But who knows?
All I know is I’ve barely eaten, barely slept. I have virtually zero appetite, and it’s far too cold to even think about sleeping for long stretches, the thin white sheet doing nothing to fend off the chill. The worst part of it, though, is the constant racing of my mind. It’s made it nearly impossible to completely shut down...and the random screams from other cells don’t help, either.
Yes, friends, literal screams.
Staring at the same four walls without any human interaction for twenty-four hours a day will do that to you. It’s easy to break in here, easy to go mad. I haven’t been in here too many times, but I will say that the previous times were almost a walk in the park in comparison to this fresh hell. Between my thoughts and the occasional screams, I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind. If I have to think about Andrés or Lena or even Ryker and Kori one more time, I swear to Papá Dios I’m going to go apeshit.
I’ve been sitting on this hard-ass cot for hours, arms curled around my knees as I ping-pong from one topic to the next. Once I dissect and pick them all apart, I’m back at square one, repeating the same vicious cycle all over again.
Another round of manic screams pops off from somewhere down the hall as I’m circling back to Andrés and that devastated look on his face. “Make it stop,” I whisper to myself, scrunching my eyes tightly. “Make it fucking stop.”
I swear those screams enhance everything tenfold. The darkness of my mind does absolutely nothing to obscure what I see of Andrés. That agonized look still haunts me, the vagueness of his note, too.
We can’t do this anymore.
Why?
That very question seems to be the theme of my entire life. Why, to everything? Why was I stupid enough to trust Ángel? Why was I stupid enough to let him drag me into the Upper Echelon? Why was I stupid enough to fall for the motherfucker? Why didn’t he love me? Why did I have to go down for him? Why did Andrés have to come into my life and turn everything I’d grown accustomed to upside down with a single fucking look? Why did he end it?
“Why, why, WHY?” I bellow emotionally, my voice echoing off the stark white walls of the cell. “Why me? Why. Me?”
What did I ever do to deserve all of this?
You got involved with him. But it’s not that little voice in my head that says this.
No, it's Tommy’s voice. Tommy, who was smart enough to never get caught, ended up getting himself killed because of me. I never even got to see him again after my trial—never got to say goodbye. He was right all along, though; he really and truly was. My brother tried so damn hard to keep me out of that lifestyle, to get me away from Ángel. He warned me I’d go down for the comemierda, and I should’ve listened.
It would’ve spared his life.
Tears rolling down my cheeks, I send my brother another silent apology. I’ve sent him dozens over the last four years, begging him to forgive me for robbing him of his life. He was never supposed to—
A loud clunk meets my ears, snapping my head up from my place on the cot in time to see the cell door being pulled open. At the threshold stands CO Rodriguez, a sympathetic smile quirking the corners of his mouth at the sight of me.
I probably look like hell.
“C’mon, Villanueva.” He tips his head for me to follow. “You’re out of here.”
Eyes widening, I wipe the wetness clinging to my cheeks and scoot to the end of the cot. “R-really?”
Rodriguez nods, stepping aside so I can join him in the hall. “Yup.”
Finally.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I’m hopping onto my feet—legs somewhat weak from the lack of rest and nutrition—and making my way toward him as another round of those soul-rattling screams breaks out. Both he and I cringe at the sound, shoulders shooting up to our ears.
“Has that been happening a lot?” he asks, to which I nod, suddenly feeling lightheaded.
“Every couple hours or so.”
“Jesus.” He shakes his disapprovingly, wrapping a gentle hand around my arm. “Might have to get her psych, if she continues.”
I don’t know who she is, but I feel for her, cringing yet again as we pass her cell, and she yells manically for someone to help her. Psych isn’t somewhere you wanna go if you don’t actually belong there, and I highly doubt she does. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here. Psych is segregated enough as it is.
“Where are we going?” I glance up at Rodriguez as we make our way out of Ad-Seg’s wing.
“Back to the block,” he answers. “You have an appointment with Counselor Judge later, though.”
Just the mention of Judge racks a jarring shiver down my spine, my stomach churning despite the fact it’s empty. He’s probably going to tell me—in his most disappointed tone—that I can kiss my early release goodbye since I came clean about the phone while Andrés and Jordan were dragging Lena and me to Seg. Hopefully, the fact that I’ve not accumulated many infractions in my time here will spare me from a longer sentence or even deportation, but I guess we’ll see when I meet with him.
Walking the halls back to the block is surreal. I couldn’t have been in the hole that long, but it sure as fuck feels like centuries. Everything is exactly the same—the gray walls, the old, dingy floors, yet it looks different, too.
Feels different.
Even the buzzer alerting the block of our arrival sounds different.
The first thing I notice as we walk in is the clock on the far wall. It’s almost three in the afternoon. The next thing I notice, and it’s purely because they’re rushing toward me,
