SORROW
Three years later.
I look up at the guard tapping on my open door and give him a respectful nod. Donnel is one of the nicer ones, not that any are abusive. As a kid, I’d heard the horror stories, but I lucked out that the worst infringement the guards were guilty of was their inattention. They let a lot slide because it made their days easier. It sucks because I know things would have been much easier for me if they’d been doing their jobs properly and paying attention. The silver lining is that my being mute meant the head honcho worried about my safety. Not being able to scream meant I couldn’t call for help, which they realized the first time I was attacked. After that, I spent chunks of time in solitary confinement. The hole was meant for prisoners who had broken the rules or needed protection from the other inmates. Most people hated being cooped up alone, but not me. Alone was where I was safe. It had been so fucking long since I’d truly felt safe that I’d take what I could get, even if it were an illusion.
Things had calmed somewhat in the last few months. Lorna, one of the main instigators, was transferred. Without her eggingpeople on, they mostly left me alone. They mostly resorted now to tripping me, spitting in my food, and pulling my hair as I passed them. It’s ironic, really. I got tried as an adult and sent to a women’s prison—albeit a minimum-security one—and I’m faced with the most ridiculously childish behavior. I’m the youngest person here, but you’d never know it from people’s actions.
“Warden wants to see you.”
I frown, wondering if I’m in trouble. I shouldn’t be. I keep myself to myself. That’s something I learned to do the hard way and something I’ll do long after I leave.
He chuckles. “Don’t look so worried.”
It’s easy for him to say. I was never one to get called into the principal’s office unless it had something to do with my mom, but I imagine this is what it feels like.
He sighs, a brief look of pity crossing his face and it’s gone again. “I forget how young you are sometimes.”
Funny because I do too. I guess getting locked up will age someone pretty damn quickly.
Not offended by my silence like the others, he waits for me to get to my feet before stepping back. I exit the room and wait for him to lead the way. I follow, ignoring the sounds of people making comments about me, ranging from slurs about my appearance to how stupid I am. I don’t let it bother me. I had a lifetime of listening to my mother muttering the same things. It made me grow thick skin, though growing wings would have been better. Then, at least, I could have flown far away.
When we get to the warden’s office, Donnel knocks on the door and waits for an answer before opening it.
I look over at the warden behind the desk and wonder what makes a woman who looks like she does become a warden, of all things. I get that I’m being judgy, but I don’t mean it in a bad way. I’m more curious than anything. Miss Morton looks like asupermodel. She’s tall, maybe around five eleven, far taller than my five foot, and half of her height must come from legs that appear to go up to her armpits.
She has straight, ice-blonde hair, currently up in a sleek ponytail, and cheekbones that look like they were sculpted by a surgeon. Her bright blue eyes focus on mine with laser intensity as she dismisses Donnel and indicates for me to take a seat.
I tug at my faded gray T-shirt and wipe an imaginary smudge from the knee of my blue shapeless jeans. Both are prison-issue. I have nobody from the outside to provide me anything. Thankfully, some other women are in the same boat, which means I’m not singled out for that at least. Everyone gets to wear their own clothes here, purchased from the approved vendor catalog. I never had anything but cheap hand-me-downs before and I’m not bothered that everything I have now is secondhand. I wonder if the supermodel sitting in front of me ever wore hand-me-downs. Staring at her designer navy blazer and pants set with a cream silk blouse, I doubt it somehow.
She looks me over as Donnel pulls the door closed behind him. “Thanks to overcrowding issues, I have been tasked with selecting a handful of inmates to leave early. You were the first person I thought of.” I open my mouth and snap it closed again in shock. She opens the top drawer of her desk and pulls out a file before flipping it open.
“I look into people to see if I think they can be rehabilitated. I don’t like making mistakes, so I’m very thorough, Miss Wells. I’m not digging into an inmate’s past to ascertain if they are innocent. They had their day in court and were found guilty. Case closed.”
I nod, understanding what she’s saying.
“Except, of course, for when it’s all bullshit.”
I jump in surprise when she curses. I might hear worse than that downstairs, but never from the always professional Miss Morton.
“I started reading your history. From there, I fell down a rabbit hole, digging up everything I could. I even called in a few favors.”
Shock doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel right now. It’s a good thing I don’t talk because I know words would fail me.
She looks down at her file and starts reading out passages. “You were a straight-A student despite being a target for bullying and what was suspected and reported by more than one teacher, abuse at home.” She looks up at me, and then she pauses. I’m not sure if she’s expecting me to confirm or deny it, but I hold her stare with one of my own.
“Nothing was ever followed up, from what I can tell, so I’ll leave that for now and move on to Alec Bannerman.”
I flinch at his name.
“Six months older than you, he became your high school sweetheart. You were together from fifteen until the car crash, correct?”
I nod and brace myself for the rest.
“You were charged with death caused by reckless driving. Alec’s parents pushed to have you tried as an adult.” She shakes her head as she mutters under her breath. “This should never have been a criminal case to begin with. You were driving, yes. But he was the one who didn’t put his seatbelt on. The weather played a huge factor, as did your…medical condition.” She falters for a second, sympathy leaching into her perfectly made-up face.
“Doorbell cams show you were on a residential street and not speeding. It was just a freak, but tragic accident. Or it would have been if it wasn’t reported that you had a blood alcohol level that was eight times over the limit.”
I fist my hands, feeling my head pound, the lies making me want to throw up now as much as they did back then.
