Prison Nation Part 3

I rinsed off, then wrapped the damp towel around myself and scurried back to my cubby. Modesty wasn't a luxury. Naked women stood around me, some waiting in line, others drying themselves off. A few younger girls stood nervously away from the others, casting their eyes down as they tried to avoid the crowd of nakedness that pressed around them.

I toweled off, then threw my dirty clothes back on and shoved the towel inside the bag. Without pausing a moment longer, I made my way through the crowd and out the door.

The Commons already teemed with inmates, most leaning against walls or slumped in chairs as they waited for their a.s.signments for the day. There had once been a time when there were limits on how large a gathering could get before a guard rushed in to break it up, or site them for an unauthorized a.s.sembly. In the last few years, crowds had been getting larger, and the guards rarely broke them up. It was pointless. There were too many people. The doorway across the room finally came into view, and I ducked inside.

Just past the door a narrow staircase shot down into the shadows below. Its steps were cracked from years of disrepair. The handrail, always grimy from the hundreds of unwashed hands that grasped it each day, hung from the dark wall. I carefully positioned myself in the middle of the stairs and made my way down.

Nearing the bottom, I could hear the bustle of the laundry room. I pulled open the door and was instantly overcome with the distinct smell of soap and wet clothes. The room was already packed with people, most of them women, casually talking as they scrubbed clothes in the large bins full of water or waited in line to use the worn-out drying machines that always left your garments damp.

Nodding politely at the few women who smiled limply at me, I pushed through to a free spot along one of the bins. Here in the washroom, women who would usually glare and yell always seemed to mellow down. It was as if the act of scrubbing and was.h.i.+ng the dirty clothes brought back traditions of old, and the women escaped into those adopted memories. The laundry room was one of the only places inside Spokane where you could hear women laugh and sing, with no intermission of anger.

A woman, her face blank as if lost in another dream, mindlessly pa.s.sed me a bar of soap then went back to her slow rhythmic scrubbing. I watched a moment as she scrubbed over and over at a spot on the white s.h.i.+rt in her hands. I couldn't see anything on it, but she didn't seem to notice as she bore her weight into scrubbing.

Pulling a s.h.i.+rt out of my pillowcase, I dunked it in the warm water and quickly rubbed the soap through it. I hated this soap. The smell stung my nose, and it always left my hands red and chapped. Over the years I had become the only one in my family who remembered to wash our laundry. Occasionally my mother would seem to snap out of her strange world, gather everything, and wash it until it shone. But those days were getting fewer and fewer. If it weren't for me, our clothes would be stiff with stink. Gritting my teeth, I rubbed the soap harder into the dirty s.h.i.+rt.

I let my mind relax, settling into the mindless task of dunking the clothes: rubbing the rank soap across their surface, scrubbing, then squeezing out as much of the soap as I could manage before draping them in a pile on the edge of the bin. If I made it a point to not think, this ch.o.r.e didn't seem too tedious. I had heard there were worse a.s.signments out there. I never bothered to ask what they might be. I didn't want to find out what could be worse than soap that rubbed your flesh off and burned your sense of smell until tears stung your eyes.

Finally ringing out the last sock, I quickly dunked the pillowcase into the sudsy water, scrubbed it, then gathered the soaking pile in my arms and hurried to join the line for the drying machines.

The machines were ancient. A single row of them lined one wall, their circular metal doors rusted and cracking. As they spun, they banged against each other and the wall, giving the laundry room a steady was.h.i.+ng rhythm that would continue the entire day. The beat of the machines sounded like the heart of the prison, steadily keeping it alive with every thud.

The line inched forward, one inmate at a time being allowed to find a free machine and throw their contents inside to hopefully dry. My pile of wet clothes pressed against my body. I could feel the dampness saturating my still dirty set of clothes that I wore. A s.h.i.+ver ran down my body, the air suddenly feeling even colder as I wrapped my arms around my wet load of worn laundry.

My turn finally came. A guard standing near the front of the line pulled out the small device and scanned my bracelet. After it lightly beeped, he waved his hand, motioning me forward. I ducked my head and scurried to a machine, its rusted door still swinging from the last load that had been pulled out.

Throwing my armload in, I slammed the door shut and pressed my thumb down hard on the b.u.t.ton. The machine seemed to gag, then slowly spun up until it joined the others in beating itself against the wall. I watched intently as my load of clothes began its spin behind the thick gla.s.s.

The smell of smoke drifted into my nose. Startled, I jerked my eyes from the load and looked around. Down the row, a line of smoke flowed out of a machine. The inmate standing in front of it started to panic, her eyes wide as she watched more and more smoke billow out. Desperately she yanked on the handle of the door, but it didn't even budge, locked shut in mid-cycle.

The guard who had scanned my bracelet just a moment before pushed his way through the stunned crowd, shoving the woman aside to jam a key into a small hole hidden near the top of the drying machine. The machine came to a dead halt. Smoke streamed out of the cracks and joints, its ma.s.s seeming to groan in pain. The guard yanked the door open. As it swung on its rusty hinge, a large cloud of black smoke rolled out.

The guard reached in with one hand and shoveled out the contents of the dryer. Everything was burned; the s.h.i.+rts a dark brown, the jeans patchy with ash. The woman started to bawl as she watched all of her clothing hit the ground, completely useless.

"Another machine backfire," the guard said into a small mouthpiece positioned on his shoulder.

"My... my clothes!" the woman sobbed.

The guard quickly scanned the woman's bracelet, then checked the device. "821A, you will be charged for a new reimburs.e.m.e.nt set of clothes and partial fixture of machine."

"What?!" The woman's eyes filled with more tears. "It wasn't my fault. These machines break all the time. You should be reimbursing me!" Her head whipped around, taking in everyone who had frozen to watch. "It wasn't my fault!"

The guard let out a low chuckle. "Nothing is ever anyone's fault it seems. But I guess you're wrong, huh? Otherwise you wouldn't be here, Inmate." He spat out the last word as if disgusted, then uttered a 'clean this up' and made his way back to the start of the line.

The woman, still sobbing, gathered her ruined clothes in her arms and backed away from the machine. Smoke leaked out of it, curling into thin tendrils as it snaked its way toward the ceiling. As the woman walked slowly past me, I could hear her mumbling incoherently under her shuddering breath.

My fingers twitched at my side. I felt the urge to reach up and stroke her arm, to pat her back as she hurried past, anything. Just like with the old woman the day before. I lifted my hand. Just as I moved to place it on the woman's shoulder, a series of grumbled curse words escaped her mouth. My hand fell to my side, my mouth slightly agape at the angry words that fell from her lips in a manic rush.

The woman disappeared into the crowd, a hiccup of a cry echoing behind her.

I turned back and intently watched my machine, terrified that I would see smoke pouring out. My load still tumbled over and over, flecks of water splas.h.i.+ng against the gla.s.s door. I refused to pull my eyes off of the machine.

More and more machines had been breaking down lately. Instead of ordering new ones, a mechanic would occasionally come down and slap the broken machine back together. It always broke again. I heard people muttering about where the replacement money was going, but I didn't care. All I cared about was that my clothing came out mostly dry and still intact.

The machine chirped once, then shut itself off. I pulled the door open, relieved to smell the familiar aroma of dried soap. Shoving the clothes into the still damp pillowcase, I threw it over my shoulder and hurried to the stairs. Behind me I could still hear the sobbing of the dest.i.tute woman.

The cell was still empty when I got back. Normally my parents were back, casually talking or napping the day away. My father had a job in the mailroom, but it had been decreased to only two days a week. It was strange to see the cell completely empty.

I dumped out the clothes onto the bottom bunk and loosely folded them, leaving out a clean set of clothing for myself. Even though I had taken a shower that morning, I felt sticky and dirty. Peeling the clothes off that I had been wearing for the last week didn't help. I wished I could go back and wash them. But we were only allowed two laundry days a week. The clothes would have to wait.

I s.h.i.+vered as I tugged the clean s.h.i.+rt on over my head. It was still damp, the drying machine obviously petering on its last leg. I silently thanked it for not burning my clothing. The crying of the woman still rang painfully in my head. Pulling on my worn jeans, stiff with dried soap, I wadded my dirty clothes into a tight ball and tucked them onto the bottom shelf.

Finally feeling clean, or as clean as I could ever feel, I climbed up onto my bunk and pulled out my notebook, flipping to the back. Conversations with varying inmates were stacked in a pile, the pages crumpled from the many times they had been folded and unfolded. I pulled out the most recent page, looking at the careful curves of Orrin's writing. Whenever he wanted me to pay more attention to something he wrote, he wrote in perfect penmans.h.i.+p. The letters arched and curved at just the right places. My writing next to his was ugly, a foreign language.

I found the yellow paper from my last visit with Dr. Eriks and carefully tucked it in behind my conversation with Orrin. My eyes grazed the words, still trying to find what seemed wrong with them. Shaking my head, I closed the notebook and sat back against the wall.

The prison was fully awake now.

I could hear the nonstop chatter of inmates. The shuffle of worn out shoes. The occasional angry shout. I let my eyes shut, the sounds enveloping me. Someone shouted louder, their voice full of anger. I could hear a body slam into something solid. The gasps of people standing by. Then, right on cue, the heavy thump of boots as the guards ran to join the fight. Inmates shouted, some cheering on the fighters, some scared and trying to get away from the crowd. Then suddenly it fell quiet, everything quieting back to the shuffle and murmur of the usual rhythm.

This was the music my life consisted of. The beat of the laundry room, the strum of the shuffling feet, the occasional solo of a frenzied fight, always ending with the finale buzz declaring lights out. I had only heard true music a handful of times in my life. It was beautiful. Every note was clear and lacking chaos.

I longed to hear it more, but in Spokane, only the privileged got any kind of actual music. I didn't have a job, and my parents rarely worked. This meant we had no points, and no special treatment. The only music I was allowed were the daily songs of the prison walk.

My mind drifted more.

I felt my lips vibrating as they hummed an uneven rhythm that swayed and moved with the sounds of the prison. Occasionally a small s.n.a.t.c.h of one of the unnamed random songs I had heard before mixed in, giving my melody a strange, haunting sound. I let a small smile spread on my lips. It felt good to be alone in the cell. No chattering. No need to check in and make sure my mother was clean or my father awake.

In my mind I watched as a green field took form. I let myself fall into the daydream. The field was one I had seen many times in my schoolbooks. Rolling hills, green with occasional patches of white flowers. The sky blue with light fluffy clouds floating by. I could hear the songs of the birds in the distance. The lap of unseen water.

Laying down in the gra.s.s, I let the sun bake my soft skin. My clothes were clean, smelling of flowers instead of the usual stink of rank soap and dirty sweat. No one was around. Aside from the crash of the waters and the singing of the birds, I was completely alone. My smile grew wider.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped me from my day-dreaming. Blinking my eyes open, I leaned forward and looked down at the open cell door. Carl GF4 leaned in the opening, his arms folded across his uniform chest, a sly grin smugly spread on his face. From how settled he looked against the door frame, he must have been standing there for longer than I dared to think.

"Nice humming," he said, his voice low and smooth.

I licked my lips, the heated flush of embarra.s.sment racing to my face.

"What song was it?" he asked, taking a step inside.

"It was... it was nothing. I didn't know I was humming."

Carl chuckled, his eyes sweeping the cell. "Nice and tidy in here. Good to see."

"Uh... thanks." My mind reeled, wondering why he was here. Wondering, more so, why he was talking to me.

"I hear you turn eighteen in a few days." Carl stepped back to lean in the doorway again. "How does it feel?"

"Feel?"

"You know. Finally getting away from the crazies." He swept his eyes around the cell. "Your parents."

A sudden flush of anger swelled in my chest. Forcing it down, I licked my lips again and looked away. "I haven't thought much about it."

"Hm," Carl said, humor hinting his voice. Lifting my eyes, I saw him taking me in. He smiled as my eyes met his, a silent chuckle evident on his lips. "I came to get you. Dr. Eriks says you have a meeting."

I knew I didn't. My meeting wasn't for another two days. Worried I had noted it wrong, I grabbed my notebook and flipped it open to the page where I jotted my daily schedules.

"It's not in there," he said. "She is changing some of the releasing policies. Guess you are one of the lucky first for her new interviews."

"Oh," I said softly.

Climbing down from the bunk, I swept my hands over my jeans, flattening out the wrinkles. I walked out of the cell, pus.h.i.+ng quickly past Carl. His body remained firm and unmoving.

"I will escort you," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Something fluttered angrily in my stomach.

"No." Catching myself, I softened my tone. "I go there every week. I know the way. It's... it's ok. Thank you for getting me, sir."

Carl opened his mouth as if ready to say something, then slowly pulled it closed. He was close enough that I could hear the clink of his teeth as they met. He let his eyes flick down me again, then nodded. "Alright, Millie." His voice came out low, almost seductive. "Have a good day then."

Turning, he walked away, occasionally glancing into an open cell as he pa.s.sed. I watched him a moment, my mouth dry and my stomach nervously flipping. Fog threatened my mind. Blinking madly, I forced it away, then turned and hurried down the hall.

I didn't like how Carl had looked at me. Each time his eyes scanned my body, I felt naked and vulnerable. I didn't like the sly smile that crossed his face, covering whatever thoughts were hidden behind it. This new guard was strange, different from all the others I had known my entire life.

Guards were paid to watch us. Their job was to keep us in check and to keep order. I had never second-guessed their gazes or questions. For eighteen years, I had never felt my stomach tighten and body jitter the way it did when Carl watched me. I felt as if I should have ducked into my bunk and hid under my blanket like I used to when I was little and a fight broke out in the dark night.

There was something else.

Something my mind fought to place as I made my way down the hallways towards Dr. Eriks' office. I barely noticed when I had to pause to let a guard scan my bracelet, or when I had to skirt around the random groupings of inmates. There was something more than how Carl had looked at me, or how he had taken the time to talk to me, that made me this jumpy and nervous.

As I rounded the last corner and approached the desk of Dr. Eriks' secretary, it finally hit me. Guards always addressed us by our cell number. That was all we were to them: inmates. Numbers.

It wasn't strange that Carl knew my name. It was printed on all my paperwork, even on my bracelet that I now nervously spun around my wrist. But guards rarely remembered more than our numbered last names. Carl knew my first name. And he had used it without hesitation. That was what sent the s.h.i.+vers racing one after another down my back.

He had spoken to me like an old friend. As if he knew me.

And something inside me did not like that. At all.

5.

The secretary glanced up at me. Her dull hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few stray strands curling around her lean face. Nodding toward a chair, she let her eyes drift back to the old book propped up in front of her on the worn wooden desk.

I moved toward the chair, letting my weight drag me down onto its cold metal seat. The realization that Carl GF4 had called me by my name really shook me. I couldn't stop the nauseous twist of my stomach, the shake that had taken over my usually steady hands. Something about me felt invaded. Most things were not private here. We showered together. Ate together. Died together. But few things, like our names, were rarely shared.

Why did he even bother with knowing mine?

My thoughts stopped as I saw the door crack open. The secretary glanced up, then lazily said the standard "Dr. Eriks is ready to see you now" before gluing her eyes back to the book in front of her nose.

Standing, I brushed my jeans smooth again, then moved to push the door open. The room sat dim and cold, as usual. One wall held a wooden bookshelf, full of books I had never been allowed to look at. There was no window. Just a framed painting of dull swirled colors hanging alone on the gray wall. A desk rested against the last wall, everything on it neatly organized in perfect stacks. Even the pens were laid in order, perfectly lined and ready to grab at any needed time.

Dr. Eriks sat in her usual chair, her legs neatly crossed. Her hair was in a perfect bun as always, her gla.s.ses perched carefully on her nose. I could see the lines spraying out around her pursed lips from across the room.

There were three chairs lined up in front of her. To my shock, I saw the backs of two other people sitting nervously in the chairs. As I stepped closer, I felt my breath catch in my throat. I knew the balding patch on the back of the man's head. The messy, unwashed mane of hair on the fidgeting woman.

Snapping my eyes up to Dr. Eriks, I let my voice shoot out, more forceful than I had ever let it be in this office. "What are my parent's doing here?" I demanded.

Dr. Eriks barely reacted to my question. Motioning one hand toward the empty chair, she said evenly, "Have a seat, Millie."

I sat down, looking over at my parents. They both sat with their hands clenched tightly in their laps. I could see my mother's leg shaking. My father kept his eyes glued to his worn sneakers. Looking up, my mother offered me a weak smile.

"As you can see, Millie, we are changing some procedures. We have found that," Dr. Eriks paused to clear her throat, "that those born in the incarcerated world, have an unusually harder time adjusting to true life. I am attempting to weed out those issues. We want you to be an a.s.set to the Nation. You are the good, the strong."

I silently recited the last sentence with her. Dr. Eriks repeated it often to me I had memorized it. Nodding slightly, I felt my eyes fasten themselves to the lines around her mouth.

"Part of the change is doing one of your last sessions with the parental units present. I would like to better know your relations.h.i.+p with them. Ask them some questions. I need to observe items that, well, I was never able to get you to open up about before. We need to be fully honest to make our Nation strong, Millie." Dr. Eriks settled back in her seat, opening the notepad and setting it neatly on her lap. "Shall we begin?"

I nodded.

"Millie, have you been keeping up your journal?"

I thought back to the pages still to be written in. The moments that my pencil froze as it hit paper. I hadn't written a word in the journal for months now, aside from my daily schedules. I was about to admit to that, when the image of the small stack of fis.h.i.+ng papers appeared in my head.

"I have," I said.

Dr. Eriks watched me a moment, then forced a small nod. "Very good. It is important to never keep your issues locked inside. Unaddressed problems can lead to undesired outcomes. Isn't that right, Leann?"

The sound of my mother's name shocked me. I had rarely heard her first name used. Even my father addressed her simply as 'Mom.' Letting my eyes trail over to her now, I could see her nodding.

"Tell me, Millie, are you looking forward to your release?" Dr. Eriks asked.

My tongue suddenly felt thick and dry. "I... I don't know."

"Why are you unsure?"

The words of my journal entry appeared in my mind. I had read them over and over, trying to find what was wrong. Trying to find what I was afraid to admit. The words seemed to slow, allowing me finally to see what they were actually saying.

And I dread it with every fiber in my body.

I looked over at my huddled parents, then in a weak voice answered, "There will be no one left to take care of my parents." I could feel the choke of a sob softly escape my mother's lips. "If I am not here "