The Prison
The first night was the longest.
Iris lay on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the prison. Somewhere down the hall, a woman was crying. Somewhere else, someone was laughing — a high, hollow sound that echoed off the concrete walls. The lights flickered. The vents hummed. The darkness pressed against her eyes.
The voice was still silent.
She didn’t trust it.
The next morning, she was assigned to the kitchen.
The work was hard — scrubbing pots, peeling potatoes, mopping floors — but it kept her hands busy and her mind occupied. The other inmates watched her with suspicion. They knew who she was. They had seen her on the news. The serial killer with the angel face and the empty eyes.
A woman approached her during lunch. She was tall, muscular, with a shaved head and a scar across her cheek. Her name was Roxy. She was serving twenty-five years for manslaughter.
“You’re the one,” Roxy said.
“I’m the one.”
“How many?”
“Twelve.”
Roxy whistled. “That’s a lot.”
“I know.”
“The others are scared of you.”
“They should be.”
Roxy laughed. “I like you.”
The days blurred together.
Iris worked. She ate. She slept. She attended therapy sessions with a prison psychologist who asked the same questions in different ways. Do you hear the voice now? Do you feel the urge to hurt yourself or others? Do you remember the murders?
The answer was always no.
The voice was silent.
But Iris could feel it, lurking at the edges of her consciousness, waiting. It was like a animal in hibernation — still alive, still dangerous, still hungry.
She wrote letters to Dr. Sterling.
Dear Dr. Sterling,
The voice is quiet. I don’t know if that’s because I’m winning or because it’s waiting. I’m afraid to let my guard down.
I’m afraid of the dark.
I’m afraid of myself.
Please write back.
Iris
Weeks passed. Then months.
Dr. Sterling wrote back regularly. Her letters were kind, patient, full of advice and encouragement. She reminded Iris that healing was not linear. That setbacks were normal. That the voice might never fully disappear — but that didn’t mean it had to control her.
You are stronger than you know, Dr. Sterling wrote. You have already done what no one else has done. You have faced the thing inside you. You have refused to give in.
Keep fighting.
Keep living.
Keep hoping.
Iris read her letters again and again, memorizing the words, turning them into prayers.
One night, the lights went out.
The prison was plunged into darkness.
Iris sat up in her bunk, her heart pounding. The silence was heavy, thick, suffocating. Somewhere down the hall, a woman screamed.
Then the voice spoke.
It’s time.
Time for what?
Time to feed.
No.
You can’t stop me.
Iris pressed her hands against her ears. But the voice was inside her, not outside. She couldn’t block it out.
I’m hungry, Iris. Starving. If you don’t feed me, I’ll take control. I’ll find someone. I’ll kill them. And you’ll wake up with blood on your hands.
I won’t let you.
You don’t have a choice.
The door to her cell swung open.
Iris stepped into the hallway.
The darkness was absolute. She couldn’t see her hands, couldn’t see the walls, couldn’t see the floor. But she could feel them — the other inmates, sleeping in their cells, their hearts beating, their blood flowing.
The voice whispered.
There. Cell 4B. She’s alone. She’s weak. She’s perfect.
No.
Do it.
No.
DO IT.
Iris took a step forward.
Then another.
Then another.
She stopped outside Cell 4B.
The door was unlocked.
She pushed it open.
Inside, a woman was sleeping. Young. Dark hair. Peaceful face.
The voice was screaming now.
KILL HER. KILL HER. KILL HER.
Iris raised her hands.
She looked at them.
They were trembling.
But they were clean.
No, she whispered.
She turned and walked away.
The voice shrieked.
The lights came back on.
Iris was standing in the middle of the hallway, alone, her hands at her sides. Guards were running toward her, shouting, asking what she was doing.
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
The voice was gone again.
But it would be back.
It would always be back.