Kiera

Kiera

She had lank, mousey hair, and her name was Kiera. When we met she insisted that she’d never smoked a cigarette in her life.

Here, we were all liars. Most of the time.

“She fancies me,” Kiera said, nodding her head toward the stoic prison guard. Tacky gum smacked between her lips. “Are you jealous?”

“No.” I speared a potato.

“Alright.”

The next day she asked me if I’d really killed him. I had.

Kiera’s eyes were blue; a cerulean tipped paintbrush swirling in dirty water.

“Stop looking at me,” I said.

“Fine.”

I pocketed my fork, and later hid it beneath my mattress.

In the yard, she kissed me; dusty pink lips pressed to mine, stinking of ash. I hadn’t asked her to.

Sasha yelled at us to stop, and we did.

One day, Kiera asked me if he’d deserved it. I said he had.

“Damned laws don’t understand nothing,” she said. I agreed.

Her nails were always broken. She chewed them.

At lunch, she asked for my bread.

“No.”

“Don’t you love me?”

“I don’t know you.”

Kiera pouted, then said, “Outside, I 'm fixing up a mini. Making it fun. Gonna take it across the country one day.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

When we were scrubbing dishes, she said, “I’m out next Wednesday.”

The food was greasy and always won its battles against the diluted dish soap.

“Will you miss me?” Those eyes were on me again. They crawled over my skin.

“Yes.”

She nodded, satisfied.

I thought about the fork under my mattress, and then I thought about killing her.

I only thought about it.