Until her.
She’s only been here five minutes, and she’s already driving me insane.
I was happy to enjoy my peace and quiet, ready to face death with an air of calmness I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing in my whole entire life, and then she waltzes in here, fist pounding against the glass with rage.
She’s exhausting.
I’ve snapped at her enough times to make sure she knows to leave me alone.
Fuck.
I’m even lying here with my eyes closed, faking sleep so I don’t get caught staring at her, which is exactly what I want to do.
She’s an enigma.
She’s frustrating.
She’s absolutely beautiful.
“Did you do that?” she asks, her voice cutting through the air, and I sigh. It’s obvious she’s talking to me, and I can’t bring myself to ignore her like I want to.
Reluctantly, I tilt my head in her direction to find her staring off to the left, her gaze narrowed on the small flower carved into the wall. My eyes narrow as pain threatens toslice through my veins, but I remind myself that I’m not supposed to have feelings.
Feelings have never done me any good.
“No, that was Jenkins,” I rasp, watching her shiver at my raspy words.
“Who’s that?” she pushes, fear lowering her voice an octave or two.
“My old cellmate,” I admit, watching every inch of her for a reaction against my better judgment.
The unease in the air is undeniable, even as she offers a playful laugh, which doesn’t lift the mood as she intends. “How did he manage to get away from all of your charm?” she muses, but the tightness to her jaw is still there.
She doesn’t turn to me.
She can’t.
It’s like she knows the words before I speak them.
That doesn’t stop me from thickening the tension and filling the room with darkness with three simple words. “They killed him.”
Tearing my eyes open, I blink, and blink again, reconfirming I can still see him.
That may have been the last time I spoke of him, but it wasn’t the last time he was in my thoughts.
Death is such a fickle thing, an end we must allface, but that doesn’t take the pain of grief away. My mother used to say grief is the price we pay for love. I didn’t understand it then, and I don’t really now, but it ruminates in my chest, forcing me to acknowledge the emotions I never embraced when I thought those three words were true.
But he’s not dead.
Not like I thought.
Yet the state of him now has me questioning whether he wishes he was.
His red hair is messy and unkept, his loose t-shirt and relaxed jeans crumpled and worn, but it’s his lifeless green eyes that hold me captive.
As if sensing my thoughts, he tilts his head, eyes colliding with mine. They move the smallest fraction. If I wasn’t paying such close attention, I would assume they didn’t move at all, but I know what I saw: recognition.
I brace, ready for him to speak, but nothing comes. Just like the others, he remains silent.
