Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Then again, consistency is key…
I have a solo cell that's six inches larger than all the other solo cells because it’s tucked in the corner, directly under the laundry facility. The ceiling leaks in the summertime, so whenever the sweltering Southern heat sifts through the cracks to remind us that this place lacks air conditioning, I experience a private stream of dripping cold water.
Not a single day has passed without my name being announced for new letters during ‘mail call.’ I have an endless list of pen pals, obsessed podcasters, and stalkers who write to me regularly. (I always write back. I have no choice…)
On weekends, when they serve us “the bag”—i.e., a sandwich with mystery meat, a cookie, and a bruised apple—my treats from the commissary keep me full.
That’s where the positives end, though.
This place is an utter shit hole.
A soul-sucking, mind-numbingly dull shit hole.
And yes, I know: Metal beds with thin sheets, mildewy walls, and guards who treat us like rabid animals are what criminals deserve for being convicted of heinous crimes, but I'm innocent.
I didn't do what they claimed I did, I swear.
Whenever I’m not fighting back tears or penning letters to my lawyer about my next set of appeals, I’m dreaming about the day I'll be set free. Even though I know that hope is very dangerous behind bars.
Too much of it, anyway.
“Inmate Prettyyyy!” Mr. Lee Ackerman, a red-haired guard who insists that he owns the air I breathe, steps in front of my cell.
“Yes, sir?” I rise from my bed.
“The warden requested to see you. Now.”
“Did he say why?”
“Turn around and put your fuckin’ hands behind your back.”
“Mr. Ackerman, did he say anything about why? I just want to make sure I’m—”
“Shut up.” He unclips a set of chains. “Get into position so we can go.”
I bite my tongue and turn around, pressing my palms together behind my back and keeping my knees straight.
Oh my god… I bite my tongue as he clasps the metal around my wrists way too tightly, but I don't dare say a word about it.
He pulls on my chains, yanking me out of the cell like I'm a dog. As he leads me away, three guards in full tactical gear rush into my cell.
“Wait!” I look up at him. “What are they doing?”
“They’re shaking down your cell, Pretty. Making sure you don’t have anything that you shouldn’t have.”
Again? “But they just searched my cell yesterday.”
“So?” He smirks. “Scared they'll find something?”
“No…” I keep my voice flat, but my heart is aching.
They’re going to find a stolen collection of paint tins and brushes whenever they look behind the loose vent. That level of contraband could cost me at minimum, four weeks in the hole.
Maybe they'll be lenient for my first offense and only give me two…
“Your knees look a little weak today, Pretty.” Ackerman glances at his watch. “You should probably work them out before we see the warden, huh?”
I don’t answer.
“Oh, so you don’t hear me?” He pulls on my chain, forcing me to my knees on the courtyard’s cold ground.
“Crawl forward, bitch,” He hisses. “I’ll let you know when you can get up to walk again.”
I press my palms against the cement, crawling like his personal pet—like he and the other guards insist on treating me since one of my “victims” was a law enforcement officer.
“Faster.” He yanks the chain. “We don’t have all day to get there.”
My ounce of hope for today dissolves to dust, but I know better than to show any emotion.
I refuse to let this bastard (or anyone else) ever see me break…
Ackerman pulls me to my feet when we’re two gates away from the warden’s private quarters.
“You look good on your knees.” He smiles. “Too bad you didn’t make better choices in your life, because you seem like my type.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, keeping my gaze forward on the yellow brick building ahead of us.
It's flanked by rows of red rose bushes and leafy green magnolia trees—a place that clearly got lost on its way to a college campus and settled for the seventh circle of hell.
“Cell Block C, reporting to the warden,” Ackerman speaks into the door’s intercom.
When the door opens, I step into a lavish cream-colored living room I’ve seen many times before. Bright daffodils and pink tulips stand in crystal vases, and bright paintings stare down at me from glittering silver frames.
The warden—Nathaniel ‘Can’t Trust Him’ Burress—is leaning back in a plush red chair, his legs crossed and his eyes cold. Dressed in his usual navy blue pinstripe suit, he’s wearing a brand-new ‘Corrections Lead to New Directions’ brooch. Even under this room’s soft light, it’s clear the diamonds are fake.
“Inmate Pretty as requested, sir,” Ackerman announces. “My apologies for the short delay.”
“The short delay?” The warden gives him a pointed look. “You mean the fact you’re forty minutes late?”