Eight years. That's how long it had been. Sometimes when she slept, Oksana still felt the viscosity of his blood on her hands, still smelled the copper-y scent of it filling her nostrils, still felt the buzz of satisfaction that his ebbing life force had instilled in her. The mornings following those dreams were the ones in which she awoke smiling. She kept that to herself though. She wasn't stupid. She knew that she would never get out if she told anyone.

Psychopathic tendencies. That's what they said she had. A lack of empathy, a swollen ego, an absence of conscience and guilt. That was the yardstick against which they measured her. Not all psychopaths were murderers, Oksana knew that, but many murderers were psychopaths. And she was, after all, a murderer by her own admission. Not that she could have ever denied it. Not that she would ever have wanted to.

But she had killed only once. That is what they didn't understand. She had killed once and for good reason. The rest of it? Well, that was just how she was raised.

Oksana's father had taught her from as far back as she could remember that Astankovas had no equals. The size of her ego, therefore, was cultivated and appropriately vast. And what need did she have for a conscience? The decisions she made were invariably correct, their outcomes were inevitable and sometimes there are casualties of choices. That is hardly Oksana's fault. The same goes for guilt. Why would Oksana feel guilty over the death of that man? He had deserved it. The punishment fit the crime. The world was a better place without him in it. There was no room for guilt. Oksana should be rewarded, not caged.

And as for empathy, well, Oksana wasn't sure why they thought she lacked it. She was capable of empathy, when she cared enough. And she had cared enough. It had landed her here. They said she had no empathy, but she had shown it, and they had punished it.

Now, eight years on, and here she remains. In a ten-foot square cell, with a bunk so slim she used to frequently roll off it in the night. In those early days, many of her bruises were the result of hitting the concrete floor in the middle of the night. Now she had learnt to sleep motionlessly. Now her bruises were solely the result of interactions with other inmates. Not that she shared her cell anymore. And sometimes bruises were the least of her worries. Sometimes she had oozing wounds just below her ribs.

Oksana hissed threateningly and recoiled. The gloved hands retracted instantly.

"Sorry." The medic uttered apologetically.

"I don't think you are. I think you enjoy this." Oksana said menacingly.

"I don't!" The young man insisted. "But it needs antiseptic, you don't want it getting infected."

"Don't I? If it was infected I could go to the hospital bay. Have you seen the nurse?" Oksana drawled, pushing her lips forward in a pout at end of her sentence.

"Uh… I…" the medic stammered.

"I would far rather have her hands on my body than your sweaty paws." Oksana pointed out disdainfully.

The medic ignored that, not sure how to react to it, but now feeling even more of a duty to disinfect the woman's wound and save the nurse the hassle of submitting a harassment complaint should this inmate end up in her care.

"Nearly done." He murmured, "This will sting again,"

Oksana braced herself, her stomach muscles tensing visibly before the cotton swap swiped one last time at the angry wound. And it did sting. It was a sting she knew well by now, but still its smarting was no easier to bear.

"Fuck!" Oksana barked, shoving roughly at the shoulder of the medic, who stumbled to his feet and took a step out of her reach.

"OK!" He relented, "It's done."

"You get off on this, don't you? Inflicting pain on defenceless inmates?" Oksana seethed. She was going to give as much as she could in her pained state, she enjoyed making other squirm. It was the only source of fun she had in here

"No." The medic shook his head emphatically. If he were a braver man he would point out that she was hardly defenceless. As it was he could still feel the remnants of her shove on his shoulder.

"I bet you go home and tug one off to thoughts of us writhing in pain. Hmm?" Oksana said, her voice now calm. "I bet it gets you all hot and bothered and hard, doesn't it?"

"Of course not!" Oksana had the medic right where she wanted him her was playing into her hands.

"It's sick. You should be locked up." Oksana said decisively, though she smirked inwardly at her own little ironic joke.

Only one person in this room was locked up. And it wasn't the meek little medic who probably couldn't get it up if he wanted to.

"Do you know what I'm in for?" Oksana asked curiously, her gaze darting purposefully to the medic's crotch.

"I don't ask." He admitted. "It's not relevant to me."

"How gallant." Oksana drawled. "You should ask about me. It will keep you up at night." She promised.

The medic cleared his throat.

"I need to bandage it now." He said quietly.

Oksana leaned back on the table where she was seated, her legs hanging over the edge. She stretched out her torso, quashing the wince at the pain that the stretch caused, and pushing her bra-clad breasts out purposefully. Prison issue bras were far from alluring, but that was not the point.

"Be my guest." She said smoothly, smirking suggestively at the cowering medic.

The medic blinked rapidly a few times. His eyes had been drawn to the inmate's chest, as was obviously her intention, but he averted them as quickly as possible. Not quickly enough though as a pleased chuckle sounded from the table.

"Pervert." Oksana said simply.

The medic shook his head and busied himself preparing the bandage before making his way to the table. This was by far his most trying consultation today. He bent over towards the inmate's wound and peeled the back off an adhesive patch before smoothing it as gently as possible over the raw-looking wound. It really was remarkable what these women could turn into weapons. They were very resourceful when they had to be. Resourceful and vicious.

Oksana shifted on the table, moving her face towards the medic's ear and breathing heavily into it as he now wrapped a bandage securely around her ribs. Just as he was fixing the bandage in place, Oksana opened her mouth and then bit at the air, clacking her teeth together next to the medic's ear and sending him hurtling away from her. Oksana hooted with laughter just as the door to the consultation room opened.

"Astankova," came a warning voice from the doorway, "Having fun as usual, I see."

"The time of my life." Oksana intoned.

"And Kenny, she's been behaving for you, I trust?"

Oksana glanced over at the medic's – Kenny's – pale face and raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to tell on her.

"Yep." Kenny said, "Fine. Good as gold. Very well behaved."

Oksana smiled triumphantly.

"I don't believe that for a minute." The newcomer laughed.

Oksana's face dropped into a scowl.

"I am always a good girl." Oksana insisted with a pout. "You know that by now, Mr Pargrave."

"Oh, sure. We only have good girls in this prison." Mr Pargrave replied irreverently, before continuing, "I'll take her off your hands now, Kenny. Thanks for patching her up."

"No problem, Mr Pargrave. Happy to do it." Kenny replied with a smile.

Oksana rolled her eyes and mimicked his sentiments under her breath to which Mr Pargrave raised his eyebrows warningly.

Oksana sighed and dragged her prison issue grey sweater back down to cover her torso and hopped off the table. The impact of her boots hitting the floor sent a jolt of pain through her wound and Oksana struggled to keep her expression free of it.

"That will need changing daily." Kenny said, gesturing at Oksana's ribs.

"So you want to see me again, hmm?" Oksana said with a smirk, "I'd give you my number, but we're not allowed phones in here." She added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Mr Pargrave shook his head with an amused smile and held his arm out for Oksana.

"Come on you, let's find someone else for you to harass for a while." He said before putting his arm around Oksana's shoulders and urging her out of the room ahead of him.

"Thanks Kenny, if I could give you a bonus for working with her, I would." Mr Pargrave said quietly before closing the door behind himself and Oksana.

Kenny smiled until the door was closed and he was alone in the consultation room, then he collapsed into his wheeled office chair and ran his hands through his hair, heaving a sigh of relief.

In the corridor, Mr Pargrave and Oksana made their way past doors to other consultation rooms and offices.

"How did you piss her off this time, then?" Mr Pargrave asked.

"I didn't! I was very polite." Oksana said feigning hurt at the accusation.

"Politeness rarely lands me with a sharpened spoon in my side." He replied, "You must need to work on your manners, Astankova."

"It is not my fault. She wanted to spend a bit of intimate time with me and I told her she was too big and unattractive. I cannot help it if my rejection angered her." Oksana said innocently.

"And what have we said you should do about these propositions?" Mr Pargrave prompted.

"Tell a teacher?" Oksana suggested mockingly.

"We call them wardens here." Came the wry response, "You're too old for school now, I'm afraid."

Oksana opened her mouth in mock horror.

"You are calling me old? You should never call a lady old." Oksana said in outrage.

"And you should never call one fat if you want to avoid trips to the medic." Mr Pargrave replied, pushing open the door to his office and stepping aside. "In." He directed, pointing into the room.

"Why? Are you not taking me to my cell?" Oksana asked suspiciously.

"We need to have a chat first." Mr Pargrave said.

"OK…" Oksana let out slowly and stepped into the office, with a cautious glance over her shoulder as she did so.

She took a seat one side of the large desk, this time not hiding the wince as the movement jostled her injury. Mr Pargrave sat down the other side.

Oksana braved the shooting pain in her side to lift her booted feet onto the desk in front of her and eyed the man opposite expectantly for a moment. For his part, Mr Pargreave stared pointedly at the soles of Oksana's boots and then looked her dead in the eye. Oksana allowed her feet to slip from the desk and hit the ground with two resounding thuds. Her side throbbed hotly.

"You have an appointment tomorrow." Mr Pargrave said.

"Yes, to change my bandage." Oksana replied as though his observation had been an obvious one.

"No, with the psychologist." Came the reply.

Oksana slumped in her chair and let her head drop backwards.

"I thought she gave up." Oksana whined. "She cried again last time. Did they tell you?" she added with a note of pride.

"Despite your best efforts, you have another appointment." Mr Pargrave said with a smile. "As it happens, you have a parole review in five months and that warrants statements from psychologists as to whether or not you are suitable for release."

Oksana remained silent for a moment. She hadn't been expecting that.

"They say I am a psychopath." She said quietly at last.

"They do." Mr Pargrave nodded. It was no secret.

"Do you think I am?" She asked.

"I am not a psychologist." He replied.

"I didn't ask if you were a psychologist. I asked if you think I am a psychopath!" She exclaimed angrily.

"If you're going to become agitated then I will return you to your cell." Mr Pargrave said evenly. Others tended to flinch when they caught a flash of fire in the eyes of Oksana Astankova, but not this man.

"What do I have to do?" Oksana asked with a sigh.

"Meet with the psychologist and answer the questions honestly. That's all you can do." He replied, bending down to open a lower drawer in his desk.

Oksana watched him rummage around a while and chewed the skin next to her thumb thoughtfully.

"Ah." Mr Pargrave exclaimed, straightening up, "Here you go."

He handed her a thin book, White Nights by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Oksana eyed the cover and then turned the book in her hands.

"This will not last me long." She pointed out. It was certainly far shorter than the other works of Dostoyevsky's that she had read.

"I'll have it back then." Mr Pargrave replied, holding his hand out for the book.

Oksana clutched it into her chest.

"No. It is good. I will read it." She replied quickly before adding more softly, "Thank-you."

"You're welcome. Behave for the psychologist tomorrow?" He asked hopefully.

Oksana shrugged.

"I do not like her."

"I didn't ask if you liked her. I asked you to behave." Mr Pargrave replied with a knowing smile.

"Touché." Oksana mumbled.

Back in her cell a little while later, Oksana lay flat on her back on the top bunk, her eyes wide and staring, focused on the ceiling above her. It was made up of 24 large tiles. Not ceramic tiles, but a kind of strengthened polystyrene. She had glowered at those tiles for years. One of them bore the imprint of her fist, smaller then than it is now. Another had a watermark that had a remarkable resemblance to a rabbit if Oksana laid her head in the right position.

The bunk below Oksana was no longer occupied. Oksana had hauled its mattress onto the top bunk and laid it underneath her own. Though it was equally as thin, when the two mattresses were stacked their thickness was far closer to that of the mattress on the last bed she had before she was incarcerated. Nowhere near the comfort of her childhood bed though. From time to time Oksana wondered what had become of her childhood home. Who lived there now? Had one of her father's men taken it over? She hoped not. She would rather see her old home burn.

So she had yet another trip to the psychologist scheduled for the next day. Oksana was tired of those. They agitated her. She didn't know what they wanted from her. Yes, she killed a man. No, she wasn't sorry. What other questions could possibly be necessary?

And now they want to consider her for parole?

They would never allow it. Of the countless assessments Oksana had undergone in her eight years in institutions, none of the so-called professionals had submitted anything positive about her. And her current psychologist was weak. An idiot. She asked rude questions and she cried easily.

Oksana despised every psychologist she met, purely on principle. They asked their questions and they attempted to pick her apart, to unravel her and figure her out. It was insulting and Oksana wouldn't stand for it. These bumbling quacks think that they can read her mind but not one of them has come close yet. Oksana knows what to keep buried. Not that it matters really. No one would be letting her out, not after what she did. Another meeting would merely be another waste of time. Though time, Oksana supposed, was exactly what she had.

She shifted onto her elbows, forgetting momentarily about the gash in her side. The searing pain reminded her though, and she clenched her teeth, exhaling harshly through her teeth. She struggled to an upright position and edged towards the ladder. Normally, she didn't use the ladder. Normally, she swung herself over the edge of her top bunk and landed cat-like on the ground. Sometimes she used those upper bars for pull-ups. Not today though, and not for a while yet it seemed. So she lowered herself hesitantly to the ground and then assessed the contents of the lower bunk. Her books.

Eight years ago, once the reality of her new situation had sunk in Oksana had been fifteen and furious. Day in, day out, furious. She could barely see the sky. She couldn't feel the breeze or the rain on her skin. Her legs longed to run and yet there was nowhere to go. She clashed with wardens and fellow inmates. She fought, got blood under her nails and clumps of hair in her hands. Her heart had raced and her had eyes stung and she felt as though she would combust, burst into flames or explode in a spatter of crimson flesh on the white walls.

But she hadn't.

The days had passed into weeks, into months and then to years. And Oksana hadn't expired. Gradually she had found ways to occupy her days and her mind. When she was allowed into the yard, she ran on the spot. In her cell at night, she would do push-ups and sit-ups. She discovered the library and she read their meagre selection of Russian literature. And when she did so, she wept for the world she had been wrenched from, but only after lights out, and so silently that even the rabbit on the ceiling would deny having seen her cry. Astankovas don't cry. She had found language books and taught herself French. She was fluent now, for all the good it would ever be. Then, she had discovered sex. Sex and all its many uses. And like everything else she turned her hand to, Oksana practiced until she was exceptionally good at it. Commodities were few and far between in prison so Oksana learned to work with what she had.

And now they wanted to consider her for parole. They wanted her to talk to the stupid, fat psychologist again. Oksana could handle that. She could maybe even enjoy it if she put her mind to it. People made excellent playthings after all; that was another lesson that prison had taught her.

Oksana selected her new book from the make shift shelf she had formed along the back edge of the lower bunk and grabbed the apple that Mr Pargrave had offered her. She clambered haltingly back up onto her bunk and lay down. The book was a slim one and wouldn't last her long at all, but perhaps for a short time it would take her home.