Chapter Six: "I Hate Liars."
I DON'T know how long we were on the plane for. A day, an hour, ten, I have no clue.
I fell asleep about half an hour after we left LAX. I don't know how long I was asleep for; just that we arrived at the airport and I was being woken up and dragged out of the terminal before I could even realize what was happening.
I'm not going to lie; I cried.
The closer we got to the exit, the more scared I got and the more crying I did.
Who am I kidding?! I'm not going to make it alive in here! I've been disguised as a cry baby for a reason! The tough girl act a lot of the times blows up in your face; but the baby act makes it even worse sometimes.
The act I disguised shouldn't have changed. I shouldn't have turned 'innocent' all of a sudden, and I most definitely shouldn't have taken what everyone said to heart. High school is the best and worst time of your life; I faced the bad for the past year, and I took it damn right to heart.
That's when I became nice again.
That's when I started becoming a target to a specific group of people who once knew me.
That's when I became anorexic.
I'm not going to lie, the anorexia wasn't all from people commenting on my physique, but I just naturally didn't eat much; or at all.
It takes me about twenty minutes to calm down.
And then another twenty minutes until I start to freak out againâbut I keep my internal fear to myself this time. I can't look like I've been crying for the past hour. That'll raise flags.
We pull into the police station, and I'm lead inside. We do inspections, and I begin to panic once I'm forced to strip. I get checked for things, and in places I would never want anyone to look at, and get cleared. I stand there, naked, waiting for the woman inspector as she hands me clothes and lets me get dressed in orange overalls and vans. She then hands me a laundry bag with my bedspread, and a smaller bag with my toiletries.
When I'm shown my block and my cubicle, that's when reality settles in and I actually realize I'm in a prison. A youth prison, but nonetheless, it's a prison.
I see items on a bed, and notice that someone else occupies that side, so I place my stuff on the bed across from it uneasily. I look around, and see other girls walking around in beige uniform, looking and talking at other people. They don't look all that sketchy, but then I remember that I look as innocent as a toddler, and I'd definitely get approached on why a goody two shoes wound up in a service made especially for young criminals.
I gulp down a lump in my throat and sit down on my uncomfortably stiff bed, trying to calm my breathing down. I haven't been here half an hour and I'm already overwhelmed and feeling sick.
Girls stare at me as they pass by, others looking at me smirking and chattering from where they stand. I feel vulnerable, and find it extremely hard to try to put on my tough shell, when usually I can put it on as easily as a pair of glasses.
I feel isolated.
I feel exposed.
I feel vulnerable.
I feel mad.
I feel sad.
I feel hurt and betrayed.
And last but not least. . .
I feel fucked.
I am screwed.
***
A food chain.
That's exactly what this prison is classified as.
There are rankings from worst to not as worse, from weak to strong, from group and ethnic circle to nobodies, and there's a much more scarier rank that makes me weak in the knees.
Dangerous to deadly.
I guess everyone in here is dangerous in their own way. Each has their own story and how they wound up in here, and each have their ways with other girls in the pen. Obviously being the new girl, I'm ranked way far under dangerous or deadly.
Now, with my present personality, that is where I belong. Being classed as pretty, innocent, and small, that makes me weak. And the weak is exactly what is targeted around here. I've been here twelve hours and I've already seen about half a dozen fights break out between the bigger girls and the smaller ones. I watched half of those get pulled off and sent to the SHU, whatever that is, and others get sent to the prisons infirmary: bruised, bloodied, pale, and scared out of their damned minds. I haven't even seen my roommate yet.
It makes me feel sick how fast these women strike others without any hesitation. Like a small girl, one who's maybe a couple inches taller than me; she got struck across her jaw for looking at one of the older girls wrongly. To a regular street person, it'd be considered a glance or a short stare to catch one's features, but to these criminals, it'd be considered a threat or glare.
I may have only been here not even a day, but I caught onto a lot during my time here. Nobody approached meâthank godâbut I notice that it's the 'weaker' who try to be on the nicer end of things with the 'stronger' crowd. I have no intention on approaching anyone, since I know how violent these girls are because I have had bad interactions with people of their type, and trust me when I say that you should warship the ground they step on until you get yourself situated enough where you have a 'family' you can rely on for backup.
I've been in prison before. Not for the best of things, but it wasn't my fault. I was simply an innocent pronounced as guilty. I most certainly never served in another country so I have no idea how Canadians are, but one thing I thought I knew for sure was that Canada was a peaceful country with probably the nicest people you'd ever meet.
I can disagree.
They are the most violent people I have ever come across!
I'm tellin' you right now, that the next thirty one days here are not going to be pleasant.
"So you're the new girl, eh?" Someone from behind me says. I jump, startled at the voice as I'm lost in my own thoughts. I've been sitting on my bed since I even got here; I have no idea what to do now that my whole lifestyle's changed and Iâhopefully brieflyâforget how the prison life goes.
It may have only been a year, but a lot can happen in twelve months.
"Um. . . yes?" I say uneasily. I don't mean to stutter, but she gave me a fright. I hesitantly turn around as she laughs at how uncomfortable I must look right now.
She's scrawny. Long brown hair that flops over the ledge and hangs near my head, and ice cold blue eyes that are filled with mischief and true curiosity. And something else I can't quite put my finger on just yet.
If I can get her to spill some beans, I can figure her out.
"You're acting like you've seen a ghost. This your first time in the pen?" She asks.
"Ughâ" I stammer. Should I tell her? Perhaps I might have it easy if I tell her the truth. Let me tell you; my last jail experience wasn't the best until things started to escalate four months in. Maybe I can have an easy head start. "No."
"Really? Huh. You seem like one of those scared children who seen their parents banging for the first time. I've been here a few times, actually. How long did you serve?"
"Forty months was my sentence. Got let out after eighteen after my trial."
"For what?"
"Murder and running a drug ring." I gulp, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Interesting. So where'd you serve? Which were you proven innocent on?"
"What's it matter to you? It's not you serving my time. It's none of your damned business."
"Wow, we got a vicious newbie. I never said it mattered, sweetheart, but you can't blame a girl for being curious."
"I can blame a girl for being a snoopy bitch." I mutter under my breath, though whether she heard or not, I don't know. Adding in a louder voice, I say, "Whatever."
"So, murder, eh? I'm in for manslaughter." She chortles. "What brings you back?"
"I never asked why you're in here, but alright. I, uh, guess obstruction is what brings me to this place." I mutter, trying to cover up the fact that the legit pretty girl in front of me is in here for 'accidental' murder. She looks intimidating, but that may be because she just suddenly told me why she wound up in this institute. She's wearing an orange jumpsuit as well, so I can tell she's fresh meat too. From where I served in Santa Monica, you don't know reason until you've been there for a while. Let alone, you never get asked a shit ton of questions by other prisoners.
She begins to laugh. A bit too scarily for my liking. "Obstruction? Wow, that's shocking." I shrug. I'm not very proud of it. "So, you're in for obstructing an officer, so that means you're serving at least a month, yeah?"
"Yep."
She studies me, and I cautiously feel myself shrink back and lean away from her once her jaw locks. Why is she looking at me hungrily?
"There's a lot of shit around here," she says, taking me by surprise. "Watch who you hang around."
"I know how the system works," I snap. "This ain't my first rodeo."
Her blue eyes darken, and she seems irritated. Please stay away from me for now on.
"Ain't mine either," she shrugs. I don't know why she's suddenly grown cold. She stuttered, and I could already tell by how tense she is that she's lying. One thing I hated in prisons, or in general, was being lied to. It's my biggest pet peeve, and I can't stand it. The fact she's lying to me just to prove she's bigger, aggravates me because she's just as fresh as I am.
"What's your name?"
"Colleen."
"Is that your real name?"
"Yes."
Well, the nametag that said Marissa means else wise. Why even wear a nametag anyway? Is this how they did it up north? No! Of course not, because no one else was wearing one. What an idiot. She isn't going to last very long in here at all.
Agitated, I take a deep breath and turn fully towards her. Tilting my head, I examine her cautiously. "How old are you?" I ask nonchalantly, scanning her eyes and her hands that are firmly placed on the cement wall separating us. Her knuckles are white, and her hands are shiny, telling me she's either really hot, or nervous. It's obviously the latter because it is quite cool in this block. I know for sure if whether she's been lying this whole time about her being here and why. If she lied once, she's obviously going to lie as easily the upcoming times.
I also know how people like her think: that lying is easiest to become one of the top rankers.
It's not, in actuality.
Every place is different, obviously, but from my personal experience, lying will get you beat faster and far worse than those of newbies and already targeted individuals. One thing is for sure, is to not lie if you can be proven wrong. Why you're in here, and everything that can easily be described or proven on paper, is something you want to tell the truth on if you still want your teeth to be intact. I once watched this girl fib just the slightest, and long story short, she left and never came back.
Long story short: don't lie if you want to live.
The girls serving a life sentence or longer, they won't hesitate in teaching you a lesson, because they're just going to be here for most of their lives and have 'nothing to live for.'
With this brunette, she's going to be tossed around if she makes her fibbing noticeable.
She's definitely no older than sixteen, and if I were to guess correctly, she'd be thirteen, looking eighteen, given the size of her breasts. Definitely not fully developed.
"Seventeen." She lies.
I clench my fists, and bite my lip, checking her eyes out easily. They remain planted on mine, but the only difference is, is that her lips are twitching only the slightest, and her ears are turning the lightest shade of pink. I give her a thumbs up for keeping contact, since a lot of liars can't maintain long eye contact, but I give her credit for that.
On the other hand. . . "You need to work on improving your lying skills."
Her eyes widen a tiny fraction, and I visibly watch her gulp.
This proves she got caught in the act.
If she weren't lying, her expression wouldn't have changed.
"IâI am not lying."
"Stuttering is also a dead giveaway." I point out. "Out of the sweetness of my heart, I'll give your poor little soul some pointers. One, don't stutter. Two, you need to work on hiding your lies. Your ears and sweat are an easy reveal. Three, don't lie to be big."
"You don't know anything about me." She growls quietly.
I laugh, rolling my eyes. "I don't need to. Body language and the person easily gives things away. For starters, you definitely aren't seventeen. You aren't fully developed, and by the looks of your size, you're thirteen with the blessing of long body parts. You aren't actually in for manslaughter, and lastly, those who have done time before know that you don't ask a thousand questions in one brief conversation. Also, one last thing, don't tell anyone anything unless they ask you first. Nobody likes a bragger."
Needless to say, the coldness of my tone made her disappear behind the wall and not look back.