He's going to get away with it. [It's a whimper at this point, a whine -- the curl of an existential crisis forced before uncompromising destiny.] He's going to get away with hurting my reputation.

[The degradation, the humiliation. The coil of loathing. The rub of a starched, orange jumpsuit against his slender legs. The weightlessness of ringless fingers.

The view of mold speckling dark, damp tiled walls.]

He isn't going to touch me. He won't lay a finger on me -- he won't need to, for this destruction.