Sadie
“You might be behind bars, but at least you’re still breathing…”
That’s what the pastor says every time the local church group visits our cell block, like those words are capable of making us feel any better. Like they’re filled with some kind of magical fairy dust that will make us believe that living in this place is better than being buried six feet under the ground.
If he ever inhaled what this place really smells like—black mold, leftover asbestos from the seventies, sweat, and the sour stench of regrets—I think he’d bless us for wanting to die.
I’ve been locked up here—in the Tennessee Correctional Center for Women—for two thousand five hundred and twenty-four days, and I’m still learning how to survive.
Some days, it’s minute by minute.
Others, it’s hour by hour.
Thankfully, we’re on day six of a prison-wide lockdown, so I don’t have to worry about watching my back. I also don’t have to force myself to softly whisper all the “positives” of prison before facing the mountain of negatives.
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, right below 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 me regularly. (I always write back.)
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.
I’ve wanted to break down and cry on so many nights, but I know better. No one here could ever dry my tears if we’re all suffering from the same affliction.
Besides, I can’t afford to show the faintest flicker of emotion or sliver of weakness; there’s always someone watching, and tears are blood in the water.
And yes, I know: Metal beds with thin sheets, mildewy walls, and guards who treat us like animals are what we all deserve for being convicted of heinous crimes, but I’m innocent.
I didn’t do what they claimed I did, I swear.
I’m still fighting my conviction via appeals, and at my lowest moments, I dream 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 Pretty!” Mr. Ackerman, the guard who acts like he owns the air I breathe, steps in front of my cell.
“Yes, sir?” I rise from my bed.
“The warden wants to see you. Now.”
“Did he say why?”
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“Mr. Ackerman, did he say anything? I just want to—”
“Shut up.” He pulls out a pair of chains and motions for me to get in position. “Let’s go.”
I bite my tongue as he clamps the metal around my wrists way too tightly, but I don’t dare say a word about it.
He pulls on my chains like I’m a dog, and as he’s leading me away, three guards rush into my cell.
“Wait!” I can’t help but panic. “What are they doing?”
“They’re searching your cell.”
“But they just searched it yesterday.”
“So?” He shoves me forward with a smirk. “Scared they’ll find something?”
“No…” My heart aches.
The paint tins and brushes I stole from the workshop are tucked behind a loose vent. That level of contraband will cost me a disciplinary write-up and at minimum, four weeks in the hole.
Maybe they’ll be lenient for my first offense and only give me two…
Today’s ounce of hope dissipates to dust, but I refuse to let this bastard see me break.
He parades me through the dreary cell block and the concrete courtyard, all the way across campus to the warden’s private quarters.
It’s a yellow brick building flanked by red roses 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.
Looking annoyed, Ackerman punches a code on the door’s keypad and ushers me inside.
Warden Burress is standing next to his desk, his arms folded over his perfectly pressed pinstripe suit. His “Best Corrections Administrator Ever” pin catches the light, making its fake diamonds gleam brighter.
“Inmate Pretty as requested, sir,” Ackerman announces.
“Thank you.” The warden nods. “You can head back to the pods until I’m finished.”
The warden stares at me when we’re alone. The ticking secondhand on his wall clock is the only sound between us for several minutes.
Just when I think he’s about to reprimand me for something, he smiles and opens his top drawer.
“I had an officer confiscate your paint from the other side of the wall during breakfast.” He winks. “Good thing I’m back from my medical leave, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, even though it’s definitely not a good thing.
“I need you to paint another picture for me,” he says, pulling a blank canvas from behind his desk. “My wife loved the last one.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“I’ll also need one for a few friends of mine. The first one wants a picture of his daughters on a cloud with halos. The second one—Actually, wait…” He steps closer and slips a key into my chains. “Go grab your supplies from the backroom. You’ll need to take notes to ensure you get everything right.”
“Right away, sir.”
Rushing down the hall, I slip into his oversized closet and hesitate a few seconds to make sure he’s not following. Then, I make a beeline for his deep freezer and look through its glass.
He forgot to lock it today…
I slowly push the lid open and take out a strawberry ice cream bar. The pretty pink wrapper boasts about “real, fresh strawberries,” not the processed, “strawberry-like” abominations that are served in the dining hall.
Despite all the paintings I’ve done for him—seventy-six and counting—he’s never offered me one of these. Yet, he insists on eating at least three of these bars in front of my face every time we meet.
Desperate for a taste of something real, I unwrap it and take a huge bite.
Sweet, cold pleasure instantly explodes on my tongue, and I shut my eyes. I try not to moan and melt right here on the floor.
I quickly devour the rest of it and steal another.
Then another…
Without even realizing it, I’ve inhaled half a box, and I can’t stop eating them.
The seventh one is halfway down my throat when I hear heavy footsteps coming down the hall.
Fuck.
I stop mid-bite, contemplating my options: Run and hide in the closet. Play dumb and pretend like I thought he gave me permission. Break down in tears for the very first time and beg for mercy.
“Hello, Sadie Pretty…” A deep and husky voice—one that sends a warm jolt through every nerve in my body, one that doesn’t belong to the warden—brings my entire world to a halt. With just two words uttered, the man alters all my thoughts, and I’m desperate to see him face to face.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he says. “Turn around for me.”
I obey, slowly turning, and my jaw drops as I take in the full portrait of the man standing before me.
His ocean-blue eyes are the kind of beautiful that artists spend their entire lives trying to recreate on a canvas, all to eventually settle for something not as breathtakingly striking.
His ink-black hair is cut into short, low layers that complement his perfectly chiseled jawline, and I feel the sudden urge to tell him that he’s the sexiest man on the planet.
His lips curve into a slow smile as I stare at him, and I almost forget where the hell we are.
Too captivated to move, I can feel ice cream dripping past my lips.
“Is something wrong back there, Doctor?” The warden’s voice floats down the hall. “My favorite inmate didn’t make a run for it, did she?”
“Not at all.” The man strolls toward the freezer, his eyes anchored to mine. He stops when he reaches me, when his Italian leather shoes touch my worn tennis shoes.
Without saying another word, he reaches out and presses two fingers under my bottom lip. Then he gently pushes upward, closing my gaping mouth.
Still staring at me, he brushes his fingers against the corners of my mouth—slowly erasing the last drips of ice cream, wiping away every trace of my stolen pleasure.
“Can I have this?” he asks, his voice low.
He doesn’t give me a chance to wonder what “this” is. Instead, he grabs the crumpled ice cream wrappers from my hand and slides them into his pocket.
“Hurry the hell up, Pretty!” the warden calls out for me. “I’m trying to give the good doctor a proper introduction!”
I take one last look at “the good doctor” before grabbing my supply box and carrying it back toward the main room.
I settle into my usual corner, propping up an easel and preparing to take notes for my next forced creation.
“Ah, I see why you got distracted back there.” The warden grins as the doctor returns with an ice cream bar in hand. “You discovered my secret stash. Funny thing…Miss Pretty has never even thought about stealing one for herself. That’s why I trust her so damn much.”
“That’s very impressive.” A faint smile crosses the doctor’s lips.
“I think she deserves one after all this time, though.” He opens the minibar under his desk, where he keeps the backup stash. Then he sets an ice cream bar beside my sketchpad.
“Sadie Pretty,” he says, “meet Dr. Ethan Weiss. Dr. Weiss, Sadie Pretty.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” we say in unison, and I can’t help but stare into this man’s beautiful eyes again.
“Dr. Weiss is here because he’s an esteemed behavioral and mental expert who runs a state-of-the-art program for people in your particular situation.” He pauses. “Have you ever heard of The Weiss Experiment?”
“No, sir,” I lie. Every inmate who has ever hoped for release has heard of it.
Dr. Weiss’s name alone is enough to spur weeks-long conversations about news and rumors regarding “the cabin.” Apparently, it’s two weeks in isolation with him while he opens your mind and unspools your brain, all while his staff works with special lawyers who search for issues or overlooked problems in your case.
Last I heard, his success rate outpaces that of The Innocence Project, and if you’re lucky enough to get selected to check in, you’ll be stepping into the real world shortly after.
“Well, here’s what you need to know about it.” He hands me a thick plastic binder that features a grey cabin on its cover.
“Am I…” I look at Dr. Weiss. “being considered for your program?”
“No.” Dr. Weiss answers. “You’re being admitted.”
“When?” My pulse stumbles. “No, how? My lawyer said—”
“Your lawyer died in a car accident six weeks ago,” the warden says flatly. “Didn’t Ackerman tell you the news?”
No. He didn’t. I shake my head.
“Sorry for your loss.” The warden shoots me a sympathetic look. “He must’ve put in quite a word for you over the years, because you’ve skipped to the front of the line. You’ll be transported tonight, and your new lawyer will be in touch about your parole board preparation.”
I want to smile and jump for joy, but memories from my very first parole hearing still linger; the board denied me in three seconds flat.
“Anyway…” He gestures to the walls around us. “Doctor—every piece of artwork you see here and in the staff wing are Miss Pretty’s creations. Every last one.”
“I’m impressed…” Dr. Weiss slowly roams the room, eyeing all the mundane things I’ve been forced to paint recently.
There’s the warden’s wife holding a basket of fruit in her garden, a koi pond with a brown bridge, and a painting of the top prison guards standing under a rainbow.
He has yet to notice how I penciled a faint ‘Fuck these people’ in the shadows of all their badges.
“Don’t worry,” the warden says, reappearing at his side. “No one here knows that she’s the artist, and I take all the credit. I can’t have people thinking that she’s getting special treatment, you know?”
Dr. Weiss looks over at me with an expression I can’t quite understand, but it sends tingles up and down my spine.
“What’s this one?” Dr. Weiss pulls a canvas I haven’t seen in forever from behind the couch.
It’s one of my earliest and best works—a bone-white skull trapped under a blood-splattered bell glass. Its head is wreathed in ruby red roses, and a heavy grey rainstorm is wreaking havoc in its eye sockets.
“Oh, no, no!” the warden rushes over to him, laughing. “That one was far too dark and creepy for me, so I took it down. I’ve been meaning to toss it into our dumpster for years.”
“Hmmm.” Dr. Weiss runs a hand along the edge of the skull, letting his fingers linger on the darkest rose.
“If you like it, be my guest, Doctor,” the warden says. “You can take it home with you.”
“I will.” He’s still staring at it.
Suddenly, sirens rip through the air—sharp, shrill, and unmistakable. There’s trouble in one of the pods.
“Fuck.” The warden unclips the walkie-talkie from his belt. “So much for a proper introduction. Guard Ackerman, get back here, and escort Inmate Pretty to her cell. We need her counted.”
Ackerman walks through the door within seconds, locking my cuffs back into place.
“Do you honestly need to lock them that tightly?” Dr. Weiss’s sudden cold tone makes Ackerman still. “The metal is obviously digging into her skin.”
Ackerman rolls his eyes, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he shows me a hint of compassion. He loosens them and asks if the adjustment feels better.
I nod, relieved.
“Are you happy now, Doctor Weiss?” he asks.
“Ecstatic.”
Ackerman leads me out of the office and back into my monochromatic reality. With every step toward Cell Block C, all the bright thoughts of parole and a chance in Dr. Weiss’s cabin slip away.
It feels too good to be true—like it’ll be another dream shelved beside the others that I’ve learned not to hope for—things like swimming in a lake, touching green grass, and soaking in a warm bubble bath.
As we near the main gate, I feel something heated against my back and look over my shoulder.
Dr. Weiss is standing in the doorway of the warden’s cabin, his hands still clutching my painting, his intense gaze still anchored to my every move like he already sees everything I’ve ever tried to hide…
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