Donna

14

TWO YEARS LATER...

I WAKE UP WITH A START. f**k, that dream again. Shaking my head, I get out of bed, getting the whiskey from my dresser.

It stays there now.

I carry it back to bed, drinking straight from the bottle.

Oh, whiskey.

I'm telling whiskey how much I actually love her, and that I didn't mean to leave her to die.

Whiskey burns my insides and calls me a f*****g liar.

Goddamn Whiskey, why so cold?

My head pounds, that's Whiskey's way of communicating with me, via pain when I drink too much. Which is every time I drink.

The Estate goes into a panic, but I don't care to see what's going on. I don't give a f**k, honestly.

“Это свиньи! Убирайся! Поторопись!”

(It's the pigs! Get out! Hurry up!)

“Oh... Pigs. How fun.”

We're being raided. Whoever is here, is going into custody and they are not coming out.

We're outnumbered in prison and those bitches shank people for the hell of it.

Yuri comes in, he urges me to move, but I don't, he leaves.

I am satisfied.

FBI, DEA, hell, nearly every government agency that has a three lettered initial is on my house.

“You are under arrest,” An officer says sternly.

I blink at him from under my covers, pouting.

“Do I get to bring whiskey?”

“No.”

How anticlimactic.

THERE ARE RUMORS THAT SHE'S ALIVE. Sometimes I entertain them, she's not a normal woman, hell she's not a normal person.

If anyone could survive death, it'd be her.

But she hasn't tried to kill me, and Satan hasn't welcomed me yet, so I figure either it's a lie, or she's plotting.

I believe the first.

They put me in solitary, maximum facility. Every charge that is criminal they tacked to my name, even s**t I haven't done. Rape? Assault on a minor? Child abuse? All types s**t I've never done.

Now everything else, doesn't matter, I was probably going to do it anyway. But the child thing? Even rape I'll take, simply because that's an adult. But a child?

Really b***h?

Really.

I'm never leaving here, and I know that. It's fine. Over a thousand life sentences, but because no one lives that long, they put down to three.

Cause y'know, I have three lives to spend in prison.

I plead guilty to the murders, I'm sure I did it, if I didn't, I killed someone else.

“I want 1002 life sentences.”

The judge looks at me like I said I wanted f**k her up the ass with her gavel.

“What?”

“I mean I know I won't serve it, I can't but I want justice for them. They count. Put them there.”

She scrutinizes me, like I could find a way to con her out of imprisoning me until the afterlife.

“Granted. However, you're only for one thousand. What are the other two?”

I don't look at her, close my eyes.

“I killed them. That's really all you need to know.”

“No, for there to be a charge we need proof of a body.”

“Two women. Anastasiya Volkov and... Amanda Roksana Russo.”

No more questions are asked.

I STARE AT MY GREY WALLS WITH A SMILE. The thing is, I'm in a cube. Maximum security Solitary confinement. But I like blank and grey.

I can fix my mistakes in blank and grey. I can live my life in blank and grey. I can go back, and snatch the gun out Ana's hand in blank and grey.

I never would've left. I would've stayed with her, and kept her warm, because I know she hates the cold.

Hated. Funny, when you die, you go cold—no blood, no heat. That bothers me. I don't know why, but it always makes me want to break down and cry.

She's cold. 

She'll always be cold. 

She hates the cold.

NO NEED FOR A TRIAL, I'M GUILTY. THEY TAKE me back to my cell, well my cube, trying to stay away from me as much as possible.

I tease them, baring my teeth at them. It's fun to see them jump.

In prison, you are a ward of the state, legally they have to feed you. Food? Not necessarily. I don't really eat, I don't want to.

Isolation, even when it's chosen, eventually drives anyone crazy. I don't count the days, then again I never did.

I don't know why, but I can never eat anything cold. I hate cold. It used to never bother me, like that Elsa b***h.

But cold is getting to me now. More than the darkness, the smell, the food, the confinement. It's the cold.

They make sure the AC is always on.

SO IMAGINE THIS, SOMEBODY COMING INTO YOUR CELL and says you've been in here too long. Get out. First, you'd be suspicious, hopefully. Then, you'll take it.

I don't want it. Did you know, if you kill someone in prison it still counts?

Sneaky sonabitches.

Well, at first I stayed inside because I wanted to. Then it was because if I go out there, I'm going to kill somefuckingbody.

Somebody. Somebody's going to try me. Someone is going to touch me and I'm going f*****g murder them.

In prison, in life, there's always a hierarchy, always cliques. If you're different enough to stand out from all of them, even in the slightest you are the enemy.

Survival of the fittest.

But what I don't think they know, is that I'm still me. Slightly less coherent, a little more psychotic, but it's still me.

I didn't morph into some p***y ass b***h because I'm a cell. The f**k? They don't know fear.

I've seen it. I've seen and it's cold.

DAMIEN VASQUEZ. HE IS NO MORE. DIDN'T I TELL you? Didn't I tell the second I step out, hell will rain?

Well this sly motherfucker was in a gang, Spanish. I'm scoffing lemme tell you why:

Despite what people may tell you, a gang, and a Mob are different things.

Both are criminal, both are murderous, but the words mean what they mean.

A gang of people can be maybe 70 strong. Rarely.

A Mob? Thousands. Thousands of people. Of soldiers. And they're more organized, they have to be.

Gangs fight over streets, maybe a county, petty coke. We fight over states and I make my own coke.

He's simply not on my level. He's older than me. Physically, at this point, he may be stronger. But he's not my level.

He may run his gang inside. b***h, I run my Mob I'm in solitary. Get the point.

Well, he decides he's going test the new kid on the block, figure get himself a b***h.

He corners me, a whole bunch of them, in the courtyard. He pulls out a shank, frankly it's pathetic.

I let him talk his s**t. Let him rile his little creepy crowd up. He tries to shank me and I blow his f*****g head off.

Oh, you thought I was going have better blade? I have a gun. Levels, motherfuckers. There levels to this s**t.

So his little creepy crew tries to attack me, I'm guessing they thought power in numbers?

That's a lie. There's power in power. That's all. Whoever has the most wins.

Simple minded people, automatically think, big army big power.

Get together an huge army of six month olds.

And then get a smaller army of thirty year olds.

Who wins?

A baby can't do anything on it's own, so against everything and anything, really he loses.

There's thirty of them. It shouldn't be, but the guard wanted to be sure I got f****d up, but he's too p***y to do it himself.

And that's why they're my bitches. I take my gun I aim, down goes one. Piston whip another that's two.

And then everyone gets their own hole. And they all fall down.

Huh. Numbers.