18 year old Erika Mueller has just been sentenced to 5 years in prison for drug possession & dealing. And upon arriving to her unlikely new home for the next handful of years, she takes interest in CO--Luke Evans; a relationship afoot, but unconvent...
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Erika. Erika Mueller.
Though, nowadays—It's just Mueller, or Inmate. As I find myself here; bound to a 5 year sentence in MCC.
℘
The prison van reeked of rust, sweat, and whatever lived in the cushions from years of hauling bodies like hers. Erika sat between two women—one sniffing into her sweatshirt sleeve, the other stealing glances like she wanted to talk. Erika didn't look at either of them.
Outside, Chicago blurred into grey. The buildings got newer, cleaner, colder as they moved farther from the South Side. She watched it disappear through the scratched square of glass, jaw tight, stomach quiet. Foster homes, motel rooms, squad cars—she'd survived worse rides than this one.
They called it five years. She called it just another cage.
"What you in for?" the girl beside her finally asked. Her voice was thin, polite, like she hadn't figured out she was done being a person yet.
Erika kept her eyes on the window. "Shit, I did what I had to do."
The girl gave a nervous laugh. "No, like... officially."
Erika turned her head just enough to meet her eyes. "Drugs. Dealin'. Possession. I ain't no snitch." Beat. "You?"
"Um... possession. First time."
Erika gave a small nod, more to herself than anyone else. Figures.
Up front, the driver shifted in his seat. Middle-aged, stocky, a spit cup in one hand and a grimy steering wheel in the other. His forearms were thick with faded army tattoos, his uniform wrinkled and soaked in tired authority.
"Don't get too comfortable back there," he muttered, voice low and gravelly. "This ain't daycare."
Erika snorted. "Good. You don't look like you give a fuck anyway."
The girl beside her stifled another giggle. Erika didn't crack a smile. She could spot a soft one from a mile away—shoulders too relaxed, eyes too open. This girl didn't know yet how fast kindness could get you chewed up.
The van took a sharp turn onto gravel. Erika's wrists ached where the cuffs bit into them, her fingers already tapping against her leg. One-two-three. Again. One-two-three. She didn't know when the habit started, but it kept her grounded. Barely.
She looked up as the building came into view.
It looked like a warehouse. A concrete slab of a prison surrounded by chain-link fences and coils of razor wire. Cameras blinked overhead. A corporate logo gleamed on a white sign just past the gate: Midwest Correctional Campus – Rebuilding Lives with Structure & Support.
