In the dark of the cell, lying in bed, I cover my face with the uncomfortable pillow and sigh.

As I release a shaking breath and move the pillow, I finally start to shed tears. They flow down the sides of my face and leave my eyes stinging.

"Shit," I whisper, staring up at the uncomfortably close ceiling.

At least I'm alone. Embarassing enough without someone there to see it. Or. I'm the only one in my cell, at least. I can hear someone sobbing somewhere close.

I shiver, almost too cold in the thin scrubs, but not enough to use a blanket. I hug the pillow against my stomach, squeezing it tight.

There's a smell like bleach hanging in the air. A sterile smell that leaves a chemical taste in my mouth. I suspect something (someone) had to be scrubbed off the floor. There's a spot where the grey stone is a little lighter. I haven't really had the chance to ask about it.

Don't know if I want to ask about it. Curiosity killed the cat.

The sound metal against metal makes me wince as a guard raps on the bars of another cell.

I squeeze my eyes shut, finally, leaving them like that. Sleep would likely do me some good. Or at the very least it likely wouldn't pay to be tired tomorrow. Or maybe I still wouldn't be able to sleep, and I'd have to find out what trouble that would cause when the time came. That'd be just my luck.