June's up, this time! I've never written her before, so this should be interesting. The fairytale reference for this story is The Little Mermaid.

I don't Chicago. Chicago belongs to a lot of people with more money than me.

Mermaid

In Cook County Jail every self-respecting murderess managed to make a name for herself, and in June's case it was by not talking. It was an unusual, almost unique stance to take, what with bullying and gossip being such popular pastimes, but still June maintained that it was senseless to talk to the others when it wasn't needed. She had never been one for gossip.

It was a perfect way to be remembered. Murderess Row was generally one of the loudest parts of the jail, the place the press always frequented. You had to get noticed, and in time each girl gained their own infamy through their own special forms of speech. Amongst the uniform grey they were anonymous, gaunt, grubby faces in a cell, until you learned their voices. There was Liz, with her soot-stained fingers and angry ramblings, Annie's honey-dipped alto and most effective flick of the head, Velma, who remained the leader no matter how many tantrums she had, the Hunyak girl, who didn't speak English but babbled Hungarian, and Mona, the self-proclaimed mistress of bratty remarks. And then there was June, a still, deceptive pool in their turbulent river.

She was threateningly understated in her drab prison sack. Even the bagginess of it failed to disguise what was a very muscular body, accompanied by a convincing scowl and a lot of cigarette smoke. There was no need to verbally intimidate people; June's appearance spoke for itself, presenting a woman whose mind was, for the moment, in an uneasy, violent peace.

When asked for her story, June gave the most callous of accounts. It was the most she ever spoke, a tale of blood, knives and spoilt chicken. June would later add that the only thing she regretted was the waste of the chicken. Mona, upon hearing that comment, went a little white around the nose but soon recovered with some nasty quip.

June had made the mistake of marrying Wilbur after a whole chain of other errors of judgement, the biggest one ending with her in Wilbur's room after a particularly drunken night in a gin joint. That mistake left her with a serious problem and the unwelcome prospect of losing her svelte figure. Wilbur, however, was true to his religious routes and the marriage was short, small and very discreet, as befitted a disgraced woman.

The child was a squealing, colicky brat and June wasn't a maternal woman. She cared for it as best she could, but it died one winter anyway, never seeing its third birthday. Wilbur still refused to fix the heat, even when June became ill and her aunt had to nurse her. "Marrying that man was a mistake, love," her auntie whispered as she mopped June's brow.

"I know."

June would be lying if she said she missed her child. It was a girl, with large, mournful eyes, and June knew she could have done more to look after her, so thinking of the child made her guilty and thus she didn't think. She kept to herself, chasing the others away. It wasn't as if she actually liked these girls.

And yet they were, somehow, diverting in their strange, harsh ways. Three weeks into her imprisonment June accepted an offered poker game from Annie to pass the time, thinking that she could probably win a few bucks or cigarettes out of it. She sat down at the rickety table, nodding in acknowledgement to Velma (self-appointed resident queen bee) and Liz (one part human, nine parts ash). Annie shuffled and dealt the worn playing cards with the speed of a professional, making June wonder at her history. Velma fanned her cards elegantly and looked them over, already bored, and Liz scraped hers into her lap, her fingers drumming a strange rhythm against the wooden tabletop. June accepted her cards without a word.

The game went on for almost two hours. June won a packet of cigarettes each from the other three and Annie kicked her under the table in revenge. Though she tried so hard to stay unfazed, June found herself chuckling at the redhead's nerve. She shoved Annie in the arm, Annie tried to put the blame on Liz, Liz swore so violently that even Velma raised a sculpted eyebrow and the ice was broken.

For what it was worth.

She never told anyone about the child, didn't say why she drove the knife in with such a relish, watching Wilbur's lifeblood spurt in a crimson firework. A revenge killing, for a child that had never been wanted. Some voice of reason in June's mind screamed for her to tell her story to her attorney, make the jury sympathise with her so she would at least stand a chance of escape. But she kept still, enjoying the way people jumped when they saw her coming. She didn't like to admit that there was a time when she might have felt grief. There was no pain so long as she didn't acknowledge it.

Mona prodded her at the dinner table after June snapped at the Hunyak. "Can I ask you something?" Mona grinned, ignoring Velma's warning glare across the table. "Can you talk to anyone without biting their head off?"

I could, once.

June stayed silent, like the mermaid dancing on knives; unable to say she was dying inside.