Breaking Point

1- Day 1,114 8:23 p.m.

It's my 1,114 day in prison. It's the kind of place where it's hotter inside than out. The sweat is pouring over my body. My shirt is off to (poorly) attempt at cooling down. The hot air is hard to breathe in. It's the same in winter: the air is so cold it freezes my lungs. I shiver in my thin prison outfit.
        But the heat comes in but can't escape. It's stifling. It chokes me. Along with the crappy food, it's unbearable. Next door, to my left, Leah moans and cries. To my right, Nickolas would be screaming, cursing, throwing, and hitting.
        "Shut up!" the guards would holler from their posts, drunk. I fantasize the deaths of the guards and other prisoners. I also sometimes imagine mine. Maybe it'll be quick, or long and torturous. I'm waiting for that day when my heart stops beating, when my eyes stop seeing. I'm thinking about death again when the watch-person outside my door comes in.
        "Hey up, you clavli," the guards snaps. Clavli is an insult that the guards have made up. I've never been addressed by my real name: Jackson, or Dusk.
        "Where're we going?" I ask. I doubt I'll get an answer but I ask anyway.
        "Shut the hell up," he says. "I'm in charge." My face is wiped of emotion.
        "Fine." He grabs my arm roughly and throws my shirt at me. The green thing sticks to my back and chest as I slip it on. The guard watches me the whole time.
        "Come're," he says. A pair of handcuffs are at his belt. This is my chance, I think. I bring my elbow to his face. His nose sprays blood around my cramped cell. He cries out and pulls out his gun.
        "You'll pay for this, you lil' bi-" But I've already knocked him out. A simple quick foot to the head. I take his gun. It's a small pistol that will be easy to conceal. I've got to hurry. I slip through the halls. I look through the bullet proof window. All I have to see is the rope. Then, I'm moving on. I have to find the supply room. I need to escape. And if I'm gonna escape, I need to survive. I'm still not too far from my cell. When a guard slips my meals under a hatch, judging by the way his hand came through, he came from the left. I'm going the right way. My heart is beating loudly in my chest. Finally, I find a door labeled SUPPLY ROOM. It's stuffed with canned food, backpacks, and guns.
        Guns. Guns are my best friends. They've kept me alive, they've gotten me food, shelter, money. Of course, I've been shot, but it was to keep the shooter alive. I don't know how you can't like them. But I don't have time to think about it. I'm packing food, water, a tent into the biggest bag they have. Knives, guns, ammo. Bam, bam, bam! It's all flying through my hands, then the bag. Sweat is streaming in my eyes. More food, more water, more weapons, more everything. I find matches and a thick notebook. In they go. A rope. Clothes and hygiene products.
        "Where are you, Jackson!" a voice calls. I take the now heavy bag and put it on my shoulder. Then, I get the pistol in my waistband. I load it. I'm calmed slightly be the feel. I put on the silencer I discovered. I hear the guard's loud footsteps come closer. I count to three. 1...2...3. The door bursts open and I don't even see the guard's face before I put a bullet in her chest.
        I feel rough hands on my shoulders. In the reflection of the sun of the floor, there's the butt of the gun and a gun pointed right at my throat.