But it was all I had left.
And in the long, freezing hours between midnight and dawn, in that lonely cell that smelled of bleach and fear, I clung to it with everything I had.
Because if I let go—
There would be nothing.
THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTSbuzzed overhead like angry hornets, each flicker sending a pulse of unease down my spine.
Officer Ramirez—her badge reading K. Ramirez—led me through the narrow corridor into the intake processing room.
It was a sterile, windowless chamber, its peeling white paint mottled with streaks of gray, the tile floor slick around a central drain that reeked faintly of industrial disinfectant and something far more human and unpleasant.
The air was thick, heavy with the scent of bleach, sweat, and fear, a combination that made my stomach churn.
My wrists ached from the cuffs they’d removed only moments ago, leaving angry red welts that throbbed in time with my heartbeat.
“Strip,” Officer Ramirez commanded, her tone flat, professional, precise.
There was no warmth in her voice. No malice either—just the mechanical efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times, a thousand faces blurred together behind the bars of routine.
My pulse spiked, my chest tightening. “Everything?” I asked, my voice barely audible, quivering despite my effort to sound steady.
“Everything,” she said. “Shoes, socks, underwear. All of it. Standard procedure for all incoming inmates.”
Inmates. The word hit me like a slap to the face. Not detainee. Not suspect. Inmate.
That was me now. An inmate. Cataloged, processed, classified. A person reduced to a number, a case file, a body to be inspected.
Convicted. Sentenced to life without parole—for a murder I had never committed.
Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes.
I blinked them back, swallowing hard. I would not give them the satisfaction. Not here. Not yet.
Slowly, mechanically, I peeled off the jumpsuit, letting it drop in a crumpled heap at my feet.
The air was icy against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs, making me shiver despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
I kicked off the cheap slip-on shoes, the thin soles echoing softly against the tile.
I stood there, bare under the harsh, unblinking lights, every inch of me exposed to scrutiny, my body no longer mine but another object to be cataloged, measured, and filed away.
Officer Ramirez snapped on a pair of latex gloves, the sharp pop slicing through the silence. “Arms up. Turn around slowly.”
I obeyed, every movement deliberate, muscles tight, the chill gnawing at my bones as she visually inspected me from head to toe. Then came the hands-on part, the step that always left me feeling violated, humiliated beyond reason.
“Open your mouth.”
I parted my lips, and she shone a flashlight inside, probing my gums, under my tongue, along my cheeks.
Every movement was clinical, detached, but it made my stomach twist. The memory of his hands—him, my aunt’s husband—surfaced unbidden, unwelcome.
The memory of hands touching me where no one should ever have—fear, anger, shame—rose like bile.
My throat tightened. I swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. Even here, in this hell, the past refuses to stay buried.
“Shake out your hair.”
