Episode3
1237 Words
At home, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, trying to wash off more than just sweat. The water didn’t help. It never really does. It only leaves you with a temporary silence before your thoughts come rushing back louder.
I was about to put my phone on silent when it vibrated.
Zia: I know you’re busy at work, just wanted to check in on you.
I stared at the message for a second too long.
Before I could reply, another came in.
Zia: Would you like to go out on your day off? Just you and me.
A small breath escaped me, almost a laugh, but not quite.
Zia had been like this since I came back. Consistent. Careful. Gentle in a way that sometimes felt like she was afraid I might break if she spoke too loudly.
At first, it was unbearable. We would sit together and fill silence with meaningless updates about life, both of us carefully stepping around the truth. Like there was something large and ugly sitting between us that neither of us had the courage to name.
We didn’t talk about prison. We didn’t talk about the past. We just… existed around it.
Somehow, over time, it became easier.
Not normal. Just easier.
Rue: sure, I’ll text you when I’m free.
The lie slid out without effort.
I was free. I had been free since Juliet’s restaurant ended the way it did.
But I didn’t want to say that. Not yet. Not to Zia.
I already knew what would happen if she heard it in my voice.
She would come running.
And I wasn’t ready for that kind of attention.
So I stayed inside.
Three days passed like that.
The longest journey I made was from my room to the kitchen. Sometimes I stood in the middle of the hallway for no reason, forgetting what I was doing halfway through walking.
I didn’t cry.
Not really.
That surprised me more than anything else.
Not even when I replayed Juliet’s voice in my head. Not even when I remembered the way people looked at me in interviews like I was something that had escaped containment.
I used to think I had no tears left. Like I had used them all up in prison during the first few years when everything still felt raw.
After that, crying became a luxury my body stopped offering.
By the fourth year inside, survival replaced everything else.
Survival, and Meredith.
Meredith had been the unofficial ruler of the prison. Everyone knew her name, even if they pretended not to. She wasn’t loud at first. She didn’t need to be. People like her don’t announce themselves—they just settle into power like it belongs to them.
They said her parents were murdered when she was young. That the killers were never caught. That she grew up alone, moving through life like a bruise that never healed.
They also said she worked in places no one talked about. That she learned early how to survive men who thought pain was entertainment.
One night, a man crossed her line.
He hurt her badly. Almost killed her. And somehow, in the chaos, she fought back harder than anyone expected. The man survived—but not in the way his family expected him to.
He lost something irreversible.
And because his family had power, the law didn’t care about her side of the story.
They sent her to prison.
That was where I met her.
At first, she made life unbearable for me. For all of us. She and her group turned everyday existence into something you had to endure rather than live through. Six years of that kind of pressure changes you. It reshapes your understanding of pain.
And then, one day, it stopped.
No explanation.
Later, someone whispered that she had learned my case. Not just what I did—but why.
After that, she started looking at me differently. Not softly. Just… differently.
We spoke sometimes after that. Not as enemies. Not quite as friends either. Just two people who understood what it meant to be damaged in ways you couldn’t explain cleanly.
She left after my eighth year.
I never saw her again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound pulled me back into the present so sharply I almost dropped my phone.
Before I could reach the door, it burst open.
Zia.
She looked like she had run the whole way here. Her hair slightly messy, her chest rising fast as she tried to catch her breath.
“Rue!”
I blinked at her. “You don’t have to shout. I’m right here.”
Her eyes scanned me quickly, like she was checking for injuries I didn’t have.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her breathing was still uneven. “I went to the restaurant. Juliet told me things. You weren’t picking up your calls so I— I just came here.”
Something in her voice made my stomach tighten.
Not fear exactly.
Worry. Heavy, uncontrolled worry.
“I’m not working there anymore,” I said, shrugging like it was nothing. “I’ll just find something else.”
Her face changed instantly.
Like I had confirmed something she already suspected but didn’t want to believe.
“Rue…” Her voice broke slightly. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Tears gathered in her eyes before she could stop them.
“I want to be there for you, I— I—” She couldn’t finish. The words collapsed into a sob.
I stepped forward and pulled her into a hug before she could fall apart completely.
Her body shook against mine.
It took a while before her breathing slowed.
When she finally pulled back, I wiped her face gently with my thumb without thinking too much about it.
“How about that hangout you suggested?” I said softly, forcing a small smile. “I’m free now.”
She let out a watery laugh, wiping her eyes quickly. “Okay?”
“Okay.” she sniffed.
“Alright,Let me change and we’ll go.”
And for the first time in days, I followed her out of the house instead of staying inside it.
The next two months didn’t get easier.
They just… repeated.
CVs sent out. Emails checked. Interviews scheduled.
Then rejection.
Again.
And again.
Sometimes politely delivered, with soft smiles and “we wish you the best.” Other times, sharp enough to feel like insults carved into skin.
There were good days.
Good days meant polite rejections, or interviewers who at least pretended I was a normal candidate. Good days meant Zia, or her kids pulling me into their small chaotic world. Good days meant babysitting, where time moved differently and no one cared about my past.
Then there were bad days.
Bad days meant being told I didn’t deserve to stand in front of them.
One man said I should have been sentenced to death.
Another called security just to throw me out.
A woman once refused to let me leave the interview room until she called the police to verify I wasn’t on a wanted list.
Every time, I walked out quietly.
Every time, something inside me felt a little more worn down.
In the end, I wasn’t really living.
I was just… continuing.
Barely.
- Writer
