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Warm Me Up (And Breathe Me)
1.

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Tears soak your shirt.

You can smell blood.

And the screams of madness.

This morning, you choked back a cry. Or, maybe it was the afternoon. Or, possibly the evening? You can't be certain anymore. Time does not exist within white, blank walls. You miss the sun rising, you miss the scent of dewy grass, and your eyes are sore––tired of the black and white you see everyday. Your bones have crumbled into ash. You can taste it in your mouth.

A nurse sticks a needle into your wrist.

You gave up fighting weeks ago.

Now, you just lie there, still and motionless. Imprisoned, cuffed to a bed; your ankles and arms are no longer yours. You used to think this'll pass. They will realise your innocence, because you have always been innocent, you have always been sweet, you have always been a good, little girl. You used to think that, one day, the door will open. An officer will step through, remove the cuffs around your delicate skin, smile at you, and announce your freedom.

One evening they injected a drug into you which made you insane.

You thrashed and screamed on the bed. Your doctor concluded you are not fit to join your inmates; you are sick. You are unwell. And you may never recover. He isn't sorry. He doesn't care. He stares into your wide, teary eyes and there is nothing. Your body wails out as he walks towards the door, and shuts it closed behind him. You are alone. The silence digs into your skull, and slowly rips away at your mind; your sanity drips away with each passing second and you are helpless.

Innocence.

What is that?

Is innocence really all about being good? Is innocence mere naïvety––not knowing the difference between right and wrong? Is innocence that of a child, a baby, taking his first steps? Is innocence the girl starting school for the first time, brain fresh and accessible for moulding? Is innocence the girl, baffled and so in love with another girl, she'd even walk into the very depths of Satan's Kingdom for her? Is innocence a suitcase of money, the kisses of a drug smuggler? Is innocence when you cry at night, weeping loudly into your pillow, calling out for your mother?

Save me, save me, save me.

'I don't like this version of you.'

Your heart pinches. You wince at the agony bursting through your trembling body, and you tremble, grasping the edges of the mattress. Now, you start to hate yourself. You call yourself a silly girl. A stupid girl. You were trying to become someone you were not. And now the stupid girl pays. What has happened to you? Who are you? What are you? You don't recognise yourself anymore. You can't bear the idea of looking at yourself in the mirror, and seeing that monstrous face.

This prison has changed you.

Alex. Her name rolls off your tongue, and you scrunch your eyes shut. You twitch violently, pull your left wrist to your chest. The last you heard about Alex was so long ago. Minutes before your illegal business was discovered, your crazed tattoos, your obsession for control. Word spread fast: her corpse was discovered in the greenhouse with another corpse––an officer––but there are other rumours too. Alex survived, with only a nasty hit to the head. Another story is that she was rushed to hospital with two broken legs, and two broken arms. The worst is that they found her body, but mutilated and barely recognisable.

You never discovered the truth.

They sent you to psych without a warning. You fought, panicked, and they reacted. They shoved you up against your cellblock, handcuffed your wrists behind your back, and sent you on your way. A shameful, humiliating walk out of the prison, all inmates' eyes on you. Your tattoo singes your arm, burns into your skin, boils your chilling blood. Trust No Bitch. Yet, as you are escorted, all you see are the faces of innocent, harmless women. You see nothing evil, nothing corrupt; suddenly the prison appears beautiful and surreal to you and you want to stay there forever.

Your breath catches in the back of your throat.

You are the bitch. The manipulative creature. Horrible and hungry for power. You are the bitch engraved into your arm. Poisoning everything you are. You are the bitch Stella warned you about. You are the bitch who stands, and smiles, and watches chaos reign.

You are mad, mad, mad.

Don't trust yourself. Not after what you have done. Don't trust Piper Chapman.

The nurse returns, not to inject you with anything. Just for a quick checkup. You turn your head and watch her quietly while she works. Your throat narrows, and it's the first time in a while since you've felt such a strong emotion. It's sadness. Heavy, tiring sadness which consumes you whole. Suddenly, you miss the faces of the prison. You miss the food, the tiny wars, the lust, the presence of your friends––and your lover. You miss them dearly and it breaks your heart.

'Is Alex Vause all right?'

Your voice is a whisper, and it's a miracle the nurse heard you.

Of course she won't know who Alex Vause is. And even if she did, she is not at liberty to inform you about her wellbeing. So, you look away, close your eyes and cry silently. It's all you're good at: crying. Repenting on your sins.

The nurse closes her clipboard.

'Miss Vause is well. She returned to Litchfield prison a week ago.'

You widen your eyes and stare up at the nurse. The nurse smiles a little, and you can't tell what she's thinking, can't tell if she speaks the truth; can't tell if this is all a wonderful dream. She leaves you be again. The door closes with a loud bam. You go over what she said in your head: Miss Vause is well. Miss Vause is well. Miss Vause is well.

Alex is alive.

You're overwhelmed. You tighten your fists, and burst into tears.

Tears soak your shirt.

You can smell blood.

And the screams of madness.

:.:

A year passes. Somehow, you are released from psych. Someone freed you; bribed somebody to let you out. You don't know who. An officer steps into your ward. The nurse carefully helps you to your feet, and you don't believe what's happening until the officer looks into your eyes and says you're getting out. You're coming back to camp. You're going home.

More time is added to your sentence for your criminal activity. Fortunately, your brother escaped unnoticed. The panty business is never mentioned from you again. You don't dare return to that life; that version of yourself even you don't like. Your tattoo glares at you, grinning and red with menace. In the van, you read your arm, over and over, reminding yourself: Trust No Bitch. Trust nobody. Don't trust yourself.

Your eyes are heavy. Your legs feel loose. Your feet are numb.

It's weird. Odd to walk again. To inhale the air.

This, you realise, is freedom.

This is freedom.

And it's glorious.

Camp comes into view. You start to shake. You still have much to pay for. A year may have passed, but your actions have not. They dread you, loathe you, spite you. Piper Chapman. That vengeful cunt. And, maybe you'll take it. You'll endure their blows, you'll let them win, you'll let them hate you because, damn it, you hate yourself too.

You're quiet. Desolate.

No longer the innocent.

Your officer turns to you as the driver parks the van. 'Ready, Chapman?' He asks, disinterested. He doesn't wait for your answer. He doesn't care. Ready or not, he will shove you back behind bars, and let you rot away, alone and unloved.

After the past two years, you don't find death so scary anymore.

'I'm ready,' you whisper to yourself.

The van door opens, and you step down onto the gravel.

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author's note: I tried to avoid writing a post S3 story, but this idea has been gnawing at me for a while now. This will be an angsty fic, and I don't intend for it to be a long one, but we'll see how it progresses. Thank you for reading! Until next time.