Don't Ever Play With Guns

"Hey..." I called softly. "Don’t cry..."

"Y-you d-don't understand..." She choked out into the pillow. I bit my lip and looked between the two cells. Sure, stick me in a corridor with all guys and I'm fucking tough as can be. But when I'm in a jail cell with two women on either side that are crying, and that trait is lost. I walked over to Jill's cell, resting my hands on the bars again to see her.

She was trying to get the bottle open, tears still dripping down her face. Even so, she was still beautiful. Her eyes were as brown as her hair, and still looked amazing even though they were full of tears. "Gorgeous..." I whispered under my breath. She looked up at me, biting her lip. "Do you want some help...?" I asked gently. She nodded, and rolled the bottle to me. I knelt down and loosened it before rolling it back. "I'm Matt." I introduced myself softly. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She sighed before clearing her throat.

"I'm Jill."

"Can I ask...? What happened to your knees?" she nodded, before taking three of the pills out of the bottle. She tossed them in her mouth before forcing herself to get up. "You don’t have to get up..." I said, watching her curiously. She took her pillow off the cot before slowly walking over to me. She set her pillow on the floor before sitting on it. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve before letting her long legs stick into my cell.

"I have really bad knees because when I was little," she sighed shakily. "My dad used to beat me for doing bad things. Say, I ran into the street, when I'd get back to the house. He would take a baseball bat and beat at my knees until I couldn’t walk. So as I grew up, my knees used to get abused, as I would be careless and just drop onto them when sitting on the ground and stuff... then when I got my skateboard...I would fall all the time on my knees..And now there's nothing I can do about how they are...most of the tissue and tendons are torn... not to mention they got burnt in the fire...and nobody will do anything because they say it was all my fault. If I didn’t skateboard, if I didn’t run into the street, it I wasn’t so careless...and then I play the drums on top of all that. So my legs are always strained..."

“Have you ever gone to the doctors for it...?" I asked softly, rubbing her calf gently.

"I don’t have the money..."

"Oh...but...what about her? Couldn't she help you out?" I motioned to the blonde in the cell beside me.

"How is she supposed to help...? We're poor. No money. Do I need to show you what that means?"

"...Huh?" I asked, completely clueless. She sighed, unzipping her sweatshirt.

"This," she said, lifting her shirt a little, showing a cut across her stomach. "Is for being so poor that we have no money for me to buy lunch at school. This is what I got for not paying the 'school bully.' I stole this sweatshirt from hot topic, these shoes from hot topic, and my jeans from a store called Dots. This scar," she pointed to her elbow, "is from falling off my skateboard. It got infected because we didn’t have an effing Band-Aid to put on it."

"Jesus...not to sound rude...but how come no job?"

"How do I get there without a car? My parents wouldn't drive me, and I live in the middle of effing nowhere." I smiled cheekily as she said 'effing' again.

"You're cute." I rubbed her legs gently.

"Oh yeah, real cute," She said sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"You are! I don't come across to many women who say 'effing.'" I massaged her legs gently.

"Well, if she said 'fucking,' it would always be a swear fest around her." I heard the blonde say, making me turn around to see her with a smirk on her face.

"Oh really?" I chuckled.

"Oh fuck yeah. Fuck and mother fucker seem to be her fucking favorite words," She chuckled.

"Oh, so I'm seeing the good side of her right now?"

"What good side?" Jill asked curiously.