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"Mama," I grumble into the receiver of the old dilapidated phone, "Daddy won't let me out!"

"Baby, I know this is hard. Believe me when I say that this is harder on me than it is on you, and let's not even get into what your daddy's goin' through," she replies, with a deep sigh into her end of the phone.

I can picture her sitting there in Daddy's chair, since he's here at the police station with me. I'm sure she has her housecoat on and she's probably watching her soap operas which she taped earlier today. And when I say "taped", I mean "taped". She and Daddy have yet to catch up with the times and invest in a damned DVR. I've tried and tried to talk them into it, but I always get the same response—the response they give to any modern technology . . . new fandangled . . . contraption . . . alien spies.

I still suffer from second-hand embarrassment that they believe in all that Area 51 shit.

"Mama," I plead once more, trying my damndest to work up some legitimate tears, but I'm sad to say, I'm all cried out.

"You've made your bed, now you're just gonna have to lie in it." Mama's voice takes on the no-nonsense tone she uses when dealing with me or my daddy, especially when we're not doing what she wants us to do.

When she hangs up the phone, I feel defeated . . . and out of hope. She was my one phone call.

"Did she hang up on ya?" My daddy's face is serious, but I see a small twitch under his thick mustache. I know he's getting a lot of pleasure out of seeing me behind these bars,knowing that I've already used my get-out-of-jail-free card one too many times.

Looks like it's just me and this flimsy mattress.

"Can I get ya somethin' to eat, maybe some water to drink?"

I glance at the corner and the pot that's in here to piss in and cringe. To hell with that! I'll starve first.

"No, thank you," I huff, with as much menace as I can muster.

"Bella, now you know that this is—" he starts.

"Hurting you more than it's hurting me?" I interrupt. "Yeah, I already know."

And I call bullshit.

Funny thing is that most of my anger is not directed at the man peering at me through the metal bars, it's the copper-haired, green-eyed one sitting at the corner desk, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

"I don't really see what the big deal is, anyway?" I ask, mostly to myself, but to anyone else who wants to listen.

When there's no response from the peanut gallery, I continue with my rhetorical questions . . . and my crazy, which I've apparently perfected over the last six months.

"Who says it's a sin to drive a truck into a pond?

"The last I heard, this was a free country. Seems to me that I should be able to park a vehicle wherever I see fit." Now, the part of me that's sane knows that I shouldn't have driven that truck into the water; but the part of me that's crazy thinks, "why the hell not?"

"I don't think it's a sin, but it is against the law, Ma'am," the copper-haired, green-eyed deputy says from the corner.

"Don't call me "ma'am"," I snap, as I slide down the cold, hard wall onto the even colder, harder floor. The least he could've done was let me go home and put some different clothes on, but noooooo! Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes had to bring me directly in.

"Sheriff's orders."

No passing go.

No collecting $200.

Just straight to jail.

I've always fucking hated Monopoly. It takes too damned long to play and my cousin Emmett cheats like a Kennedy.

With nothing left to do and no one left to call, I pull myself up from the floor and flop down onto the thin mattress. When I get outta here, I'm gonna suggest that the beds here get an upgrade, just in case I find myself in another predicament like this, which is completely likely.

I'm not sure how to explain it. I know when I'm doing something wrong and, believe me, I know the law—but I get in this crazy frame of mind and there isn't a lick of reason to be found. I just do whatever I feel like doing at the time, and hope to hell I don't get caught.

"Jake," I hear Charlie say from behind the desk in the office next to the jail cell, frustration lacing his voice. Fucking Jake. This is all his fault. I roll over and face the wall. "Listen, this is Chief Swan and I'm calling to let you know you can pick up your truck from Bart. It's a little wet under the hood, but I'm sure it'll run just fine. If you have any problems with it, I'll pick up the tab. And, uh...whatever you do, I don't wanna catch you around Bella's—ever again." There's a pause and I'm sure, if I could see through the wall, he's probably sitting there smoothing down the edges of his mustache. He does that when he's either thinking or mad. "That's an order, son." The phone hangs up loudly. I hear Charlie's desk chair creak and moan as he emits a loud sigh.

Reaching my hand out, I put it up to the wall.

Even when I fuck up, he's still on my side. The gesture makes my eyes burn with unshed tears and my throat hurts as the telltale lump forms, lodging itself there and refusing to budge. With my back turned to the bars, I allow myself to cry, letting out all of the built-up frustration from the day . . . from Jake . . . from his stupid baby-mama whore . . . from getting caught . . . from Charlie sticking up for me, even though he doesn't have to . . . from my Mama leaving me in here to sleep in the bed, because I made it or some shit like that—all of it comes out in the form of silent, hot tears that soak my face and my hair, all the way down to the flimsy mattress.

My mind begins to wander off into the black abyss that it so often goes to, especially at night. I see flashes of scenes, bits of conversation—revenge—until I eventually fall into a restless sleep filled with vivid images.

-CG-

I feel my body slip from unconsciousness to consciousness. For a moment, I can't remember where I am or even what day it is. My eyes are burning, even with my lids still closed and I'm afraid to open them. I don't want to talk to anybody or for anyone to see the bloodshot eyeballs or tear-streaked face. The last thing I need is for one more person to give me a look of pity. I'm pretty sure it was that exact thing that sent me over the edge yesterday.

Shit!

Yesterday—which was when I'd driven the last possession of Jake's, that was still at my house, off into Mr. Miller's pond!

A warm hand touches my shoulder, and I feel someone walk up and stand beside the bed. There's also a blanket pulled up to my shoulders; I know when I'd gone to sleep, there had only been me, my cut-off denim shorts, sleeveless shirt, and a mattress.

"Bells," my dad says softly.

"Go away," I demand, forcing my voice not to shake.

"You . . . you were crying in your sleep," he whispers.

"Bad dream."

"You wanna talk about it?" he asks.

"No," I answer flatly. He pats my shoulder and leaves me be without saying another word. I hear the clang of the jail cell shutting behind him.

I know deep down he means well, but the last thing I need is another lecture about how I'm supposed to act, or how I'm supposed to put a smile on my face and get on with my life. Fuck that! They have no idea how mortifying it is to be the girl who couldn't keep her guy satisfied, so he ran out and slept with the biggest whore in town and knocked her up. They have no fucking idea. You can't keep that shit from getting out. Everybody knows. And no one wants to experience that kind of humiliation and heartbreak in public, especially not in a town like this.

Around these parts, Jacob Black can do no wrong. It's always been that way, ever since we were kids. He was always the team captain, the spelling bee winner, the class president, and, eventually, the star of our small town—quarterback of our football team. After finishing college and taking over his daddy's business, marrying me was next on his list of accomplishments. Those ladies in my mama's quilting circle at church had us betrothed before we were knee-high to a grasshopper. Everybody knew that Jake and I would get married one day. I wanted to marry him. He was my best friend. The only boy I'd ever kissed. The only guy I'd ever been with. He was it for me.

But, apparently, I wasn't it for him.

We'd been married five years, when the first crack appeared in our perfect life—we tried to to have a baby. It didn't happen on the first try, or the second. Actually, we'd been trying for six months when the shit hit the fan. Jake wasn't used to failing. It infuriated him that for once in his life, something didn't come easy to him. I had an appointment to see a specialist in the city, but I never quite made it. That was the week I had a cancellation at the bakery and came home early one afternoon.

The afternoon my world fell apart . . . and I went off the deep end.

Psychotic episodes.

Unstable.

Maybe she needs medication?

I've heard all the whispers and snide comments. I know what people think of me. I know they blame me for Jake's mistakes. There's no way that their All-American boy could fuck things up this royally, right? No, it had to be me. I'm the one who was the fuck-up.

The way people look at me when I'm in town makes me feel like a stranger. It's the way they look at out-of-towners, or people they don't trust. Even my mama had given me a talk on acting like a lady . . . keeping it together.

"I've raised you better," she says. "Isabella Marie, you've got to get a grip!"

Since she knew it would cause me to completely flip the fuck out, she only used my first and middle name; but it was enough to let me know I was on her shit list, which also coincides with her prayer list.

I don't really care what people are saying or what they think of me. I know the truth and I can't explain why I've been doing all the crazy things I've been doing. I just know that with each piece of clothing that I burn, and each vehicle I dump into Mr. Miller's pond, I feel better . . . like a little piece of myself is coming back. I want Jake to feel what I feel, to hurt like I hurt, but that's impossible. The damage is already done; and now, even if I went out and fucked the whole town, I'd still be the one with the broken heart.

The first night my daddy arrested me was the night I was standing outside of Jake's new house. I'd been sleeping and had one of my nightmares or whatever you want to call it, and I decided that if I couldn't sleep, then neither should he. So, I went over there. In my fluffy pink house slippers and my plaid pajama bottoms from Christmas, I stood in Jake's front yard and yelled out every feeling I'd pent up inside me . . . the hate, the betrayal, the disgust. I just let it all out. Before the neighbors had called the cops, I remember feeling completely exhausted and laying down in the cool grass because it felt good on my hot cheeks.

The liquid courage I drank prior to going over there probably hadn't helped the situation.

Even though I landed myself in jail that night, I felt better.

A week later, I took all of Jake's clothes, that he'd yet to come and get—because he was a chicken shit—and piled them up in the driveway and lit the sons of bitches on fire.

Apparently, the Homeowner's Association frowns on fires in the driveway.

"All fires must be contained in a fire pit, fireplace, or grill," Mike Newton had said. Is this still the fucking south? Can't people burn shit if they want to? Damn! I never wanted to live in this hoity toity neighborhood in the first place. It was all Jake's idea. He wanted the big fancy house and four cars, because two just wasn't good enough. It wasn't a case of keeping up with the Joneses, we were the Joneses.

That time, I only received a citation and a hefty fine of two hundred and fifty dollars, which initiated my next run-in with the law. I figured that since all of this was Jake's fault in the first place, he should have to pay my fine. So, while he and the missus were at work one day, I broke in the back door of his new house and stole his pride and joy, an autographed football from the University of Alabama National Championship team.

Rammer jammer, my ass! I'd like to have rammed that football up Jake's ass, but instead, I hocked it.

I know all of these predicaments, as my mama likes to call them, make me sound like what everyone says—crazy, unstable, scorned—but the truth is that at the time of each incident, my actions seemed completely logical. I'm not even mad anymore, really, just hurt. But I'm not hurt because I lost Jake. I don't even want my old life back. I'm just sorry that I wasted all those years putting Jake on a pedestal like every other person in this town, because he didn't deserve it.

The metal bars rattle as they're being opened.

"Chief said I could let you go at noon."

I roll over and look up to see the new deputy standing in the open doorway of the cell. He rubs his hand on the back of his neck and I can tell from his bloodshot eyes that he must have been up all night.

"He said your truck is parked out front and the keys are on the floorboard."

I grunt, showing my acknowledgement, and slowly pull myself up to a sitting position. I need a toothbrush, a real toilet, and a shower.

A/Ns:

If you're reading this, thank you for jumping on board for another Jiffy Kate story! We hope you like it! It is our entry from the Deep South Contest and we will be expanding it, so we thought we'd, once again, split it up into easier, more manageable chapters for you.

Hope you're all having a good week! Thanks so much for reading! We'd love to hear what you think in the reviews!

As always, thank you to our awesome beta, Maurigirl60!