Who’s going to die first, him or I? 
He’s the one on death row—he’ll go before me.
But there’s no knowing until there’s a body.
I’m not getting out alive.

My body jolts and my eyes fly open. I blink a few times and thaw the sleep from my vision. A grimy cinderblock wall stares back at me.
I rustle in the scratchy bed sheets, smelling of dried sweat, and flip myself over. His three blue eyes glow from the cot across the cell. Two of them blink. He raises his eyebrows, forehead wrinkling along with his tattooed third eye. Even sitting, I could tell he’s a tall man, with his large, bulky frame and swollen muscles. I swallow.
The smell of urine coils from the greasy toilet between the end of our beds. 
He snaps an arm down to the ground and retrieves my copy of Crime and Punishment that lies between us, his Love Thy Neighbor tattoo rippling on his tanned skin. His muscles bulge with his movement, pulsing with as much power as they do with blood as he lifts the book on to his lap. With massive, strong hands he delicately opens the fragile cover of the book and leafs through the pages until finding a spot.
Although his real eyes are downcast, the painted one still glares at me.
I clear my throat. The silence is suffocating.
“So…uh, why do they call you that?” my voice quivers. I cough and push my torso up with my arms and stiffly position myself into sitting. The blankets melt off.
He continues to read.
“Your name. In the yard, I heard someone say it.”  I speak again, this time my voice grows stronger. I swing my feet to the floor and press my palms into the mattress on either side of my knees.
He flips to the next page.
“Safety Pin Pete. Why—”
“Peter.” A soft voice interrupts. His head whips to the left at the bars of the prison cell. A young, petite, blond woman in a cheap navy blue suit stands on the other side of the bars. A sturdy guard with greying hair and a mustache above his upper lip is next to her. She sets down a briefcase and tugs on one of her suit’s sleeves.
Safety Pin Pete hauls his chiseled frame off the cot. He stands almost seven feet tall.
In two long strides, he’s at the bars.
“Hello sweetheart,” he says with a voice smooth like cool water coating your scratchy throat on a hot day. My mouth gaps open before I can force it closed. I hunch forward, rest my elbows on my thighs and interlace my fingers. I turn my gaze towards the ground in between my feet.
She clears her throat. “Hello, I’m Rebecca Brookes again, your public defense attorney.”
I look at them.
“Oh I remember who you are. Never forget a body like that,” his eyes run over the lawyer, prying away the clothes that cover her up.
His hand slithers through the cracks in the bar. She takes a step back.
“Oh come on, sweetheart. I just wanna touch,” he smiles.
“I…uh. I was told not to make any physical contact.”
“So yah don’t like things too physical.” His yellow teeth glisten.
She fastens her jacket’s top button.
“I could be gentle with yah.”
He retracts his hand.
Red creeps up her cheeks. “There’s one last appeal the judge is considering.”
“Yah’re one of those lawyers who got a problem wit’ the death penalty?”
She eyes him. “I believe it’s wrong. It’s murder.”
I focus back on the ground.
“Murder, yeah? Yah think someone like me should be livin’ in the same town as your sister.”
“I only have brothers.”
He clicks his tongue. “Yah said yah read my case files.”
“Yes.”
“Then yah know I ain’t biased. I do the same to little girls as I do to little boys.”
Her eyes flash with tears.
“Yes,” her voice is tight, “However, the death penalty makes the rest of us no better than convicts because killing you is criminal but imprisoning you is justice.”
“Oh sweetheart,” he chuckles.
“What.” Her voice is still strained.
“Yah think a pile of cinderblock can stop us? The only prison we can’t escape from is our minds.”
There’s no response.
He sighs heavily. “I’d be havin’ a lot more fun with a beautiful girl like yah if these bars weren’t here.”   
An ant crawls between my feet in sporadic circles as if someone had given it LSD.
“Watch it,” I hear the guard growl.
“I’m just messin’ around. Yah know I like ’em younger. Hey sweetheart.”
“It’s Rebecca Brookes.”
“Becky. If the appeal don’t work?”
“If the appeal doesn’t work, they want it done by midnight.”
Safety Pin Pete whistles. “That soon?”
I glimpse up at them.
The lawyer’s eyes flick towards me. I snap my gaze to the ground and concentrate on the ant again. Her voice lowers,
“You’ve gone through five cellmates in seven months. They want to do it now.”
The ant has one last spasm, then collapses onto its back, its tiny legs twitching and convulsing in the air.
Five cellmates? I think. I watch them again.
Safety Pin Pete rubs a hand over his buzz cut. “They never proved I got ’em.”
“They never proved they died of natural causes, either.”
My stomach flips. Sweat percolates down my back.
The lawyer breathes deeply, “Listen, Peter. I—”
“How they gonna do it?” he interrupts.
I bounce one of my knees rapidly.
“Lethal injection.”
“Better a lethal injection than a safety pin.” He grins. 
“I’m not saying this is the end, but it might be. You should start preparing yourself.” She advises.
“I don’t think I’ve had my fill yet.”
“It would be in your best interest not to do anything,” her voice is cold.
Safety Pin Pete glimpses back at me then towards the woman again. “Yah mean, not gettin’ caught,”
Ms. Brookes nervously checks at her watch. “I need to leave.”
“When yah want some more of me, come back anytime.” He winks. 
She leaves Safety Pin Pete in a nervous hustle and he retreats to his cot. He sits with his back against the wall, facing me. He picks up the book again. 
“I…uhh…” my voice breaks. I cough. “So, uhm. Five different cellmates?”
The second the question flies out of my mouth I want to reach out and yank it back in.
His third eye stares at me.
“Yeah,” he finally responds.
“W-what happened?”
“Died.”
“All of them?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
He peers over the book but doesn’t say anything. 
“Why are you called Safety Pin Pete?” I wonder.
“Because I only need a safety pin.”
A rat scurries along the right wall.
“For what?”
I stopped wanting to know the answers a while ago, yet I find myself still asking the questions.
His two blue eyes just blink. Then he focuses back on the book.
“I…” I swallow, “you like to read?”
“Got a problem wit’ that?”
“N-no,” I cough, “No. It’s just that that’s my copy.” 
“Yeah.”
“But—”
He slams the book closed, letting a loud clap escape between its pages.
“Want it back?” he snarls.
“Well…I—”
“Yes or no.”
“Y-yes.”
He drops it to his feet. “Here, have it.”
He wants me to go get it?
Gingerly, I rise from my cot and step towards him. I crouch down and grip the book by his feet. He lunges towards his pillow. He swipes his arm under it.
His hand now inches from my throat. A cold metal object pokes my Adam’s apple.
I flick my eyes down. He holds a safety pin between his thumb and forefinger. 
“How’d you get that?” I whisper.
The needle splits my skin. A warm stream of liquid dribbles down my neck.
“Yah know what it is.” His three eyes clutch mine.
“Why do you have it?” 
His scowl disintegrates. Peals of laughter pour from his lips. Tears well up in two of his eyes. He retreats his arm and relaxes back onto the cot, shoulders shaking with laughter.
I stumble onto my back then prop myself up with my elbows.
“I scared yah, didn’t I?”
I let out a forced laugh. “Yeah.”
“Don’t be.”
“Why’s that?”
Is this his way of telling me he’s not going to kill me?
“The throat ain’t the right spot.”
“For what?” I ask as I collect the book from the ground and scramble back to my cot.
Silence.
What was that all about?
“So uhh, how’d you get that?” I repeat, this time in a nervous chuckle.
“I never got it because I always have it.” He begins to scrape the point of the needle under his thumbnail, collecting dirt.
“Why a safety pin?”
“What?” he looks up at me. I shrink closer to my wall. His fingers pinching the safety pin grow white.
“Uh…well what I meant was that, why do you use a safety pin?”
He stops scraping away the dirt. Two eyes blink.
“Because no one else can.” 
I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, smearing the sweat into a thin layer.
I guess that’s the end of this conversation. I flip open to my spot in Crime and Punishment.
My eyes scan over the words of Chapter 5 but my thoughts begin to wonder.
You know he’s going to kill you.
No he’s not.
He’s done it before. He’s holding the murder weapon in his hand right now—

I squint over the edge of the book. He works the pin under each nail, collecting dirt. His third eye watches me.
Don’t take your eyes off him because that’s when he’ll strike.
I shake my head and look back down at the words, which read,

“…but is It really going to happen?”

I blink at the words. No, he won’t kill me. I try to reassure myself. I continue reading.

“…but is It really going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?” 

I shut the book. No, stop it.
He might.
I glimpse over at him. He presses the point of the pin into one palm until the skin goes from purple, to white, until finally a little red welt bubbles up. A small grin plays on his lips. He does it again in a different spot and smiles again. He looks up at me, holding my gaze.
“Petey,” a husky voice speaks.
I breathe deeply and look away from him.
On the other side of the bars is a short, voluptuous woman. A bright red bandana has been tied on her head to keep her black curly hair out of her face. She wears red lipstick and nail polish to match. Her tight black shirt—which you could consider half a shirt—jeans and thigh high black leather boots weren’t even the best part of her outfit. She has a red hummingbird tattoo on her neck that resembles a burn mark or a hickie, and AC printed just above one breast and DC printed about the other. She looks like the type of woman you would want to spend the night with, but not the rest of your life.
Safety Pin rolls two eyes.
“Petey, come to me when I’m talking to yah,”
“You mean when yah naggin’ me?” he growls.
“Look, if yah want me to go, I’ll go. Just remember, your mother didn’t come, your brother didn’t come. But I did.”
She turns to go.
“CoCo.”
She pauses. He lumbers to his feet and meets her at the bars. I pick up my book again and pretend to read
“Why did yah come?”
She sticks up her nose. “Petey, I came to say goodbye. I was gonna bring Persia but your daughter shouldn’t have to see her father like this.”
Her hands fling while she talks, her gold hoops banging against her neck. I watch the words on the page, then the two at the bars.
“How do I know she’s mine?”
“She got your eyes.”
“And hopefully not her mother’s brain.”
She glares back at him. “If you’re gonna be a jackass, I’m leavin’. I want yah to know I’ve found someone else.”
“Just one other guy, CoCo?” he snaps.
Something shiny catches in the corner of my eye. He left his safety pin on his cot.
Go get it. Now’s your chance.
Slowly, I pull myself out of bed.
“Yah know, you’ve had a lot of ex-girlfriends but I’m the only one who came to visit yah today. Goodbye Petey,” she flings some of her hair over one shoulder and starts walking away. I step quickly to his cot.
“Oh yeah? Yah came to visit because yah’re used to visiting ex-boyfriends in jail. It’s natural to yah,” he shouts. She turns around and flips him off. 
“Coco. Tell Persia Daddy loves her.” His voice is quieter now.
Coco responds with eyes that could kill like safety pins.
“What? I got a big heart.” He justifies.
“Yeah, that’s the only big thing yah got.” She spits then keeps walking.
I stretch out to the safety pin.
“What are yah doin’?”
My hand reaching for it pauses.
“Nothing. I…nothing.” I hurry back to my cot.
He watches in confusion then just prowls back to his own.
He sits with his feet on the ground and his back against the wall. He closes two eyes. Two minutes later, I hear heavy breathing only interrupted with a short snore every few seconds. His third eye still glares at me.
I lie down on my cot and flip my body over to face the wall.
The only time it’s safe to sleep is when he’s asleep.  
So you better get some sleep in now.
I could feel his eye burning against my back. I shift, hoping the feeling would go away and close my own eyes.

“Would you like your last rites?”
“What’s in that?”
I haven’t opened my eyes yet, but I know the second voice is Safety Pin.
“You mean, what does it include?”
“Yah, that.”
“Penance, Anointing and then—”
“I don’t want that.”
I open my eyes. My mouth tastes of sleep, my blankets tossed off the cot. It’s been several hours.
A man stands on the other side of the bars wearing nothing but black with a white collar. He holds a rosary in one hand. Safety Pin stands across from him, on the wrong side of the bars.
“What do you want then?” the priest asks.
“I’m not religious. I don’t care.”
“Shall I go then?” the priest turns.
“No,” Safety Pin rushes, “Not yet.”
The priest squares himself. “What would you like me to do?”
“Yah’re the religious one. I don’t know. Recite…recite a psalm or whatever.”
The priest blinks his blue eyes and nods. He begins quietly,
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…”
I scan the cell for his safety pin.
It must be on his cot, or maybe he put it in the corner or…  
The body of a dead rat lies in the far back corner of the cell.
“…though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—”
“Can evil fear evil?” Safety Pin interrupts.
The priest looks him up and down. “You are not evil.”
“And yah are not aware of what I’ve done.”
The priest shakes his head. “That doesn’t—”
“Can yah finish the psalm?”
“Okay. For thou art with me…”
I watch Safety Pin’s expression. His brow furrows, as if he’s confused. Or maybe just angry because he hasn’t had his fill yet. That’s what he said to the lawyer. I swallow.
“Amen.” The priest says. “God bless you.” He begins to leave.
“Andrew.” Safety Pin bursts out.
The priest’s expression softens. “Yes?”
“You were always the good one. I knew it the day you were born. Even Ma thinks so.”
“She loves you.”
“Not enough to visit.”
Andrew looks at his feet. “Goodbye, Peter.”
Safety Pin waves then meanders to his bed.
“What are yah lookin’ at?” he snaps at me.
“The…” I clear my throat. “The rat in the corner.”
“I took care of it.”
I eye his ripped arms. A long pink scratch stretches up his forearm.
“It gave you that?” I wonder.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s dead, ain’t it?”
We lapse into silence.  
“Dinner,” a gruff voice cuts the silence. “Last meal.”
My head whips to the left, in the direction of the bars of the cell. The guard with the mustache waits on the other side of the bars, accompanied by another guard, this one younger and scrawnier. He fumbles with the keys. Safety Pin flicks his eyes at the young guard. 
“Stay right where you are,” his voice quivers. A heavy click peels in the air and the door of the cell creaks open. The older guard slides the trays through the threshold. They snap the door shut.   
I hesitate, waiting for Safety Pin to make the first move. He shifts his weight onto his feet and stands. He paces over to one tray, whips a hand down to grab it and lurks back. He sits facing me.
Meekly, I do the same and settle onto my cot again.
He picks around his chicken, and goes for the potatoes. Next, he grabs the apple in the corner of the tray and chomps into it, flashing yellow teeth.
I clear my throat. “Vegetarian?”
“No.”
He takes another bite of his apple, ripping off the skin and gulping down the insides. He places his tray on the floor at the end of his bed.
“If you’re not going to eat your chicken, can I have it?” I wonder, eyeing the bland poultry. I lift a piece of my own to my mouth and take a bite.
“No.”
“But you aren’t going to eat it?”
“No,” he repeats, gritting through his teeth. Even with that, his voice still ripples like fine silk.
We finish the rest of our meal in silence.
Finally, I open my mouth.
“Do you think—”
“Peter.” Someone says. Safety Pin doesn’t move. He just continues to watch me. It’s the guard.
“Peter,” he repeats, “It’s time to go. Last meal’s done.”
Safety Pin pulls out his pin from under his pillow. He begins to clean his nails with it again.
I look up at the guard nervously then back at Safety Pin.
“He’s calling you.” I whisper.
He says nothing.
My eyes flick up at the guard again then down at my own hands.
My right hand holds the safety pin and works it under my left thumbnail. A long, pink scratch stretches up my forearm.
My head lifts up. Across the cell, my eyes are only met by an empty wall.
I gawk at the guard.
He watches me,
“Midnight. It’s time.”