10. Some of us are only meant for misery.

10

Some of us are only meant for misery.

Naya

E verything hurts.

The power went out, and at first, everyone freaked out. It's Halloween, so of course I assumed it was just part of the event. The guards didn't even attempt to calm anyone, didn't show signs of alarm, so why wouldn't we have been safe?

Then, the crowd got rowdy, and before I could even see what was happening, there were actual inmates flooding the cell block. Some knocked me down in the stampede, kicking and stepping on me. They seemed to be after the guards, but there was no mercy for those of us who were just collateral damage.

My right hand throbs, my fingers unable to bend at will, but it's not the most painful of my injuries. There's a dull ache registering throughout my body, but the worst is the sharp stabbing at my ribcage when I breathe. I don't dare try to look or give it too much attention. Not here.

I should stay in this cell. I should slam it shut and lock the door like I was told. I can be safe until whatever is happening ends. Kyle abandoned me at the first opportunity, but it's not him I'm concerned about.

It's my best friend.

Two years in a row that we somehow end up entangled in Halloween madness. I can't just leave her out there this time. Not again.

My hands shake, the cell door inches from the lock.

Shut it, you stupid bitch .

A single tear rolls down my cheek.

Mila is my best friend, practically my sister. She has always put me above herself, even if she hasn't been the best at the normal friendship stuff. Even now, dating her ex's best friend, she doesn't hold it against me. She doesn't judge me for falling for someone who contributed to her pain and public humiliation. Hell, she even puts a show on, being more decent to him than he could ever deserve.

Mila's always been that way. In the same sentence she'd call me a dumb slut, she'd make sure no one else was hurting my feelings. When we were kids, she was the one on the playground chasing and throwing rocks at the boys who teased me.

This distance we've had since graduation—no, since she got with Harkins—I've tried not to take it personally, understanding that she had finally met the man she had been meant for. The pain of growing apart from my best friend isn't one I was prepared to feel.

I can't abandon her again.

"You dumb fucking slut," I whisper to myself, invoking my inner Mila as I pull the cell door open and step out.

It's too dark to see anything, but that gives me the advantage of being harder to notice. There are a lot of bodies on the ground, so I decide staying low is better. I crawl over them. Some moan, some squish under me, their blood already cold and thick on the ground. I keep going on all fours, hands and knees one in front of the other, unsure where I'm even heading.

I hear a sound, a crinkle, something that sounds like a bag of chips opening right above me. I'm afraid to look, afraid to move, so I shut my eyes tight and hope that if I stay silent, I won't be noticed.

It feels like minutes pass before I even breathe, but then I feel a heavy pressure on my injured hand. The scream forces itself out of my throat before I'm able to process the foot crushing my fingers, the faint orange of a jumpsuit less than an inch away from my face.

The pain doubles, like more weight is being put on my hand, and there's nothing I can do. I cry, hitting at the leg in front of me with my free hand, but it does nothing. "Please," I beg.

A giggle comes from above me before the bag crinkles again, and I hear a crunching. "You're not supposed to be here." I look up to see corn flour blonde hair cascading down as a female inmate bends over to look at me. She holds something black pinned between her arm and her side.

She's got some sort of snack bag in her hand and makes no effort to stop chewing to assess me.

"I-I was here for the—"

She stops me. "For the tour. To gawk at the prisoners."

I shake my head, the pain in my hand intensifying, and it's all I can do to pull at my wrist with my free hand in the hopes that it's enough. "P-please, it wasn't like that. It's Halloween."

"It's Halloween," she says with a mocking tone, throwing another handful of chips into her mouth. "So you came to be entertained."

I nod, but she's not watching. Instead, she's emptying the bag upside down into her mouth, shaking it for crumbs before she crumples it in her hands. With a casual toss behind her shoulders, she turns her attention back to me, a decaying smile spreading over her face. "Then let's entertain you, pretty girl. I got a couple hours before they lock me back in my enclosure."

Her laugh is startling, but it's the sound of metal hitting the ground next to me that fills me with fear. She dropped whatever she held under her arm, and when I look, I see it's one of the guard's batons.

My body works faster than my brain, but when I reach for the ASP, I feel a hammering at my nose. I hear a crunch, warm blood falling freely down to my lips, but my hand is finally freed. I cup my nose with both hands, wailing from the pain before I can even piece together that she kicked me.

I say the only word I seem to remember. "P-please!" I crawl backwards, trying to put distance between us, but cell bars stop me.

I'm cornered again.

"Now, now, you're too pretty to cry." She reaches for me, wiping a tear from my eye before it drops.

"Don't hurt me." My voice is a quiet plea, every inch of me shaking uncontrollably, waiting for her verdict.

"Oh, baby, I'm not gonna hurt you." Her grin is malicious, disgustingly rancid, and the closer she gets, the less I believe her. "Be a good girl for me, and maybe we can both get something out of this." She laughs, unzipping her jumpsuit and standing over me, now nude.

The lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe, but I can't swallow it down. My body has forgotten how to do anything; it no longer understands what's required to survive.

She crawls over me, my body trembling, but no part of me is actually cold. I'm drenched in sweat, struggling to breathe from running through this prison, and yet my teeth clash against each other in a percussive fury as if otherwise.

The inmate holds the black ASP in one hand, the other pushing me down onto my back so that I'm laying on the concrete floor. "P-please," I ask once more, a tear dripping into my ear.

Her fingers pull at the zipper on my jumpsuit. I can't fight the panic as it overwhelms me, flooding every inch of my body until it no longer lets me lay still. I squirm, thrashing my legs under her as she exposes my flesh. The sharp sting of a hand across my face makes my head swim, the sound of her voice muffling for a brief moment before I register she's speaking.

"Did you hear me?" Her tone is angry, and she holds the baton in her fist.

I nod dumbly, too afraid to risk having her repeat herself.

My ear aches from the hit; it's disorienting, and my vision struggles to clear. Her blurry figure drapes over me, breasts grazing over my lips as she lowers down my body. "I can take it off for you, or you can take it off yourself." Her tone is sweeter now, amused and aroused all at once.

"I-I'll do it," I answer quickly, kicking my shoes off so I can slide out of the jumpsuit without standing.

"You don't have to leave tonight. You can stay here." She leans back over me again, lowering to whisper in my ear, "Be my good girl forever."

She sits on my stomach, straddling me, something wet smearing over my skin.

The female inmate takes a deep inhale at my neck, moaning before she speaks. "You smell so good." Her tongue is hot against my neck, and she licks down all the way to my collarbone. "Is it Dior?" I cringe. "Do you feel how wet I am?" She grinds on me again, slick and sticky all over my stomach while she holds me down by the shoulders. I nod. "Are you wet for me, too?"

"Y-yes," I try to answer, to say whatever she wants in hopes that maybe, if this ends, she'll let me go.

The blood still coating the baton in her hand tells me otherwise. She brings it to my neck, pressing it against my throat until I can't breathe. "Don't lie to me!" she hisses, releasing the baton and tracing it down my stomach. "Why don't we check?"

I feel the intrusion of the object sliding between my folds, but she's right. I'm not wet, and it hurts. She pulls it out before it goes any further, bringing it to her mouth and wrapping her lips around it. "Liar." She laughs.

"I-I'm sorry." I don't know why I say it, but I do.

"That's alright. I'm wet enough for both of us." She slides down my stomach, sitting herself right at my crotch.

I squirm from sheer instinct, her palm coming down and squeezing my breast. "See?" she breathes, positioning herself between my legs, scissor-shaped.

The inmate grinds against me, her pussy dripping over mine, her mess coating my flesh as she uses it for lubricant. She moans, touching herself with the baton while her free hand caresses me. I feel the spark of pleasure between my folds, a whimper falling from my lips, and I'm filled with self-loathing. I turn my head away, revolted, a wave of nausea rushing over me, sitting at the base of my throat, threatening to spill.

I hate it, need it to end, but with every grind of her hips, it becomes less obvious whose arousal is between my legs. I close my eyes, hoping that If I can remove her image from my brain, I can maintain some sort of control over myself.

But I can't, and soon, my soft sounds of pleasure have her moving faster, fueling every undulation of her hips. The feeling builds, winding inside me, tightening in my core. I hold it back; it's all I have.

Then, I feel it again, the head of the baton invading between my thighs, her cunt still grinding over my clit. There's no resistance when she thrusts it inside me.

My eyes open wide in alarm. "Shit," I hiss, covering my mouth with both hands.

"Such a good girl," she says in a breathy voice. "Letting me ride you and fuck you like this so I can remember it for later."

Her laugh makes me angry.

I'm just a toy for this lunatic's amusement. The baton moves faster, making it impossible to try to chase away the feeling, to try to ignore it further. I pull my hands from my face, clawing at her as a painful orgasm explodes from within me.

"Stop!" I cry, my body convulsing under hers, the ASP still moving freely in and out of me until I'm no longer shaking.

"Mmm," she hums, taking pleasure in licking the stick clean this time. "So much better." The woman crawls over me again, pulling at the hair on the top of my head to get my attention. "Do a good job. I haven't been properly fucked in four years."

She lowers over my face, her pussy coming down over my mouth and nose before I have a chance to process. I feel her weight over my head, and it's suffocating, panic-inducing to be trapped under her like this.

"Lick, suck, anything. You gotta do something, girly," she commands from above, tapping the metal baton on the floor next to my ear.

My tongue moves for me, saving my life like it knows I'm too stupid, too frozen in fear to understand. She bucks against my face, grinding over my lips the more I press my tongue against her clit, her hand on my hair relaxing as she uses it to guide my hand to her ass. She holds it there before another moan rips from her vocal chords.

The hand holding the baton loosens, dropping it to the ground as she writhes in pleasure. Her hands move to support herself from behind as she leans back, still grinding, watching me spread my tongue over her folds. "Oh, yes."

She cries, letting her head fall. I don't stop—I keep sucking, moving my tongue, encouraging what I can to keep her pleasure going. I continue searching with my fingers, patting the ground near me with desperation until I feel the cold metal beneath my hand.

I wrap my grip around it, thanking God it's the hand I can use.

And then, I swing.

I swing with everything in me until all I hear is bone crunching and wet meat. I swing until she's no longer on top, but underneath.

And then, I run, not daring to check if I had taken a life or not.

"Mila!" I scream into the dark halls of the prison, nothing left to keep me from unraveling further.

The glow of the exit sign in front of the stairwell grabs my attention, and I wonder if returning to where the tour started would keep me safer. I'm still holding the ASP in my hand, less from need and more from the simple fact that I don't think my muscles work on their own anymore.

I don't know how to drop it.

I'm naked, bleeding, and covered in someone else's chunks, but I can't turn back. "Mila?" I whisper, opening the door.

"This is a terrible idea. What if she's already dead? Everyone else is dead. Don't be dumb, Naya. Go back into the cell," I coach myself, hoping that if I say it out loud, I can get rid of the guilt keeping me from returning to the safety of the cell and remain in the fetal position until someone comes to get me.

But Mila .

I'm about to close the door when I hear a faint sound.

My heart sinks, because there's no lying to myself now. I can hear her voice.

If I turn around, if I don't help her…

I will never forgive myself.

So, I take a shaky step through that door anyway.