GENA SHOWALTER

FIRSTLIFE 29
and kisses. He’d wanted to do more. I hadn’t. Not here. Not
with a potential audience.
Forget the past. Concentrate on the present. Right.
I shut off the water and towel dry as best I can. I step into
a clean, peed-in-the-snow-yellow jumpsuit, but only manage
to bring the material to my waist, my arms refusing to work
properly, my shoulder muscles giving up.
What am I going to do? I can’t leave my cell like this.
The door suddenly slides open with a quiet snick. My
blood flashes ice-cold as two guards march inside my cell,
a flailing girl between them.
I gasp, my surprise giving me the strength I need to lift
my hands and cover my breasts.
No, I’m not modest, but this is a special kind of humiliating.
The guards release the girl and push her in my direction.
The first thing I notice about her? She has unevenly cropped
pink hair.
“New roomie,” one of them says to me. When he notices
my partial state of undress, he grins. “Well, well. Vhat we
have here?”
His Russian accent is as thick as ever, one of the many reasons
I refer to him as Comrade Douche. Though my cheeks
burn, I strive for a confident tone. “Vhat we have here is an
underage girl who, upon her release, will ensure you rot in
prison.”
His grin only widens as he takes a step toward me. The
pink-haired girl kicks him in the stomach, surprising me.
He focuses on her, raising his hand to deliver a strike.
“Suka!”
Bitch in Russian. A word that’s been thrown at me, as well.