Marianna, seated on the lower bunk, stared blankly into space, murmuring, "I will kill her," every few seconds like a broken prayer. Her voice was soft but unwavering—obsessive, looped, mechanical.
A loud crack echoed through the cell block as a female guard slammed her baton against the bars.
"Marianna Allen."
No response.
The guard's brow furrowed. "Hey, you deaf or just playing psycho again?"
Still nothing.
With an irritated snarl, the guard struck the bars so hard the steel vibrated, the sound ricocheting down the hall and silencing the low hum of murmured conversation from nearby inmates.
Marianna jolted upright. Her head snapped to the guard, eyes wide and bloodshot like a startled animal's.
"You have a fucking visitor, crazy bitch," the guard barked. She pulled out a jangling ring of keys, her fingers expertly flipping through them until one clicked into place.
The cell door groaned open.
"Turn around. Hands behind your back," she ordered.
