Cage

25.

Alex's POV

Everything feels darker. The shadows that slowly shift inside the cell as the sun shifts from behind the barred window; the gazes of the guards who walk through the hallways; the hateful words that prisoners hiss or scream at any moment of the day, to whoever will hear them.

I'd always been in a prison, from the moment I stepped foot into the house where Quinton did his business. It started small. He used to treat me like a princess, but hold his hand possessively on my lower back or on my thigh.

He was always rough with me, when he was holding my hand and leading me somewhere, when he was kissing me, when he was pushing me down into his sheets. I thought it was harmless because he cared. I thought that when I needed him to be gentle, he would be, like the men in romance novels. He was never gentle. Not even when I cried and begged him to be.

I think that's why I was tricked so easily by Cage, or Damon, or whatever I should call him now. All he had to do was be gentle with me for a second, and it melted me because I had never experienced it before.

How stupid. I pull my knees up to my chest, sitting on my bed with my back against the cold grey wall.

Time feels different now. I haven't bothered counting the days. It doesn't matter, because I feel like I am dying already. Rotting away in here with slight breaks to eat or to go out into the courtyard for a few minutes of air.

Footsteps approach and a guard I don't recognise is standing in front of my cell. It seems that they may have switched the guards shift now that Cage failed. I'm going to call him Cage, even though it's not his name, because that's who I knew him as.

I run my hands over my face, staring at the walls. Maybe I don't want to accept that everything always seems to fall through the spaces between my fingers before I can close my fists.

"Is it lunch already?" My voice is raspy from lack of use.

"Your parents are here to see you."

My back straightens. "My what? Who?" Not possible. What sound similar to parents? Because he could possibly mean—

"Mary and Oliver Carter."

"Pass."

"They are very . . . insistent. They are refusing to leave without seeing you."

"Then arrest them for not listening to a police officer."

"That's not how the law works."

"Oh, isn't it?" Arresting innocent people and killing them? Judging people based on how things seem, even when 'facts' have been manipulated? Doing things simply to make the process easier instead of solving actual crime?

There are good cops. There are good judges. But . . .

"Are you coming?"

I force myself off the bed. "Guess I've got nothing better to do." The bars open for me and I turn, allowing the new guard to handcuff me. "What is your name?" I ask.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. It's against protocol for me to introduce myself to you or form any sort of relationship with you."

His words feel low a blow to the stomach. Oh, so now they decided that protocol applied. Not when they let reporters in here to manipulate me for a news story.

I pull away before he can lock my other hand, but my resistance is meet with a gun being pointed straight at my head. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Or what? I'll die. Shocker. Just tell me your name." I don't know why I care. I just want to know.

I feel alone. I feel trapped. I feel empty.

I just need to know his name. "Please."

He sighs. "Ma'am, turn around and let me finish handcuffing you. Don't make me report you."

"Why? You going to send me to isolation? Tell me, what's the worst you can do? Because I can swear to you it's nothing worse than everything that's already happened."

From the way his expression changes, he has clearly been updated on what happened with . . . with my previous guard. "Why do you care what my name is? I could lie," he says.

"Then don't lie."

"Turn around, girl. It is against protocol to build relationships with the inmates. I apologise, but I can not."

"Why? Because when we're killed you wont feel sad about it? Because if you don't know our names and don't treat us like humans, you can forget we ever existed?" I hold up my one shackled wrist.

He sighs and looks at the ground. "Because if we build a relationship, we might want to help you get out. You realise that everyone in these cells has done bad things."

"Have you done bad things?"

He's eyes pierce mine. "Not murder."

I didn't do it.

I sigh. I'm not going to try prove myself to anyone. I'm dying regardless of the truth. I turn and allow him to close the handcuff over my other wrist. He leads me out the cell and down the passage.

With each stop closer, the sounds of the world quiet out. My parents are here. Why? Do they want to laugh at me? Will they be disappointed? Will they say 'I told you so'? They're the ones that started this mess in the first place, and now there here to gloat.

They won't miss me. They can't. They're not capable of any affectionate emotion. Otherwise they never would have gotten me involved with Quinton.

We stop outside a thick metal door and, waiting for us is Cage. "What are you doing here?" I nearly lunge for him.

He has a notepad clutched in one hand. "Your parents agreed to an interview. That's why they came." Of course they were not concerned about the death of their 'child'. They simply want attention. "Maybe if they can speak on your behalf, show some perspective, we can get leniency from the judges and get you off the death sentence."

"No." Get me off the death sentence? "And then what? I live behind bars for the rest of my life before dying a depressed old prune. No thanks." I step back, ready to go back to my cell.

"No. If they can lead us to what really happened, we can get you out. You'll be free, Alex."

"Free?" Hope. A beautiful and painfully destructive thing.

0•0•0•0•0

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