyone tough. I ignore him until he leans in too close. One clean knee to the nose drops him, blood splashing the concrete, and I remember the rule that matters most in here.
If you start the fight, you finish it.
I step in and hammer his face with my fists until the guards rush us. Batons crack across my back, and I’m dragged off to solitary.
Fine.
It doesn’t end there, because humility has never been my strong suit. Three days later, I’m back in the pod, and Truk confronts me again, this time with two friends. His face is a mess of yellow and purple, blooming like rot.
I’m not stupid, duh. By then I’ve got a small shank made from a razor blade.
Truk doesn’t jump me right away. He puts on a fake smile and lets the insults fly. My tattoos are trash, look unfinished, like sketches that never grew up. I tell him I also do scarification, free of charge, which only winds them up more. He laughs and calls me a little rooster, all talk, nothing without my gun.
That’s enough.
I make sure I’m standing where the cameras can see me clearly and say, calm as anything, that I’m already looking at life in prison and ask if he wants to see how I add another sentence to the pile.
Truk snaps and lunges with his buddies just as I spot the guards charging in. I drive the shank into my own thigh.
When they pull us apart, I curl up screaming, clutching my leg and pointing at him, yelling that he stabbed me.
I still manage to catch a glimpse of Truk’s eyes going wide as he screeches, "You little filthy bitch!" and it tastes sweet in my ears.
The guards drag Truk and his friends off to disciplinary segregation. I know how that usually ends. Assault charges, lost privileges, marks on their records. Perfect!
I get sent to medical, patched up, and suddenly I’m the victim, which means no punishment. Things quiet down after that, though popularity is not part of the deal.
Still, it gives me a pretty clear preview of what my life is going to look like after sentencing, once I’m shipped off to stateprison, and that alone is enough to push me harder to look for a way out and make revenge on Daniel Tanner happen fast.
If I’m going to escape, ithas tohappen before I hit the state system. And if I can’t make a plan in time, I’ll use the shank on my own throat and be done with it. I’m not interested in dragging this miserable excuse for a life to its natural end inside a cage.
About a month before my trial, new notices appear on the bulletin board.
One of them grabs my attention.
It’s addressed to first-time offenders and comes from something called the Second Chance program.
I lock onto the poster, making sure no one notices how closely I’m reading.
