So we’re never alone. There are always eyes on us, even in the bathroom. No doors on the stalls. We can’t be trusted.

The bathroom has a concrete floor like most of the other rooms I spend time in here. There’s a drain in the middle of the floor. The concrete is almost always wet. They must have to spray it down a few times a day. More if they’re going to beat the shit out of somebody in here, and they usually do.

It has tiled walls and a mirror made out of metal and a rusted metal sink. When the mirror was new, maybe I could’ve seen myself in it, but now it’s just a metal plate with so many scratches and claw marks that there’s nothing but a shadow reflected back.

The bathroom has one stall and one urinal along the other wall. No door.

I go to the urinal. The staff member who escorted me here leans in the doorway, looking annoyed.

I bite back a sarcastic sorry. Sometimes I say things like that just to remind myself that I’m alive, but until today, I wanted to be dead.

I don’t want to think about that bastard in the door anyway.

I want to think about the girl.

Most times when I come in here, I like to think about the window. There’s one window on the far wall. It’s a narrow rectangle of foggy glass, so I can’t see out. It lets a little light in, though.

Most times when I come in here, I let myself look at it just once. They don’t like when I look out the window. They probably think I’m planning some escape attempt. But I just want to see something different.

Sometimes I do, but mostly I imagine scrambling up the wall and somehow bracing myself so I can punch the window out.

I think about how it would feel for that glass to break under my hands. Probably terrible, since it’s probably thick, but when it finally broke—damn, that would be victory. It wouldn’t matter if I cut myself or broke my fingers. I want to break this place as much as it’s broken me. I want to rip a part of it off and make it bleed until it chokes out its last breath and dies in front of me where I can see.