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Everything is louder as I make my way back from the infirmary. The stitches in my back are pulling against my skin. I don’t know if the sweat coating my body is from exertion or my nervous system going crazy on alert.

The closer I get to my cell, the larger the lump in my throat grows. I can’t fucking do this for another day. The way out of this hell isn’t by keeping my head down, it’s death.

But the guard doesn’t turn to the corridor that leads to the cells. He continues walking ahead without so much as giving me a second glance.

“I’m in D block,” I say, weak as fuck.

I should be accustomed to being ignored, since it’s been the default of every CO since I was sentenced. Yet some stupid na?ve part of me waits for a reaction as I follow him.

There isn’t one, not verbal or physical.

So I keep walking.

It’s better than being still. Not moving makes me think, thinking leads to gut-wrenching agony, and that mental anguish isn’t something I can take pills for.

The lights above our head flicker and the sounds of his heavy boots slamming against the linoleum echo in the empty space. It’s like a metronome, forcing my thoughts forward.

I still have a vague idea of home. Of one that doesn’t exist anymore. My parents and my brother would be there. They aren’t—weren’t—the greatest family members, but anything is better than nothing. They were dismissive and self-absorbed, and now I don’t even have that.

The gates buzz and I’m too dazed from the drugs to be able to work out where I’m going until I’m led into a small, singular cell without a window. The guard gestures to my hands. Lifting them up, he undoes the shackles, and my arms sink without the weight.

I’m still confused when he steps back and the heavy door clangs, sealing me in the dark.

Six Months Later…

“Eighty-three,” I sing. “Eighty-three.”

The springs of the bed creak in time with the song. It will change soon. Then it will be tomorrow, and it won’t be eighty-three, it will be eighty-four.

“Eighty-three.”

I stand as Delilah walks through the wall.

“Eighty-four.”

She doesn’t say anything to me, but I hold my hand out, gesturing for her to take my seat on the bed.

“Do you want something to drink?”

Yeah, she’ll want something to drink. Eat too.

Going to the corner of the room, I look for her favorite drink, so she’ll stay with me for longer. If she’s here, then it’s not dark and I’m not alone. If she sits here for longer, then she might talk back to me one day.

But there are no drinks.

My fingertips hit concrete and pain shoots through my hand. I look down at it. But the hand isn’t mine. It’s dirty and the fingers are too thin. I’ve never had hands like that.

“Kane?”

My vision doubles as my head snaps up and I turn to look for the sound.

Delilah has left again.

There’s no one who could say it.

No one who would say my name.

But it’s here.

I can hear it.

Walking backwards until the corners of the walls brush my back, I search the rest of the room.

“Kane?”

The voice is there.

Delilah isn’t here and the voice is there.

“Kane?”

Is it Asher?

“Kane, I’m over here,” it says again to my left.

I slowly look down and my entire body sags against the wall. Slipping down until I’m sitting with my knees drawn up, I hold my hand out for Asher to climb up.

“You came back,” I whisper. His long tail rests against my wrist. He’s heavier than the last time and he doesn’t squeak as much, but I’m not alone. The coarse whiskers tickle my palm as I stroke his fur and he digs his claws into my hand.

“You let her fucking kill us,” he hisses. I shake my head, but he stops me from saying anything. “You were always supposed to be the reflection. And you let her kill me. She planned it. Now, look at you. Fucking weak and pathetic. I told you that you’d be nothing without me, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly, too stupid to do anything,” he squeaks, his pink nose twitching. “Little Kane, who isn’t even allowed a name.”

“I didn’t.” I shake my head again.

The whiskers move faster, and his claws dig deeper into my palm. I flinch as he bites me, causing him to fall off my hand and run under the bed. But he’s not wrong. I let her do this.

I slowly place my new, thin hands on the cold floor in front of me and lower my head to find him as I weakly plead, “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me alone.”

He doesn’t squeak.

“Asher?” I tilt my head, searching for him. “I’m sorry.”