Broken Doll Love Makes The Difference

Jane's eyes snapped open.

She gasped for air, her chest heaving against the thin, hard mattress of the prison cot. The deafening roar of the car explosion still echoed in her ears, vibrating against her eardrums.

Cold sweat soaked her hairline. She wrapped her arms tightly around her ribs, shivering uncontrollably in the damp air of Cell Block D. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the image of Blaire Lowe screaming in the flames out of her mind.

The metal bed frame above her violently shook.

A heavy boot kicked the bottom of Jane's mattress.

Tasha Riggs leaned halfway over the top bunk. Her face was twisted into a vicious sneer.

"Having nightmares about the people you killed again, Hanson?" Tasha mocked, her voice thick with malice.

Jane did not argue. She lowered her head and curled her knees closer to her chest. She was used to this. She absorbed the verbal abuse the same way she absorbed the cold air-it was simply part of her existence now.

Her silence only irritated Tasha more.

Tasha swung her heavy legs over the side and dropped to the concrete floor. She reached out and grabbed a fistful of Jane's dry, brittle hair.

"Look at me when I talk to you," Tasha snarled, yanking Jane's head back. "You think you're better than us? You're a disease. A rich little murderer."

A sharp pain burned across Jane's scalp. Her eyes watered, but she bit down hard on her lower lip. She refused to let out a single sound.

Tasha let out a disgusted breath and shoved Jane hard.

Jane's frail body hit the wet, freezing concrete floor. Her knees slammed into the ground. The skin scraped open, and warm blood began to ooze down her shin. She stayed on the floor, perfectly silent.

Tasha walked over to Jane's small plastic storage bin and kicked it over.

A few pathetic belongings scattered across the floor. A worn toothbrush. A half-empty tube of toothpaste. And a photograph with yellowed edges.

It was the only picture Jane had of herself with her adoptive parents before she went to prison.

Tasha saw it. Instead of just stepping on it, she snatched the photograph off the floor with a wicked grin. She walked over to the rusted, foul-smelling toilet and deliberately used the corner of the picture to scrape a layer of yellow grime off the rim. "You still think you're a high-society princess, Hanson?" Tasha mocked, tossing the soiled, ruined photograph directly onto Jane's bleeding knees. "You're nothing but a dirty little rat who belongs in the sewage."

Jane's pupils shrank. The numbness shattered.

She lunged forward, throwing her upper body toward Tasha's foot to snatch the photo away.

Tasha laughed. She swung her arm back and delivered a brutal backhand across Jane's left cheek.

The force snapped Jane's head to the side. Her split lip tore open again. The thick, metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth.

Tasha pointed a thick finger at the metal toilet in the corner of the cell. It smelled like stale urine and rust.