Heather's POV:

Pop.

Six.

Squish.

Uh uh.

Cicero.

Lipschitz.

I awoke to the dingy smell of my cramped room. Sunlight scorched me from the tiny window along the right wall; it happened to fall right into my eyes. I punched my pillow to make it feel less like cardboard and buried my face into it. I immediately surfaced for air as a dust cloud puffed from my dirty bed. Whether I liked it or not, there was no way I was going back to sleep.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and took in my surroundings. My bed, being about five and a half feet long and two feet wide, creaked as it could barely contain this sudden position shift. There was a small sink in the corner next to a toilet. Everything in the room was gray. With the exception of me, of course. My neon orange jumpsuit was unmistakable.

I stood up and stretched my limbs, pacing back and forth until I paused at the grimy bars behind which I was being held prisoner.

In their eyes.

A smile twitched at the side of my mouth. It was their mistake. Humans are such pitifully imperfect beings. It was their mistake to cross me, it was their mistake to not call the police, and it was the jury's mistake to think that this cell was the best option for me. They thought that I would be punished, that I would carry out my sentence with anguish. A life in solitary confinement, they thought, will have her feasting on her regret every. single. day.

I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. My reality is simply different than theirs. It has been two years, twenty-one days, sixteen hours and...nineteen minutes since my brain went on autopilot. My own thoughts have done nothing but swirl and germinate inside my head, and everything I believe has come back to this, somehow:

He had it coming.

I lightly picked up a copy of the newspaper dated January 13th, 2013. Ah. The day I had made the headline. I remember it well, even fondly. It had been a cold day (almost as cold as my heart) when Number 1 was removed.

I came home and I was particularly irritated, looking for a little sympathy. And there is Bernie, laying on the couch, drinking a beer, and chewing gum. No, not chewing. POPPING. So I said to him, "You pop that gum one more time..." And he did. So I took the shotgun off the wall and I fired two warning shots.

Into his head.

He had it coming. He only had himself to blame. My eyes traced down the page until they landed on Number 2. My eyes narrowed.

I had found Danny Urbanski again after many years of separation (as in, middle school years ago) and he told me he was single. We hit it off right away again. So, we started living together. He'd do to work, he'd come home, I'd fix him a drink, we'd have dinner. And then I found out, single he told me. Single, my ass! Not only was he married, oh no, he had six wives. One of those Mormons, you know. So that night, as I was carving up the chicken for dinner, oh no.

He ran into my knife. He ran into my knife ten times.

He had it coming. He took a flower in its prime. And then he used it. And he abused it. It was a murder; it was not a crime.

My fingers subconsciously traced the black ink that named me the Black Widow killer. I was so proud of myself. Take the lives and then the money.

Rinse, wash, and repeat.

A/N: Sooo I am testing out different writing styles. This is largely based off the Chicago musical song, so listen to it after you finish this story, because I promise, it'll make a whole lot more sense once you do! Haha this does not sound like me at all, so please let me know if you want me to crank out a fluffy story next!

I promise I'm not insane. I wanted to delve into Heather's mind if she turned out the way some people are speculating she'll go. Ya know, experimenting with the character and all that good stuff.