She swung her legs over the metal railing, shivering as her feet touched the cool concrete. Finding her socks bunched in the blanket that scratched against her body throughout the night, she pulled them on and stood up, rubbing at the dried tears that had hardened in the corners of her eyes. She heard others, their voices echoing through the halls, and knew the morning ritual had begun. She walked the few steps to the toilet and sat on the chilled metal seat, turning towards the wall to urinate. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to peeing in front of an audience, but she didn’t have a choice.

She didn’t ask for her husband to sleep with her best friend, but he had, and like a compulsion to check over and over again whether the door is locked, she felt compelled, almost obligated to answer their lust with her own brand of passion. They didn’t notice when she walked into the bedroom, didn’t even look up as she raised the .357 Lady Smith & Wesson, a birthday present from him, and pulled the trigger, emptying six rounds into their writhing bodies.

Pressed against the wall, she donned the charcoal jumpsuit, trying to avoid the eyes of those who passed by, and longed to be at home, but knew that ache would only consume and then swallow her in its impossibility. She had to let go.

As she waited for the door to open, her legs buckled and she grabbed at the evenly spaced bars to steady herself. “You are hereby sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole,” slid through her mind like the opening of the steel-barred cell that would forever be her home.