Sleep would've been a blessing, but it didn't come. I'd already been unconscious for as long as my brain was willing to give me.
I lay there, perfectly still, and gave in to all the thoughts I'd tried to repress. All the fears, and griefs, and regrets.
My life really hadn't meant anything. To me. To anyone.
I had another twenty-four hours, at the outside, to make it mean something.
Escaping was the obvious way. Get out, redeem myself. Do something with my life. I rolled my eyes at myself, because that obviously wasn't fucking happening.
And then my eyes popped open again.
Why the fuck not? What did I—what did either of us— have to lose? The guards were sloppy, not even checking on prisoners who might or might not be dead.
They weren't watching the inside of the cell, which meant anything we did to prepare for them would go unobserved.
