Prison Nation Read online

  PRISON NATION

  By

  Jenni Merritt

  For my Mom, for teaching me to create

  For my Dad, for teaching me to dream

  Copyright © 2011 Jenni Merritt

  JenniMerritt.blogspot.com

  Kindle, 1st Edition.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. No part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, without written consent of the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is fictitious. Any similarity or resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

  The Declaration of Independence

  July 4, 1776

  Part One: LIFE

  1

  My name is Millie 942B.

  Next week is my eighteenth birthday. And I dread it with every fiber of my body.

  I guess my name might seem pretty strange to someone who doesn’t know the world I live in. ‘942’ is the cell number I was born and raised in. ‘B’ is the floor level of which my little cubicle resides. It is a symbol of my existence. I have no brothers. No sisters. Only a silent father and a state-proclaimed unstable mother. And it is because of them that I am here.

  My handwriting darted across the yellowed page. Something about the words I had written seemed strange to me. Something I wanted to hide. Scanning over the writing again, my stomach twisted into a painful knot.

  “Millie?”

  The voice jarred me from my thoughts. Forcing my eyes to lift from the page, I looked up at the woman sitting across from me. Shadows cut long and harsh across her thin, pale face. My eyes trailed to her lips. They pursed tightly together, small wrinkles spraying out in every direction like an angry sun. With eyes bearing into me, she readjusted the glasses that sat perched on her nose.

  “Millie, I asked you if you had finished your journal entry.”

  “Yes,” I replied softly. I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes off of her pursed lips.

  “Are you going to share today?” she asked, impatience tugging at her voice.

  Finally prying my eyes away, I glanced back down at the paper in my hands. The words still yelled at me, seeming to spring off the page in desperation. Something about them needed to be changed. The woman sitting across from me never let me make changes though. Whenever I would try to go back and scribble at something, she would stop me, reminding me that it was her job to correct, not mine.

  She had been my psychiatrist since I was a small child. Something about this place that made the people in charge assume that, no matter who you were, you would eventually need help. In all honesty, I couldn’t disagree.

  I blinked my eyes, forcing my mind to focus. For a moment the name of the woman sitting in front of me became muddy in my memory. I blinked again, searching frantically in my mind until her name finally emerged, as if creeping out from a lost game of hide and seek. Marta Eriks. That was her name.

  “Not today, Dr. Eriks.”

  It felt as if my mind had gone numb. At times a mental fog would envelope me, people who I saw daily disappearing into a thick haze that denied me all my senses. I would disappear into the fog, letting it carry me away from everything I knew. It was lonesome. It was freedom. Then suddenly, the fog would always lift, leaving me alone to recall everything around me in blinding light.

  I relished my private release. Yet, at the same time, I feared it. I was not afraid of being alone in the fog. The momentary solitude was usually a sweet release from the world that surrounded me. The fear that gripped me was that someday I would be freed from one of my fogs and find that I was still utterly alone.

  This was something I never told Dr. Eriks.

  I blinked harder, fighting the fog at the corner of my vision as I forced myself to stay.

  “Millie, your eighteenth birthday is just around the corner, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “How do you feel about it?”

  I shrugged.

  Dr. Eriks sighed, rubbing the bridge of her sharp nose as she let her eyes flutter shut. “Millie, you do realize that they require a recommendation from me before you can be discharged, don’t you?”

  I looked back down at the paper, now crumpled in my hands. “I know.” My voice came out soft, submissive. I rubbed my eyes angrily, chasing away the last remnants of my fog that still fought to cloud my vision.

  “Well then, Millie, you need to talk. I need to know that you will be an asset to the Nation.”

  Dr. Eriks’ voice hissed out of her mouth, accusing me of things I could never imagine doing. There were times when I felt the urge to confess to anything, just to get the hiss to disappear. Then deeper, hidden underneath the hated hiss, I could hear the rhythmic strum of something else. Something that made me want to listen. Something that made me want to believe anything she said.

  “The Nation needs you, Millie,” she continued, the strum intensifying. I felt my mind softening, willing itself to listen to whatever the strum played next. “We need the strong, the good, to keep us going. This,” she motioned with her hand, waving it in a loose circle, “this is not how we want our great Nation to be. We want everyone to be free and secure.” Dr. Eriks leaned in, her bony elbows resting on her dull brown skirt. “It isn’t your fault, Millie.”

  My eyes shot up to meet hers. “My fault?”

  “It isn’t your fault that you are here. In Spokane. Who’s fault is it, Millie?”

  I swallowed the dry lump that had suddenly grown in my throat. “My parents.”

  “Exactly. They are the criminals. You are not. You want your chance to prove that, don’t you?”

  I nodded, my throat too dry to allow my voice to break free.

  A thin smile spread on Dr. Eriks’ lips. “Very good, Millie. You can trust me. You know that right?”

  “Of course, Dr. Eriks.”

  The smile widened, foreign and strange on her usually stern face. Whenever that smile cut across her face, my skin always went cold. Frozen goose bumps would spring up in quick lines along my flesh, a shiver taking me over as they spread. I could feel them beginning their rise on my arms as she watched me a moment longer. I waited. Letting out a sharp breath, Dr. Eriks finally broke her gaze and picked her notebook up from the small table next to her.

  The room fell into an almost tangible silence. All I could hear was her pen as she scratched words onto the white pages. She seemed to cut into the paper, writing that I had never been given permission to read filling up the neat lines, permanently.

  My stomach tightened. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and no matter how many times I swallowed, I couldn’t chase away the dryness that had taken me over. Closing my eyes, I let my head hang slightly, the knots finally loosening their deathly grip in my stomach. Dr. Eriks’ pen ticked like a pendant of a clock, scratching away the seconds as my mind wandered in the near silence.

  Scratch. Scratch scratch. Scratch.

  The clip of Dr. Eriks’ notepad shutting made me jump. I snapped my eyes open, the sleep that had started to tug at my mind quickly chased away. Glancing down at my crumpled paper, I licked my lips. My throat was still too dry. I needed a drink. Squirming in my seat, I kept my head down and waited.

  “Well, Millie.” My head jerked up as her voice cut through the air once again. “It looks as if our time for today is over.” The muscles in my tightened should
ers relaxed at her words. “I believe we made a small bit of progress, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “I encourage you to write in your journal tonight. Finish what you started here today. We will talk again at your next meeting.” I started to stand, but Dr. Eriks stopped me with a slight clearing of her throat.

  She leaned forward, setting her notepad gingerly on the table as she pulled her glasses off her thin nose. Her eyes watched me, crinkling at the corners in thought.

  “Millie, upon release – if you do get released – you will be free. Do you want to be free?”

  I swallowed against the dry lump in my throat. I managed to nod, my eyes locked once again on her pursed lips. I knew if I spoke, my voice would come out raspy and harsh.

  “Then I shouldn’t have to remind you, Millie, that if you fail to follow our great Nation’s laws once you are set free, you will be sent right back here. No trial, no pleas. And,” she added, slipping her glasses back onto her face as she stood, “that would not be a good thing. At all.”

  Dr. Eriks watched me a moment, then turned and walked towards her desk. Keeping her back to me, she curtly tapped her wristwatch, her nails clicking on its glass face. “You can go now, Millie.”

  I stood, the ache from sitting for so long throbbing as I stretched my legs. Without another word I hurried out the door, shoving my journal page into the back pocket of my jeans. Dr. Eriks’ receptionist didn’t even look up as I passed her small desk. She had worked there for years now, and all I knew about her was the nasally drawl of her voice as she ushered me into my appointments.

  The hallway echoed slightly as I made my way down it, away from Dr. Eriks. Made mostly of cement, the walls were a light gray, cracking in places from the years of wear and abuse. No color. A door occasionally appeared along its stretch, a black blip with unknown offices hidden behind. My footsteps were the only sound that echoed off the hallway’s lonely walls.

  I slowed as a couple appeared in front of me. They were meandering slowly down the hall, their hands loosely intertwined. Obviously, they were in no hurry.

  I was about to duck around them when something crashed up ahead.

  Stopping, I looked down the hall past the couple. We were almost to the entrance of the Commons, but I couldn’t see the door. Any view of it was blocked by a mass of bodies, arms swinging and legs kicking as they pummeled into one another. People started shouting, a mix of angry growls and taunting jests. The two fighting inmates dove harder into each other. Spit and blood flew into the air. The blood splattered across the walls, its deep red an angry contrast to the dull gray cement.

  I backed up as boots suddenly sounded down the hall behind me. Just as I pressed my back into the cool wall, three guards ran past, their batons already held in their meaty fists. The couple in front of me leaned against the wall a few feet away, watching the fight as they chatted casually with each other, as if nothing was wrong.

  My mind raced. A few doorways back was a hallway that would lead around the fight. I could take that.

  I took a step back toward the doorway, intent on avoiding the growing mass of cheering onlookers. Just as I started to turn away, something the man in the couple said stopped my feet mid-step. He had said Dr. Eriks’ name. The tone of his voice, slightly shaking and tinged with anger, pulled me in. I clenched my eyes shut, his voice still ringing low under the rumbling fight.

  Eavesdropping was something you did not do, especially here in the Prison. The secrets your ears might pick up were the kind that could haunt you for the rest of your life. I knew I should walk away, but I couldn’t seem to move my feet. Letting out a sigh, I leaned back against the wall, shoving my hands in my pockets and trying to seem invisible as I resigned to my curiosity.

  “…just another one of the stupid shrinks.” The man grumbled.

  Shrink? I had never heard that word used before when talking about another person. It was typically only associated with clothing that no longer fit properly, or gross anatomy. I turned my head ever so slightly toward the couple and held my breath.

  “Dr. Eriks is the head psychiatrist here,” the woman said, her head leaning back on the wall as she looked up toward the ceiling. “She is the queen of the damned.”

  The man chuckled. “Yeah well, lucky for me, I don’t have to sit through her mind melting sessions anymore. Still…” he stood and stretched, watching the fight for a moment.

  The guards had finally pried the two inmates apart, the men still fighting to get back to each other regardless of the guards’ strong arms. Blood sprayed across everyone. Bruises, long and growing dark, stretched across the inmates’ bodies where the guards had battered them.

  The man let out a slow breath, his head shaking slightly. “I don’t trust them. All they do is try to brain wash us. Every single session, it’s just the same old brainwashing. The same hypnotic voices and indoctrinating crap.” The man stared at the dying fight a few seconds longer before lowering his eyes to the ground, his face clouding over in sudden emotion. “I don’t trust them,” he repeated, his voice now soft and barely audible.

  “I don’t either,” the woman said, her eyes still watching the ceiling above. “None of us do.” She lifted a hand and softly stroked the man’s arm. His jaw clenched a moment. Then his eyes flicked over to me.

  I pretended to watch the fight, the inmates still yelling obscenities at each other as the guards struggled to keep them apart. The crowd that had gathered around the two inmates broke apart, leaving them with just the guards and the blood. I could feel the man’s eyes look away from me.

  Thinking back to the session I had just had with Dr. Eriks, I let an image of her fill my mind. As her smile flashed across my memory, I felt the same chilling goose bumps as before start to prickle along my arms and down my spine. I shifted my weight, pushing slightly away from the wall in anticipation. I wanted out of that hall.

  The guards finally got cuffs on the two inmates and started to drag them down the hall away from us. I could hear the guards threatening the inmates. Their voices were harsh and angry, and loud. One of the inmates limped roughly, the other barely walking as he leaned heavily on the guard that shoved him into the shadows.

  The couple watched the bloodied group walk away. Pushing from the wall, the woman pulled the man against her, giving him a small smile as she ran her fingers along his arm.

  “Hey, no worries,” she purred at him. “Never any worries. Remember?” The man watched her for a moment, then smiled back. Letting out a slow breath between her lips, the woman pulled him beside her as she started a slow walk down the hall. They barely glanced at the blood splattered walls as they passed.

  The goose bumps were still thick on my arms, the knots tighter than ever in my stomach. I licked my lips, then carefully stood back up and followed the now disappearing couple.

  I had always known there was something more to the goose bumps and dislike of Dr. Eriks’ smile that left me so rattled after each session. I had thought it was just me, that I was reading into everything too much. Now I knew better.

  Now I knew others felt it too.

  There was something about Dr. Eriks that I could not trust.

  2

  Low voices rumbled ahead of me. Lifting my eyes, I saw three men leaning casually against a wall. Their arms and necks were covered in tattoos, rising above the matching white shirts like snakes trying to find their way out. One of the men saw me and nudged the other two, a crooked smile spreading on his unshaved face.

  Lowering my eyes quickly, I scurried past, trying hard to block out their guttural laughter and disgusting remarks. One called out to me, but his words blurred in my mind. I could hear the rumble of laughter erupt again.

  The laughter and taunts faded behind me as I rounded a corner and emerged into a room full of people.

  The large Commons echoed with voices, bouncing off the high ceiling that always seemed to disappear in the floating dust. I didn’t have to look up to know that the fist-dented walls
were covered in plain white paper, the rules of the prison listed in solid black words on each flattened poster.

  A few inmates grumbled angrily as I pushed my way past their small groups. In the middle of the day the Commons was always packed, leaving me with no other option but to push my way through the groups. I hated having to push, to touch, most of the people surrounding me. But stopping to ask them politely to let you pass usually got an answer you were not looking for. To get through the crowds, to live in Spokane, you had to be tough, even if it was just on the surface.

  I placed my hand on someone’s back, felt his low laugh as I shoved my way past. Hair pricked out of his worn white shirt and scratch against my palm. Everything about him ranked of musky sweat. Cringing, I scurried away. The man called to me, inviting me to join his group with another low laugh. I didn’t even turn to respond, the feel of his scratchy hair still fresh on my sweating palm.

  I hated this walk.

  Emerging from the crowd, I glanced up to the wall in front of me. A new sign, still clean and smooth, hung carefully taped over a dent in the plastered wall. I moved closer, curiosity leading my feet.

  In thick, black typeset, it read:

  Spokane Prison

  Plans to expand facilities

  set for coming year.

  Sign up now available

  for labor workers.

  Ask Warden

  “Spokane Prison,” a woman’s voice huffed next to me.

  I turned my head slightly to take in the owner of the voice. A woman, old and bent almost double, stood a few feet away, her eyes still riveted on the sign. Her hands shook slightly as they dangled limply at her side, her white shirt hanging off of her frail looking shoulders like wet laundry.