I examine my wrists, noting the way the skin around the handcuffs has reddened. Still, the fact Reyes didn't take them off means I won't be here for long. Either that, or these guards are cruel and want to see me suffer.

I can very well see Snake being that way with his cold, calculating eyes and his constant smirks. It's impossible to know about Reyes, but I doubt a man who would take my hand in an attempt to ease my pain would go out of his way to make me suffer.

When the guards eventually come back, they lead me down the rest of the hallway and into an elevator in silence. I want to ask them where we're going or what's going to happen, but I learned the hard way during my time in the holding facility that I shouldn't ask questions to guards whose temperaments I don't know.

At the third floor, the doors slide open and we step into a foyer. A large mirror hangs on the wall to the left, and I catch a brief glimpse of my reflection before quickly looking away. On the wall opposite, a long glass window stretches from one end of the hallway to other, offering a glimpse into the inmates' bedrooms.

I keep my head twisted as the guards lead me down the corridor, examining each one with fascination. Men and women in a variety of shapes and sizes, some lying on their beds watching TV, others using the punching bags or doing press ups.

Even from here, it's not hard to see the physical toll impending death has taken on them. Hollow eyes, dark circles, sallow skin—they are the tell tales signs of suffering.

We get to room number ten, the last room at the end of the hallway. It looks exactly like the other ones we've passed so far, with a king-sized bed, a punching bag, and a vanity table.

There are two doors to the bedroom, separated by a cubicle just big enough to for one person. I know from my experience in the holding facility that these cubicles are installed with full body scanners, able to scan my body both externally and internally.

Reyes uses his fingerprint to open the door and orders me to step inside, so I do. I should be embarrassed that these men can see every inch of my body on the screen, but I no longer even care.

When they are satisfied I'm not harboring anything, the bedroom door slides open and I step inside, my eyes slowly scanning the gray striped walls. If I didn't know better, I'd think they're supposed to mirror prison bars—a reminder that while my cell might be luxurious, I am still a prisoner.

"Why are the rooms so nice?" I ask, purposely directing my question at Reyes, but it is Snake who answers.

"Think of this as your last meal," he says. "Your last chance to live comfortably before you die." He turns to Reyes and opens his mouth, letting out a yawn that could swallow me whole. "All right, I'm clocking out. See you tomorrow."

Reyes nods in response and as soon as Snake leaves, I feel marginally better. Reyes turns to me, proceeding to explain that I need to be showered and dressed in the outfit provided by six-thirty pm, when I'll be taken to wardrobe to get ready for the reveal—the banquet where all of the inmates are introduced.

I remember from last year's Justice week pictures how polished and well-dressed the inmates are when they're revealed, and I never understood the point of it then, either.

"Why do they bother doing that?" I ask, trying to stifle a yawn. Two weeks of broken sleep is finally catching up with me. "Dressing us up in costumes, I mean?"

"Because Justice week is about entertainment first and justice second," Reyes says flatly before meeting my gaze. "I'll be waiting outside." He turns on his heel before pausing. "Keep in mind that I can see everything you're doing in this room, so I suggest when you change, you change in the bathroom."

As soon as he shuts the door behind him, I move to the window and fling open the curtains, only to find they open up to the same striped wall, no window in sight.

Defeated, I turn to the rest of the room, spotting the transparent TV built into the wardrobe opposite the bed. I think about turning it on and watching the local news. There's likely to be something about me on there, but I know it will only depress me. Instead, I take a shower, thankful that the one-sided window doesn't extend as far as the bathroom.

I stand under the warm water, my palm resting on the white tiles of the wall as the water runs over my skin. I've gotten to the point where I'm too exhausted to feel much of anything, though it wasn't always this way.

In fact, at one point it felt like my anger was going to kill me before the government ever got around to doing it. I could feel it choking me when I imagined my mother, free as a bird and cuddling that godforsaken ring.

I imagined all of the things I was going to say to her when and if I ever saw her again. Was it worth it? I was going to scream. Was that ring from the man who left you for another woman worth all of this? Because deep down, even though it was my brother who shot him, it is my mother I blame.

It didn't exactly help my state of mind that you could hear every little sound through the walls of my holding cell. It was sandwiched between two other cells, whose occupiers spent the majority of their nights screaming and banging like wild animals trapped in cages.

It reminded me of when I was eight, when my grandfather on my father's side paid for my brother and I to fly to Toulon, France, to visit him. It was the first and only holiday we've ever been on, and while there, we planned on visiting a small zoo at the top of a mountain, which we would have to get to by cable car.

We don't have real animals in the zoos here in America, we have holographic images instead, but my grandfather had told us in France, the animals were real. And I couldn't wait.

It was the worst thing I have ever seen. There were animals like lions and panthers–already on the verge of extinction–locked in tiny, dirty cages, where they paced up and down as if they were broken. It's how I imagined my cellmates looked as I laid on my scratchy mattress and listened to them scream.

I quickly rinse out my hair and get changed in the outfit provided: a black vest top, stretchy black pants and black trainers. Afterward, I head into the bedroom and take a nap, desperate to catch up on some much needed sleep.

At six-thirty P.M, Reyes wakes me up and escorts me down to what he refers to as the Center. I don't bother to fight him, I simply let him lead me back down the hallway and through a small, white door I hadn't noticed before.

The room is made entirely out of mirrors, and everywhere I look, my haggard reflection stares back at me. It has to be some form of punishment. They have to know my reflection is my weakness, that unlike my thoughts, which most of the time I can escape, I can't escape my reflection.

I'm led over to the chair in the middle of the room by a petite blonde woman while Reyes stands at the door, his arms folded and his eyes trained on mine.

"My name is Sarah," the woman says in a stiff, detached voice. "I'll be doing your makeup for the duration of your stay. Now, if you struggle or try to hurt me in any way, your guard will shock you."

Believe it or not, I'd forgotten that the guards have the ability to shock me, and my fingers instinctively brush the incision on my neck. I watch Reyes in the mirror, wondering if he's the type of guard who will take pleasure in shocking me.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I say quietly before turning to face her, but the suspicion doesn't leave her eyes.

To her, I am nothing more than a criminal, a murderer, to be judged and treated suspiciously of. Clearly, she hasn't bothered to read my case. If she had, she wouldn't be looking at me the way she is now, and she certainly wouldn't think that my crime–Tristan's crime–warranted the Arena of Justice.

Her hands dab at my face with sponges and brushes, squirting an array of products over my skin before blending them in. I close my eyes, thankful to escape the mirrors. Her fingertips glide across my eyelids and my lips before dancing across my forehead and cheeks in delicate swirls.

I know each movement well. This was my routine every morning before school, smearing all sorts of products over my skin to ensure I looked my best. Most of my wages from the diner had to go to helping my mother pay the bills, so the makeup I used was often samples I stole from the drugstore, or gifts Darren bought me with his father's money.

It's strange how trivial it all seems now. Everything I believed in, everything I strived for. Why did I care so much what people thought of me? Why was I so concerned about looking good? I wasted all of that time trying to fit in, trying to be someone I wasn't, instead of just living. Now I want to go back in time and shake myself. Don't you know what's going to happen? I want to scream. Don't you know what's coming?

Sarah tweezes my eyebrows next, pulling extra hard at the hairs in a way that causes my eyes to sting. When I meet her gaze in the mirror opposite, her eyes are filled with unadulterated hatred. In fact, it is the same look everyone but Reyes wears, who is probably too well-practiced in the art of detachment to wear his disgust outwardly, but I know it is there, hidden inside of him. Why wouldn't it be?

After my hair and makeup are done, I spend the better part of an hour standing on the chair with my eyes closed, trying to block everything out while a dozen dress makers gather around me, prodding and pulling as though I'm a puppet and not a human. Finally, after some final prods and pulls, one of the dress makers says, "Open your eyes," and not really having much of a choice, I do.

The room falls silent as I stare into the mirror, surprised at how different I look to the girl that entered this room. The dress is made from a worn, brown leather, though it seems to hug my body in all the right places. It's strapless, revealing sharp collarbones and ample cleavage, with a shiny, metal bodice that cinches in at the waist and flows outward at my hips.

I swallow hard when I notice my brown leather sandals. As entertaining as I look dressed up as some sort of Roman gladiator, I can't help but wonder how effective this kind of outfit will be at keeping me safe in a fight.

I don't say anything to the dress makers. I don't know what I would say, so I just continue to stare at myself as my reflection stares back. Haunted, that's how I look. Like I am staring at the face of a ghost. No, not a ghost, but a dead girl, because despite Mr. Roberts protests, that's exactly what I am.

I am a dead girl walking.

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