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I hear something crash against the wall as she searches for me, the air crackling with anger as the secret stash of food she keeps in here splays all over the floor right in front of me.
My eyes widen at the sight of it, my mouth salivating and my stomach growling with hunger.
When was the last time I ate? Three days ago? Four?
I hold my stomach tighter, trying to push away the hunger pangs as my mouth waters.
“When I find ya, I’m gonna lock ya in the hole for a week!”
My hands fly over my ears, trying not to hear what she’s saying as my eyes squeeze shut again.
If I can’t see or hear her then maybe she won’t find me.
My gasping breaths come faster as I think of the four small walls of the hole—of being in there for so long.
Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out.
“Gotcha!”
Pain rips through my scalp as she grips my hair in her hand, pulling me up and shaking me like a ragdoll.
“Thought you could fool me? You’re a dirty, little rat bag,” she sneers.
My throat clogs, tears beginning to break free, but I do my best to hold them back because I know not to let her see them—all it will mean is that I’ll be in the hole longer.
She drags me out of the room and pulls me
down the hallway, my feet scraping against the old, worn carpet that is littered with cigarette burns and full of so much dirt that it would be impossible to get clean.
I trip over my own feet as she walks us closer to the lone door at the end of the hallway.
Please don’t put me in there, I silently plead. If I said it out loud it would fall on deaf ears; it always does.
She pulls the door open and flings me into the dark, four-foot square space. My eyes land on the vicious dog standing behind her as he snarls at me, warning me not to move.
“That’ll teach ya to steal my fucking bread! I tell ya when ya can eat!”
Her face twists into an ugly mask just before she slams the door shut, the vibrations traveling through the small space that I’ll call home for the next seven days.
My head drops against my boney knees as I try to block the thought out.
I only wanted a piece of bread.
“Here.” The prison guard hands me a clear, plastic bag full of things that I haven’t seen for five years. “Your parole officer is waiting for you out there, Deacon.”
Her no-nonsense tone vibrates off the white walls of the hallway as she walks toward the gate, me following at her heels, itching to get out of this place.
I keep my head down as we walk past women in the customary beige prison uniform, mopping floors, standing around talking, but more importantly, watching as I leave. I was transferred here when I turned eighteen two years ago—juvie was hard, but this place was a real shock to the system. Juvenile detention was no walk in the park, but it’s dangerous here—really dangerous. I know better than anyone that one wrong look can make an enemy for life and you’ll find yourself in the infirmary for weeks on end.
I’ve kept my head down for the last two years, not making any friends but at the same time trying to be civil enough so that I don’t look like I think I’m better than anyone else. It’s a fine line: a balance that keeps you teetering over the edge constantly.
The thought of not having to keep looking over my shoulder has relief flowing through me as we walk through one gate and the guard locks it behind us. I never thought I’d get out of this place before my sentence was up.
The day I got here I requested parole, but it was turned down, just like it has been every other time—apart from now; only this time I didn’t request it. I had given up hope of getting out of here, and even though I only have eighteen months left of my sentence, I somehow knew I wouldn’t survive that long in here.
But now they’ve decided that I can escape these confines.
I don’t know who they are, but I’m almost sure it’s a mistake: surely they wouldn’t have turned me down so many times only to grant it without me even asking? I clutch the bag tighter against my chest as I remember when the warden called me into his office a few days ago.
