*unedited & subject to change before publication*
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 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, directly under 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 to me regularly. (I always write back. I have no choice…)
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.
A soul-sucking, mind-numbingly dull shit hole.
And yes, I know: Metal beds with thin sheets, mildewy walls, and guards who treat us like rabid animals are what criminals deserve for being convicted of heinous crimes, but I’m innocent.
I didn’t do what they claimed I did, I swear.
Whenever I’m not fighting back tears or penning letters to my lawyer about my next set of appeals, I’m dreaming 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 Prettyyyy!” Mr. Lee Ackerman, a red-headed guard who insists that he owns the air I breathe, steps in front of my cell.
“Yes, sir?” I rise from my bed.
“The warden requested to see you. Now.”
“Did he say why?”
“Turn around and put your fuckin’ hands behind your back.”
“Mr. Ackerman, did he say anything about why? I just want to make sure I’m—”
“Shut up.” He unclips a set of chains. “Get in position so we can go.”
I bite my tongue and turn around, pressing my palms together behind my back and keeping my knees straight.
Oh my god… I bite my tongue as he clasps the metal around my wrists way too tightly, but I don’t dare say a word about it.
He pulls on my chains, yanking me out of the cell like I’m a dog. As he leads me away, three guards in full tactical gear rush into my cell.
“Wait!” I look up at him. “What are they doing?”
“They’re shaking down your cell, Pretty. Making sure you don’t have anything that you shouldn’t have.”
Again? “But they just searched my cell yesterday.”
“So?” He smirks. “Scared they’ll find something?”
“No…” I keep my voice flat, but my heart is aching.
They’re going to find a stolen collection of paint tins and brushes whenever they look behind the loose vent. That level of contraband could cost me at minimum, four weeks in the hole.
Maybe they’ll be lenient for my first offense and only give me two…
“Your knees look a little weak today, Pretty.” Ackerman glances at his watch. “You should probably work them out before we see the warden, huh?”
I don’t answer.
“Oh, so you don’t hear me?” He pulls on my chain, forcing me to my knees on the courtyard’s cold ground.
“Crawl forward, bitch,” He hisses. “I’ll let you know when you can get up to walk again.”
I press my palms against the cement, crawling like his personal pet—like he and the other guards insist on treating me since one of my “victims” was a law enforcement officer.
“Faster.” He yanks the chain. “We don’t have all day to get there.”
My ounce of hope for today dissolves to dust, but I know better than to show any emotion.
I refuse to let this bastard (or anyone else) ever see me break…
* * *
Ackerman pulls me to my feet when we’re two gates away from the warden’s private quarters.
“You look good on your knees.” He smiles. “Too bad you didn’t make better choices in your life, because you seem like my type.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, keeping my gaze forward on the yellow brick building ahead of us.
It’s flanked by rows of red rose bushes 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.
“Cell Block C, reporting to the warden,” Ackerman speaks into the door’s intercom.
When the door opens, I step into a lavish cream-colored living room I’ve seen many times before. Bright daffodils and pink tulips stand in crystal vases, and bright paintings stare down at me from glittering silver frames.
The warden—Nathaniel ‘Can’t Trust Him’ Burress—is leaning back in a plush red chair, his legs crossed and his eyes cold. Dressed in his usual navy blue pinstripe suit, he’s wearing a brand-new ‘Corrections Lead to New Directions’ brooch. Even under this room’s soft light, it’s clear the diamonds are fake.
“Inmate Pretty as requested, sir,” Ackerman announces. “My apologies for the short delay.”
“The short delay?” The warden gives him a pointed look. “You mean the fact you’re forty minutes late?”
“There was a situation I needed to address first.”
“Right…” The warden shakes his head. “I’ll call for you when we’re done.”
Ackerman disappears, and I take a deep breath.
The last time he sent for me without warning, it was to let me know that my mother was on TV promoting her newest book: Raising a Murderer: How I Stopped Blaming Myself. I honestly wish he hadn’t told me at all; since she never visits or answers my calls, she’s just someone I used to know.
Besides, her previous book—A Daughter’s Cruel Love—is full of unforgivable lies, and it hurts to think about.
“I wish I’d summoned you under better circumstances,” the warden says. “We have quite a bit to go over today, and I’m sure you’d appreciate some small talk first.”
No, please just spit it out…
He stands from his chair and walks to the coffee table. Then he opens a drawer, revealing all my paint tins and brushes.
“I had an officer confiscate your paint from the other side of the wall during breakfast.” He winks. “It’s a good thing I’m always looking out for you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, even though it’s definitely not a good thing.
“I need you to start a new painting for me,” he says, pulling a blank canvas from behind the couch. “My wife loved the last one so much she can’t stop talking about it.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“I’ll also need some small nature-like ones for a few good friends of mine. The first wants a picture of his daughters on a cloud with halos. The second—actually, wait…” He moves closer to me and pulls out a key to unlock my chains. “Go grab some supplies from my study. I want you to take notes before you start.”
“Right away, sir.”
Rushing down the long hallway, I slip into his office and hesitate for a few seconds to make sure he didn’t follow. Then, I make a beeline for the deep freezer in the corner.
Looking through its frosted glass, I realize he’s finally made a mistake.
He forgot to lock it today.
I slowly push the lid open, staring at thick stacks of the warden’s addiction: Passion Strawberry Ice Cream bars.
The pretty pink wrappers boast about having “real, fresh strawberries,” not the processed, “strawberry-like”abominations that are served in the cafeteria.
Despite all the paintings I’ve done for this man—seventy-six and counting—he’s never offered me a single ice cream bar. Even when he’s wolfing them down in front of my face, he never thinks to ask if I want one.
Desperate for a taste, I unwrap one. I stare at it for a few seconds—contemplate putting it back—but then I take a huge bite.
Oh. My. God.
Sweet, cold pleasure explodes on my tongue, and I shut my eyes. The bits of strawberries taste like freedom, and the cream is sweeter than anything I’ve had in years.
I hold back a moan and try not to melt in ecstasy.
After devouring the rest of the bar, I unwrap another and wolf it down.
Okay, one more…
Without even realizing it, I’ve inhaled an entire box, and I can’t stop. I need more. I deserve more.
The seventh one is halfway down my throat when I hear heavy footsteps echoing in the hall.
Shit.
I stop mid-bite, contemplating my best options: run and hide in the closet, play dumb and pretend he left it open on purpose, or break down in tears and beg him not to punish me.
“Hello, Sadie Pretty…”
A deep and husky voice—one that sends a warm jolt through every nerve in my body, one that definitely doesn’t belong to the warden—brings my entire world to a halt.
“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you for a long time,” he says. “Turn around for me.”
I obey, slowly turning, and my jaw drops as I take in the full portrait of this man.
His ocean-blue eyes are the kind of beautiful that artists spend their entire lives trying to recreate on canvas, all to eventually settle for a cheap imitation.
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 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.
I’m too captivated to move, and I can feel ice cream dripping from my lips to my chin.
“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 answers, keeping his eyes anchored to mine.
Strolling toward me, he stops when he’s too close—when his Italian leather shoes brush against my plastic tennis shoes.
Without saying a word, he extends his hand and presses two fingers under my bottom lip. Then he gently pushes upward, closing my gaping mouth.
My breathing slows at his soft, yet dominant touch.
I can’t remember the last time someone touched me like I was more than my sentence. Like I was still human.
Still staring into my eyes, he brushes his fingers against the corners of my mouth—slowly erasing every last drip of ice cream, wiping away every trace of my stolen sweetness.
“Can I have this?” he asks, his voice low.
I’m not sure what this is, but whatever it is, he can have it. All of it.
Smiling, he takes the crumpled ice cream wrappers from my hand and slides them into his pocket.
“Hurry the hell up, Pretty!” the warden growls. “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 to the living room.
I settle into my usual corner, propping an easel against a chair 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 a half-eaten 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.”
“Good to know.” A faint smile crosses the doctor’s lips.
“I think she deserves one after all this time, though.” He opens the minibar at the bottom of his bookshelf, where he keeps a 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. I look away from him before getting lost in his eyes again.
“Dr. Weiss is an esteemed behavioral and mental expert who runs a state-of-the-art program for people in your 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 to see if you can be trusted in society again.
Last I heard, his success rate outpaces that of The Innocence Project, and if you’re lucky enough to get selected to check in, he’ll be escorting you 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. “Your lawyer did one hell of a job on this.”
“Am I—” I look at Dr. Weiss. “Being considered for your program?”
“No,” Dr. Weiss answers. “You’re being admitted.”
“What? I mean, how? My lawyer said—”
“Your lawyer died in a car accident two weeks ago…” The warden shoots me a confused look. “Didn’t Ackerman tell you?”
No. He didn’t. I shake my head.
“Hmmm. Well, I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. “He must’ve put in quite a word for you, because you’ve skipped to the front of Dr. Weiss’s 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 first parole hearing still linger; the board set a “fastest-ever” record by denying me in three seconds flat.
“Anyway…” He gestures to the walls around us. “Dr. Weiss, every piece of artwork in this house was painted by Miss Pretty. Every single one.”
“I’m impressed…” Dr. Weiss looks me up and down before roaming the room.
I feel embarrassed while he eyes the mundane things I’ve been forced to paint: fruit baskets, bridges, rainbows.
My worst work is the painting of the top prison guards standing under a rainbow. The warden has yet to notice the faint ‘these are evil people’ in the badges’ shadows.
“Don’t worry,” the warden says, reappearing at his side. “No one here knows that Miss Pretty is the artist, so I happily take all the credit. I can’t have people thinking that a criminal is 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 rainstorm wreaks havoc in its eye sockets.
It’s my favorite…
“Oh, no, no!” the warden rushes over to him, laughing. “That ugly thing was far too dark and creepy for me, so I took it down and turned it around. I’ve been meaning to burn it for years.”
I swallow. I’d never known how he really felt about it; he’d even told me he gifted it to a friend.
“Hmmm.” Dr. Weiss runs a hand along the edge of the skull, letting his fingers linger on the darkest rose. “I like this one the best.”
“Then be my guest, Doctor.” He laughs. “Take it home with you, if you want.”
“I will.” He’s still staring at it, and I wonder if he can see the messages I’ve hidden in the shadows.
Sharp and shrill sirens suddenly rip through the air, cutting our meeting short.
“Damnit.” The warden unclips the walkie-talkie from his belt. “So much for a proper introduction. Ackerman, get back to my quarters so you can escort Inmate Pretty to her cell. We need her counted.”
Ackerman walks through the door within seconds, and he smiles as he locks my cuffs back into place.
“You don’t need to lock them that tightly.” Dr. Weiss’s icy tone makes Ackerman still. “The metal is obviously digging into her skin.”
Ackerman rolls his eyes, but 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 and grateful for Dr. Weiss’s intrusion.
Ackerman leads me out of the cozy house and back into a 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 sudden and too good to be true—like I’ll eventually have to shelve this possibility next to all the dreams 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, so I glance over my shoulder.
Dr. Weiss is standing in the doorway of the warden’s quarters, still clutching my painting, his intense gaze anchored to my every move.
I can feel why he accepted me into his program this early…
###
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