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I take the bottle from Ronnie and sniff the opening of the bottle, grimacing, and then take a swig. It tastes like vomit and regret, but the hint of alcohol is clear.
“Prison wine,” Sabine says from her place on the couch. She’s knitting now, her frail fingers working expertly on what I can only assume is an orange and red colored scarf.
“It’s disgusting.” I hand the bottle back to Ronnie, who’s smirking.
“We do what we can in here to stay entertained.” Camilla crosses the room and takes a sip of the vomit herself, wrinkling her nose before she hands it to Lace. “After a couple of years, you get your hands on what you can.”
“Isn’t it against the rules?” I feel like an idiot asking, because I already know the answer, but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“’Course it is, love,” says Camilla. “But there’s not much they can do, eh?”
“Well, they can slot you,” adds Sabine. “But most of ’em don’t even bother anymore. It’s better than drugs, in their opinion.”
“What’s a slot?”
“Hell,” Lace says before anyone else can speak up. Sabine shoots Lace a disapproving look and smiles warmly at me.
“The slot is a cell downstairs in the basement.”
“It’s used for punishment,” Camilla adds. “It’s basically isolation.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I say, and Ronnie scoffs.
“Every newbie thinks that, until they have to survive it.” She holds out the bottle to me again, but I shake my head, and she takes a swig of her own, still smirking. I hate that smirk.
“It’s easy to get lonely down there, love,” Camilla says.
“Cabin fever,” Lace adds. “All you can do is stare at the wall and hope you don’t wither away. Not as fun as it sounds, believe me.”
“I believe you.” Wrapping my arms around myself, nausea forms in the pit of my stomach. I want to close my eyes and block it out, pretend I’m far away from this prison and the island.
“You okay, honey?” Sabine asks, peering at me over her spectacles.
I force a smile and nod. “Just tired. I think I’ll be off to bed.”
“Goodnight, love,” Camilla says, and everyone else except for Ronnie also bids me a goodnight.
Once I’m finally alone in my cell, door closed behind me, I lay down on the hard, cot-like bed, not even bothering to put pajamas on, and slip my feet under the covers. I can still hear the women outside my cell, chatting and drinking, even laughing. I wonder what it took for them to be able to laugh in here, to have a good time with each other and not be so frightened, so scared. At this moment, it feels like it’s not possible to be okay; not now, not ever.
Chapter Four
After a bland breakfastthe next morning, I head straight back to my unit to avoid any unwanted run-ins with the other prisoners. It’s safer here, in my unit, than it is out there, roaming the halls or exploring the yard. I miss the sunshine and the cool breeze on my face, but until I can find my footing here, my cell is the safest place for me to be.
About an hour after I’ve returned to my cell, Camilla hovers in the doorway, knocking lightly. I smile and beckon her in. She sits down at the end of my bed, hands in the pockets of her hoodie. She’s not really smiling, and my guard goes up at once.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Camilla meets my gaze and sighs.
“Ronnie is on her way in to talk to you.”
A sliver of fear shoots up my spine, and I tremble. “Why?”
Camilla hesitates, which only makes it worse. She stares at the bare wall of my cell and swallows before meeting my gaze once more.
“Drugs,” she says finally.
“She wants me to take drugs?” I repeat, horrified.
“Not take them, just bring them in.”
