There was something reassuring about predictable days. And I was still given books and writing utensils, so I could still read and write to my leisure.
My family had basically disowned me, with only my mom coming to visit every so often. Though when she did, all she did was cry the whole time. Which was more than she ever did while I had been out of prison. And the rest of the family hadn’t talked to me then either.
I knew I was grasping at straws, trying to make the best of things that were fairly miserable. But what choice did I have? This was my life, whether I liked it or not, and would be until I died.
I might as well make the most of it.
Most of the days in the jail were the same.
But then, early one morning, they brought in a new prisoned and placed her into the cell across fro
