My eyes moved over the Xs. I’d have to look at them for the rest of my life. I’d add them every day I needed to until someone was finally able to take me out. X became my name mostly because everyone thought the Xs were marks of victory. But in reality, they were headstones. Tiny graves for each of my victims, whether they were dead or not. It was a place where I could go every day and mourn the things I’d done. I could grieve the loss of the boy I used to be.

The Xs were a place where I could be sad over all I’d lost, my sanity included. They screamed at me from the wall, keeping me accountable for all that I’d done in my life—reminding me every day that I was a monster.

I was just a shell of the person I used to be—hard on the outside and empty on the inside. Those marks were my own personal tombstone, reminding me every day that I was just as dead as the ones I’d murdered.

As night crept over Fulton, the familiar sound of snoring filled the block. Things settled down quickly at night. Closing my eyes, I reserved my energy for what the following day would bring.

Which motherfucker would try and take me on tomorrow?

They knew I was weak, mentally and physically. If anyone were going to try and take me out, it would be then.

I glanced over at my wall once more, the Xs standing out like shadowed souls in the night, Sarah’s being the biggest on top, and then Lyla filled my head. I’d shown her a side of myself that I never should’ve. Flashes of her face moved through my memory—terrified and bloodied. Again, I could feel anger churning in my stomach.

It didn’t pay to care for another person in this world, and I knew as I closed my eyes and began to fall asleep that caring for Lyla the way I did was surely going to be the death of me.

THE FOLLOWING DAY I found Carlos dead inside one of the industrial dryers. I pulled open the handle, ready to put in a load, and was met with the smell of burnt flesh and blood. His melting flesh hung from his bones, and he was bent into an unnatural position from his tumble in the heated barrel of death.

The other inmates in the laundry with me went nuts, and it wasn’t long before COs came spilling into the room. The inmates were lined against the wall, forced to watch as his body was removed from the dryer piece by melted piece. It was graphic, and I found myself closing my eyes and seeing flashes of the scene that landed me in Fulton.

Talk about who’d murdered Carlos spread through the prison like fire, lighting the minds of murderers and gang members. Some thought the COs had done it as payback for his attack on a prison employee, but most of his brothers in the Mexican Mafia placed the blame at my cell door. It was common knowledge that Carlos and I had bad blood. Hell, just a week before, I’d almost killed him with my bare hands for his attack on Lyla, but it wasn’t me.

I knew from that point on I’d have to sleep with my eyes open. Jose Alvarez, Carlos’ right-hand man, stepped up as the leader of the Mafia, and his eyes were glued to me, blaming me for the loss of his brother and former leader. Shit was about to get real in Fulton.

CHAPTER 11

LYLA

I TOOK A week off from work, missing my four-day shift. I worried about my bills being paid, but I couldn’t go back yet. Thankfully, I found out on my second day off that I was paid for my leave because of what happened. That made it easier to relax and take advantage of my time away from Fulton. It gave me time to reflect on the incident.

That was what I’d taken to calling my attack—the incident. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word rape. I couldn’t think about the fact that I’d almost been murdered. I had the cuts and bruises to prove it, but I made sure to keep my eyes away from them when I looked at myself in the mirror.

I didn’t tell Diana about what happened. I didn’t need anyone trying to talk me into quitting, as I was already doing that to myself enough. Using my week off to my advantage, I put in applications at local medical offices and a few hospitals, but I had no bites. When it was time for me to go back to work, I drove to the prison with what felt like a ball lodged in my throat.

The sense of dread that loomed over me was suffocating, and I felt as though an elephant had taken up residence on my chest. I’d had patients describe a heart attack to me before, and if I was going by their explanations, then I was definitely having a massive one.

I sat in the parking lot, building up my courage, and when I had less than five minutes to clock in, I pushed my car door open and climbed out. Breathing deeply, I put one foot in front of the other until I was stepping into the warm air of the prison.

When I walked the block to the infirmary, I shut out all the shouts and usual vile language. You’d think that after a month of working in the infirmary, the men would’ve gotten used to me by now, but still, they acted as if I were fresh meat and they were starving.