Someone laughs. No one intervenes. A guard shouts from far away, but there’s no urgency in her voice. In the end, I limp back to the cell, my lip split, blood dripping down my chin.
I cry without sound, turned toward the damp wall. Every part of me aches. But the pain in my chest cuts deeper than any bruise.
June
I try to smile at the guard walking me down the corridor, but the scar on my lip—a thin white line, healed for months now—pulls tight. Not that it matters. Wrapped in these rags, carrying the sour reek of cheap soap, I don’t even register.
I’ve lost at least fifteen pounds. My hair, once long, sleek, the same hair Colin loved grabbing when he fucked me from behind... now lives in a greasy ponytail.
And Colin? Silence. The last I heard, he was kicked out of the company. Serves him right. But my anger hasn’t faded.
The moment I sit in the visitation room, the guard cuffs me to the table. Across from me, my public defender, James Miller, flips through his papers with the same infuriating calm he always has.
“You better do a fucking thing,” I mutter.
“What?” he asks, without lifting his head.
“It’s been hell in here,” I say. My voice is rough from disuse. “I learned to keep my mouth shut after the first time I got beaten. It didn’t matter. Even the way I look at people sets them off.”
He adjusts his glasses, unmoved. “There are a few months until your trial. The system is slow. You know that. We can build a stronger case by then.”
Months.
The word sets something off in me I was sure had gone numb. I slam my cuffed hand down on the table. I start to stand, the chair screeching as it drags back.
“I’m not staying in that hellhole for however many more months.”
The officer in the corner shifts, his hand sliding to his holster.
I inhale. The survival instinct I’ve developed in here overrides the impulse. I sit back down.
I look at the lawyer. “You know what?” I say, my voice calm now. “You’re useless. You’re fired.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Fired. I don’t know what I expected from a shitty jailhouse lawyer I’m not even paying.”
He exhales and starts gathering his folders. There’s no offense on his face, only relief.
“You’re not paying because you don’t have money, ma’am,” he says evenly. “But if you think you can manage on your own... be my guest.”
He leaves without looking back.
I sit alone until the guard comes for me. On the walk back to my cell, my thoughts race. If I stay here much longer, I’ll lose my mind. Or I’ll die in the next cafeteria fight.
The guard shoves me inside. The other women don’t even look up. I’ve become furniture.
I sit in my corner, staring at the peeling wall. And then the fog lifts.
The realization almost knocks my breath out of me, and I feelsostupid for not seeing it sooner.
The moment the robotic recording ends—”This call is from a federal prison”—the line connects. The murmur of an office on the other end sounds unreal, like it belongs to another life.
“Montgomery & Clifford, good morning,” a young, carefully trained voice says.
I don’t bother with politeness. “Tell Jonathan that Maya Fisher is on the line.”
For a moment, nothing is said.
