𝑺𝒊𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝑼𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 (𝟏𝟖+)

splitting something.

My guts have starved numerous times in the past. My guts had been rearranged many times before too. My guts had taken beatings and even a damn anterior abdominal stab wound that permanently healed two years ago. I've been through a lot with my guts. They had kept me tall and mighty and pushed me off cliffs of courage whenever I needed to take a plunge into danger. My guts and the negative feel they pump through my veins prevented me from fucking my life up too many times to count. When I feel like things might go wrong, I trust my damn gut.

You know what hurts? that in this world, you can't really trust anything nor anyone. For the first time in my twenty three years of living, my gut did me wrong.

I should've known. From the moment I woke up that morning, cooked eggs before the bacon, and slipped my right sock first, shoe, and left sock, shoe, I should have fucking known that that day was going to be different.
Not only do I hate that day and that mission; I also hate myself for not being able to escape a SWAT team. A SWAT team! I've escaped a hoard of forty goons, but I wasn't able to escape pigs in uniforms. God-fucking pathetic.

My MasterPiece MPA930DMG or Honey, as I called him, weighed heavier than usual in my hand before I slipped him into the strap around my thigh. That strap. That damn strap. I'm not used to not feeling its annoying thick canvas around my leg.

Glancing down, I glared at bright orange fabric where that thigh holster should be. As if the orange in my legs was not enough to mock me, there was orange on my torso too-on my sleeves, my back, my chest, and my damn abdomen. Orange.

If there's one thing I hate as much as I hate orange scrubs, it's sloppy one-scoop mashed potatoes with ground black pepper that look like lice. Disgusting.
I fucking hate prison.

In fact, I hate a lot of things.
Another thing I hate: lawyers who don't even fucking try a.k.a. Attorney Juvic Yale, that lousy excuse for a public defendant.
Another thing I hate? vinyl mattresses. I have to sleep on a shitty green vinyl mattress for twenty-five years or until Arah ambushes the correctional facility. It's either that or I El Chapo myself to freedom.

Ever since I've been thrown into one of NY's underfunded hellholes, I had fallen into the default detainee routine. It's currently forty-six minutes past one in the afternoon and I am sixteen minutes late for woodwork.
Yes, woodworking. I make tables in prison.
It was either that or gardening, baking, or plumbing. Tools for woodworking are interesting weapons that may be used to kill. I'm not enjoying the dust in my eyes, but I am enjoying thinking of ways to murder with the apparatus handed to me. Wood it was. Am I an okay person? Well, I still enjoy ice cream like everyone else.

Bernardora (not her real name, I hope) picked up her pace, big feet sounding against the polished concrete floor of wing WE02. The woman beside me isn't the friendliest, but she the closest I have to a friend at the moment. In other words, she's my roommate. Psychopath doesn't equal loner, ladies and gents.

"Dette is gonna have our asses," she said, voice made of tobacco. She shook her head and tsked as I fell into step with her-Berna's normal strides taking only half the effort I give with my big ones. Fuck, here I am running late for a four-hour session of sanding birch when I could be luring some lowlife into a warehouse.

Not to be scary, but I'm itching to kill.

Berna threw the double doors open. This lady isn't the biggest boss in the work station, but she is well respected. Through time I'll take her place. I'm a firm believer that I can do anything that anyone else can. In fact, I think I'm the woman with the heaviest sins here, unbeknownst to authorities. For them, I only killed that fucker Kerrent. Very intensive research might or might not lead them to discover my other forty-six victims. forty-six? Yeah, I think forty-six.

Fuck. There's Estrada, Alvich, Follengerst, Aaladi and his three henchmen, Isaac, Orion, King Hawk-shitty nickname for a handsome don, by the way-Uriel, that German pusher in Seattle, Teodoro, Riccardi, Krykonus, Giorgan, fuck, who else?

"Romero!" a facilitator, a pig who thinks he rules the damn world when he really just bosses prisoners around, snapped me out of my mental listing, "I'm not paying you to stare at the barks!" he's not paying anyone anything. Man is dreaming too much, I can tell. He chuckled and I wanted to shove a dos por dos up his asshole, roast him like a pig on a spit. Fuck, the Filipino's jumping out.

I walked further into the work area, eyebrows furrowing in curious confusion. Men. There are men here. There are male detainees. Berna and I shared a look.

That pork bag of a facilitator caught on. He spoke, filthy smile grazing his ugly face, "A fight broke out in the male's woodwork station," he said, hands in his utility belt, "You'll be sharing until they get the blood off the tools and the brains off the floors."

Great. Egotistic jerks who think their penises can break condoms. Just what I needed. Please note the sarcasm. I rolled my eyes. It's not like I can do anything as of now.

I took place in my shared station with three women I have yet to acquaint. I know one is named Miriam. Our little group is now joined by two big men, one bald and one with a cliche bad man mohawk. My eyes caught Baldy's and the filthy prick winked. I wanted to warn him that I might just accidentally chop one if his fingers off, but hey, surprises are fun.

At a loss for entertainment, I scanned the large room. The guards upped their number. That's because male prisoners plus female prisoners equates to trouble. Specifically groping, assault, and flirting which may lead to cute little babies in orange onesies. For those who preserved their heterosexuality, at least.

I believe that all people are bad and a person, if he or she wishes to, can think of creative ways and reasons to kill. The block in their minds and in their actions is made of moral rightness that the world has implanted, whether it be the 'fact' that killing is wrong or some religion that holds us accountable for an abstract thing called guilt when we do kill. My block's long gone from me.

Scanning some more, I found one man with five guards surrounding him. He already looks dangerous as he is, but the security focused in him made him appear twice as deadly. Oh, please.

Like a killer sensing a curious bystander's gaze, he lifted his head. It seems that this fucker is deadlier than I thought.
His looks. His looks are killer and in the name of Satan and all his adorable little devils, why the fuck am I blushing?

"That's him," Miriam whispered beside me, "He started the fight and you won't find a scratch on him anywhere. Trust me, I've been staring for minutes..." and teasingly, in a flirty voice she added, "Every woman's been looking at him, but he's looking at you," she wiggled her brows.

And?

Can I make a million dollars off of that information?

No. I can't.

Something told me though, specifically by the roguish smirk he flashed me before splitting wood into two, that he'll be splitting something else soon.

And I'd let him.

author note:
praying we all can keep up, babies.