I silently pocket the book. Michelle's book. I will read it later, probably every night, if only because it is something that Michelle likes. It will be a small but important daily reminder of her, for the many long nights I will spend alone.

The guard walks over to me. I feel him more than see him, for I am so engrossed in watching Michelle. Her laughter brings immense joy to me, and gives me something to believe in, something to hold on to. I am not, and never have been a religious man, despite the protests of my family. If it weren't for Michelle, I would have nothing to keep me going, to keep me alive. I tell her so.

"Michelle… I love you. You're the only thing that keeps me going." I whisper into the phone.

"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be here." She answers, and her bottom lip begins to quiver. I realize my mistake immediately, and quickly try to remedy it. Before I get the chance to speak, however, the guard taps my shoulder, none too gently.

"Time's up, Almeida." He says.

I can not let Michelle leave believing that she is responsible for what happened to me. It is something so completely unjust, so wrong, that I am physically unable to move. It is a mistake on my part, and I know it, but I talk back into the phone.

"Michelle, I swear to you, this is not your fault. You did nothing wrong. I-"

"I said, time's up!" repeats the guard angrily, pulling me roughly from the phone. It falls to the ground with a clatter. I have broken a Rule, and I know it, and I know the consequences, but I carry on. For no-one else would I continue, but Michelle must know.

"I love you!" I scream as the guard drags me away, and although Michelle can no longer hear me, I know she understands. She mouths something back to me, I can barely see her, past the guard who is handling me, but I, too, understand.

"I love you too, Tony."

I fight with the guard for a chance to see her get up, pick her purse up from the chair, steal one last glance at my struggle, then leave in a veil of tears. When at last her head has disappeared from view, I let go. I let the guard hit me, I don't care. I let him sock me, I don't care. I let him lecture me, it barely registers.

"That your wife, huh?" He asks, "Man, I'd sure like a piece o' that-"

I hit him. I hit him over and over again. Something in my mind has snapped, something that has remained hidden for the last two weeks, while I have felt completely helpless, at the mercy of others. He could have insulted me, he could have beaten me to a bloody pulp, and I would have done nothing. He, instead, chose not to. He chose to belittle the strongest, most beautiful woman I have ever known, and I swear to myself it will be the last poor decision he ever makes.

There is blood on the ground, and I do not know if it is his or mine. Frankly, I don't care. I want to hurt him, to make him suffer for what he said. I want to break his skull open, I want to snap his neck across my knee. Each blow is harder than the last. I continue. There are faces around us now, concerned voices shouting to one another. I press on, until two large guards pull on my arms, taking me away forcefully. For once, it is deserved. And for once I fight back. I kick and I scream, figuring I can not possibly be in more trouble than I am already. I thank God that Michelle left before the spectacle began.

I continue making a scene, until a third man comes, this time with a syringe. I curse at him, I scream, but the needle lands on my chest, and immediately I go limp. I have been sedated.