THE CLANKING NOISE OF THE cell door signified it was opening. “London, are you ready?”
With shaking hands, I grabbed my bag. One last glance in the mirror showed my caramel eyes were wide and scared. I tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind my ear before turning toward the sweet face of Deborah, the on-duty woman guard. “Yes, I’m ready.” My voice was shaky.
I was about to be free.
Free.
The word felt like a vice in my chest. A bittersweet moment. One I longed for, but at the same time didn’t deserve for what I was told I had done. Part of me thought I should never be free again if it was true.
“We have your new ID ready as well as some new clothes.” Her sweet voice brought me out of my negative thoughts.
Forcing a small smile, I nodded and followed the auburn-haired guard out into the main block. Deborah was kind and always looked out for the best interest of the inmates—unlike others who worked there. Some prison guards were downright terrifying. I learned as long as I minded my own business, didn’t complain, and stayed off their radar . . . they ignored me.
An involuntary shiver ran through me as I thought about the more unpleasant memories from my four years in prison. Once I’d been transferred from a medium to minimum-security prison, two and a half years ago, life became easier.
The screams.
The fights.
The having to be on your guard every second.
Closing my eyes, I pushed the memories aside.
It was a small penance to pay in comparison. Four years ago, I’d been sentenced to prison for involuntary manslaughter. Though I have no recollection of the events from the night that changed my life, I served my time.
Doctors believed my lack of memory was due to the impact of the collision. In their terms, I had localized amnesia due to brain swelling. From the photos I saw afterward, the indention of the windshield told the story of how hard I hit. I flinch at the thought.
The events of what happened that fateful night were erased. The fog never lifted in the four years I’d been in Aliceville Alabama Federal Prison. From all the evidence presented, there was no doubt I’d been responsible for hitting the boy with my car. My lawyer expressed that, in his opinion, I was lucky to have only gotten four years.
Lucky.
There was nothing lucky about what happened.
Taking a deep breath, the bleach smell from cleaning time permeated my nose. For the last time, I cast my eyes over the chow hall as we passed through. Every surface was hard, cold, and a dingy white that never looked clean.
Sterile.
Unfriendly.