Chapter 3: Prisoner's life

Alexa’s lips curved into a sneer as she stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over me with an air of condescension. “Oh, I saw plenty,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery.

“I saw you destroy everything you had—your marriage, your reputation. And now, look at you. Just a pathetic shell of what you used to be.”

The sheer contempt in her voice was a knife to my heart. I could barely contain my rage.

“You think you’re so much better, don’t you?” I spat, my fists clenching at my sides.

“You’ve been having an affair with my husband. You’re the one who should be behind bars, not me!”

Alexa’s laughter was cold and unfeeling.

“Gideon and I are quite happy, thank you very much. But don’t worry, Amy. The world doesn’t care about your side of the story. It only cares about what they see.”

My frustration bubbled over, and I took a step toward her, my hands trembling with anger.

“You think this is a joke? You’re ruining my life!”

Before I could reach her, the police officers stepped in, restraining me firmly. I struggled against their grip, my voice rising in a desperate, incoherent scream.

My father’s face was a mask of shame and anger. “We’ve done all we can,” he said coldly. “It’s up to you now to figure out how to deal with this.”

The officers led me back to my cell, their hands firm but not unkind. My heart was a tumult of betrayal and disbelief.

The muffled sounds of the prison were a grim reminder of the reality I faced. The clanging of metal doors and distant shouts echoed through the corridors as I was led to my new cell block. Each step felt heavier, my heart weighed down by a profound sense of defeat and hopelessness.

When I entered the cell, the atmosphere was immediately oppressive. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and stale food, mingling with a palpable sense of hostility. The prisoners inside were a rough crowd, their eyes flicking over me with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

A large, heavily tattooed woman sat in the center of the cell, her bulk almost filling the small space. Her gaze was cold and authoritative as she looked at me. “So, the new girl’s here,” she sneered. Her voice was a guttural growl, making it clear that she was used to getting her way.

“Come here,” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. “I want a massage. Now.”

I froze, my hands trembling as I tried to process what was happening. My instincts screamed at me to refuse, but I could see the dangerous glint in the woman’s eyes. Before I could react, she was already standing, her bulk moving with a menacing grace.

“I—I don’t think I can,” I stammered, my voice cracking under the pressure. “I’m not trained to do that.”

A cold laugh rumbled through the cell. “Not trained?” the woman said, taking a menacing step toward me. “Well, you’re about to be. Or you can find out what happens when you don’t cooperate.”

Before I could react further, the woman’s hand lashed out, striking my face with a vicious slap. The force of it sent me stumbling backward, pain exploding across my cheek. My vision blurred as I fought to stay upright.

A smaller woman with a weary expression, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, sprang to her feet. “Hey, leave her alone!” she shouted, her voice firm but laced with fear. “She’s just come in, and you can’t treat her like this!”

The tattooed woman’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t move toward the smaller woman. Instead, she turned her attention back to me with a smirk. “What’s it to you? New girl needs to learn how things work around here.”

“Just leave her please, “the smaller woman begged.

I could barely focus on the conversation, my head spinning from the blow and the harsh reality of my new surroundings. I sat down slowly, trying to calm my racing heart, but the pain and fear were overwhelming.

“Look,” the smaller woman said, taking a cautious step toward me. “I know it’s rough here, but we don’t need to make it worse for each other. You’ll get used to it. Just try to keep your head down and stay out of trouble.”

I nodded, too exhausted to respond more. The tattooed woman grunted in annoyance but seemed to back off, turning her attention elsewhere. The tension in the cell remained high, but at least I was spared further immediate abuse.

As I sat on the cold, hard floor, my mind was a whirlwind of emotions. The new cellmates' hostility, my parents' indifference, and Alexa's cruel satisfaction seemed to converge into a single, crushing reality. I was trapped, alone, and at the mercy of a world that seemed determined to break me.

In the dim light of the cell, I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the pain and the fear. My only hope now was to survive each day, to find a way to endure this hellhole until I could find a chance to clear my name.

The next morning, the cell was buzzing with a renewed sense of hostility. I had managed to find a corner where I could sit, attempting to stay as inconspicuous as possible. My bruised face throbbed with every movement, a constant reminder of my vulnerability.

Suddenly, a hard, swift kick jolted me awake from a restless half-sleep. I gasped, my body instinctively curling into itself as I looked up. One of the prisoners, a burly woman with a scar running down her cheek, glared at me with a smirk of sadistic satisfaction.

“Get up!” she barked, her voice echoing with authority. “We need you to clean up the cell. Do your job, or else.”

I struggled to my feet, wincing as I moved. The bruises from the previous night’s altercation made every step a challenge. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear that gnawed at me.

The tattooed woman, who had been sitting with a smug look, rose from her spot. Her eyes narrowed as she watched me with a mix of disdain and menace. “You better figure it out fast. This isn’t a vacation; it’s prison!"

A sense of dread settled over me as I looked around the grimy cell, taking in the mess and filth that needed to be cleaned. My hands shook as I picked up a rag, trying to do what I could to tidy up.

Just as I was starting to make some progress, the tattooed woman’s temper flared again. “Not good enough!” she shouted, grabbing the rag from my hands and tossing it aside. “You’re wasting our time!”

I tried to stay out of her way, but the irritation in the air was palpable. The smaller woman, who had defended me the previous day, stepped forward, her face lined with concern and anger. “Leave her alone! She’s just trying to figure things out. You can’t keep pushing her like this.”

The tattooed woman’s expression darkened. “Oh, really? And who’s going to stop me? You?”

Before the smaller woman could respond, the tattooed woman swung her arm in a wide arc, connecting with the smaller woman’s face with a brutal punch. The force of the blow sent the smaller woman crashing into the wall, her body crumpling to the floor.

I gasped, horrified, and took a step toward the smaller woman. “Are you okay?” I asked, but the tattooed woman’s rage was already turning back on me.

The cell erupted into chaos as the other prisoners began shouting and shoving. The tattooed woman’s fury seemed to be directed at anyone who dared to challenge her authority. In the chaos, a few of the prisoners began to join in, their voices rising in a cacophony of threats and jeers.

I tried to get to the smaller woman, but the tattooed woman grabbed me by the collar, yanking me backward.

Just as the situation seemed to spiral completely out of control, the cell door flew open, and several police officers rushed in. Their presence was immediate and commanding, cutting through the chaos with an authority that brought a sudden, tense silence.

The officers quickly moved to separate the prisoners, pulling the tattooed woman away from the smaller woman and restraining her. The smaller woman was helped to her feet, her face battered but still defiant. I was shaken but unharmed, though the fear and adrenaline still surged through me.

One of the officers approached me with a stern expression and said, “Mrs. Grayson, you have a visitor.”