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THE KILLER
Twelve years ago—Vermont State Penitentiary…
The cuffs bite into my wrists as they lead me down the corridor, and with each step echoing off the cinderblock walls, it feels like a countdown to hell.
The fluorescent lights buzz above me. They flicker away as if they’re struggling to stay alive in this desolate place, just like everyone else.
A door clangs open in front of me and I pause at the threshold and scan my new home for the next twelve years.
Cold concrete. A steel toilet. A mattress thinner than my patience.
The entire place reeks of bleach, rot, and broken lives—my broken life, to be specific.
I shake my head at the mess.
Welcome home, indeed.
The guard nudges me forward. I don’t bother to look at him. I don’t look at anyone. I stare straight ahead and walk into the box they’ve carved out for me as if I’m not afraid—because I’m not. Not of this place. Not anymore.
I’ve already lived through the worst part.
The door slams shut behind me with a finality that reverberates in my bones. I head over and sit on the edge of the cot and rest my hands in my lap, still red from the cuffs.
I’m still shaking, but not from fear, fromfury.
I trace my fingers over the calluses forming on my palms, proof of the days I’ve spent trying to scrub away the betrayal like it’s something that can be wiped clean with enough steel wool and soap.
But it won’t wash off.
They lied. They used me. Set me up so cleanly it looked like I wrapped the ribbon myself. And the world applauded while I burned. The trial. The sentence. The mugshot they blasted on every news channel. With my hair tucked back and my eyes looking hollow, I was the face of the fall girl.
I didn’t say a word. Not one. Not even when I had the chance.
Because I knew something no one else did.
This wasn’t the end.
They might be free now. Smiling. Working the room with their cheap charm and whiskey-coated lies. They might think they got away with it. That they washed their hands of me as if I was a stain to be rinsed down the drain with the rest of their messes.
But they’re wrong.
I’m not gone. I’m not broken. And I’m sure as heck not done.
Let them enjoy their freedom. Let them toast to their cleverness while clinking glasses in some darkened bar, so very smug and untouchable. Let them think they won.
Because I’ve got time.
Years, maybe. But I’ll count every day like a prayer.
They made a mistake. A big one.
They left me breathing.
And I don’t forget.
I close my eyes and picture their face—so polished, so smug. I remember the sound of their voice the last time they spoke to me. The lie dressed in a designer Italian suit. The betrayal dipped in sugar, which they offered so very easily.
I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what I have to become to do it.