Another very (very!) short story written for a creative writing seminar.

I awake in a cold shock. The jailer eyes me up and down on the john, blanker than a blank domino. Not the first time I’ve been ignored with scrutiny.
“So, are you gonna give me it?” I said.
I should be shaking from rage. They gave me my surgery hassle-free, but once the vomiting started, it was “supervisors” this, “supply chain” that, then it was “ma’am, don’t talk over me.” I swore I heard them laughing, “Nah, he/she’s just malingering,” but that could’ve been the fever talking.
His expression doesn’t change. All he does is attempt a frown, shrug his shoulders, and leave.
I’m done with it. I go back to my bottom bunk, sit cross-legged, and stare at the screen hiding the toilet – a source of privacy that had heretofore gone unviolated.
“So it goes,” I whisper. Exhale. Doesn’t give me the comfort it used to.
The top bunk’s groaning. Seems I’ve got a new cellmate.
Tʜɪʀᴛʏ ғᴇʟᴏɴɪᴇs? they say. Wʜᴀᴛ ғᴏʀ?
I shake my head. “God, tell me about it. I made tools to break DRM so students don’t pay out the ass for Elsevier. What’re you in for?”
Lᴀʀᴄᴇɴʏ. A ғɪʀsᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴀs ᴛʜᴇʏ sᴀʏ.
Yeah, well, there’s a ‘last’ for things, too.
Tʜᴏsᴇ ɢᴜᴀʀᴅs – ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ғᴀᴄᴇs… Something clacks, like Bakelite gently knocked on wood. Wʜᴀᴛ’s ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘʜʀᴀsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜsᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇғʟᴇᴄᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀᴄᴄᴜsᴇᴅ ᴏғ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ? Cʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ.
“‘I know you are, but what am I?'”
Yᴇs. Lɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ʀᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ ᴏғ ɪᴛ. Lɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ᴅ sᴘᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴡ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇɴᴅ.
“Sped up what? Stopping crime? Buddy, what world do you live in where cops stop crime?” That was condescending. I’ve said it like they were born yesterday.
Five seconds’ silence, and a susurration of fabric. That’s all Top Bunk’s giving me–
Fᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ. I ᴘʀᴇsᴜᴍᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴇᴡ. Yᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏɪʟᴇᴛ. I ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋ.
I don’t fear it. They know I don’t like what I see, but I don’t fear it.
It’s me. Lurched over the seat, blanched, and bloody, and milky-yellow-eyed, it’s me.
Behind me, where the jailer stood, clad in black, bony hand outstretched, is Death.
Sᴏ ᴡᴇ ɢᴏ.

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