Page 9 of On Your Life

I look up just in time to watch him carry the jumpsuit out of my cell. The door slams shut behind him. I’m left shaking, my face soaked with tears and saliva.

Fear unlike anything I have ever felt floods every inch of me. For the first time since arriving here I think he might be right.

I roll toward the wall, curling into myself in a useless attempt to stay warm. The shaking won’t stop. Neither will the tears.

What the fuck am I going to do?

Chapter 5

Fox

My hands are shaking as I make my rounds through B pod.

I fucking hate her. Hate isn’t even a strong enough word. I wouldn’t piss on the bitch if she was on fire.

Her jumpsuit drags across the ground behind me, the orange fabric is barely enough to keep my fingernails from digging bloody crescents into my palm.

I yank it harder and the bundle slams into the metal trashcan beside the desk, sending it skidding across the room with a deafening clang. I have to fight the urge to kick it the rest of the way.

The U-shaped desk holds two aging monitors. The one on the right cycles through the cameras scattered across the pod. Four overlook the common areas while the other sixteen stare directly into the cells, watching every miserable second of these women’s lives.

I hover the mouse over her cell number and click. The grainy image expands until it fills the screen. She’s curled onto her side with her back to the door, knees tucked against her chest, facing the wall like she’s trying to disappear into the cinder blocks.

I dropped the temperature in B pod before count. Just enough to make sure she’s a little extra miserable for the rest of the night.

Thank fuck I keep a extra coat in my locker. The screen flickers for a split second before correcting itself and she curls in tighter.

Seems like the ghost wants to watch. Warmth spreads through my chest at the sight of her suffering. I wonder if Conner suffered before he died. She would know. I’m sure she’s perfectly happy keeping those details to herself.

The autopsy report had been frustratingly vague during the trial. Gunshot wound to the head. Extensive blunt force trauma consistent with being ran over by a fucking car.

The warmth disappears as fast as it came. I grab a handful of paperclips from the desk, linking them together one by one. Anything to keep my hands busy before I march upstairs and kill her myself.

I don’t want her to have an easy death. I really thought I could make it through this shift without drowning in grief, something drags me right back under. The paperclip chain slips from my fingers, scattering across the floor.

I close my eyes for a second, swallowing the sigh threatening to escape. Might as well knock out paperwork. It’s as good a distraction as any.

Paper crinkles as I dig through the filing cabinet. In true Sawtooth fashion, nothing is where it’s supposed to be. Folders are shoved wherever they’ll fit, reports are mixed together, and I have to dig through a mountain of bullshit just to find the inmate check sheets.

I’m not about to become the topic of tomorrow’s morning debrief because I forgot to document my rounds.

Every cell number has its own little box. You’d think it would be easy to get everyone to write down a time and put a check mark in the column but it’s a daily struggle apparently because it’s all they ever fucking talk about.

There are three pods—A, B, and C. On a typical night I would be assigned to C pod. It took months to get those women under control. They fought over everything—food, phones, disrespect, imagined disrespect.

Half the pod looked like a tornado rolled through it by the end of every week because none of them could accept that life sentences actually meant life. Denial is a hell of a thing.

It’s like they couldn’t comprehend that their actions had consequences. They threw tantrums like spoiled children every time the world refused to bend around them.

A few weeks with me in there and they settled into something almost civilized. I wouldn’t say I’m the meanest officer in this prison, but I might be now.

Riggs usually takes A pod. It’s full of older women who have accepted their sentences and settled into a routine years ago.

They host book clubs, watch the evening news together, and are already lined up for count before anyone asks.

For corrections officers it’s practically a paid vacation. It suits Riggs. He hates breaking up catfights and playing disaster prevention every shift.

That leaves B pod. Conner always worked B. Everyone knew the inmates hated him but they listened when he gave an order. If they stepped out of line he’d lock their doors for days, cancel showers, or find some other way to remind them who was in control.