Facing It

Chapter 3

"ALRIGHT, LINE IT UP INMATES!"

Oddly enough, seeing more female officers creates a sense of comfort in me, knowing their level of treatment and abuse might not be as high compared to a man. Yet not one of them appears to want to be here. 

"Hey what are you in for?" looking over my shoulder, a white woman in her mid 30s with crimson red hair waits for me to answer enlarging her eyes every passing second.

"Sorry loca, no hablo ingles". That seemed to work. She backed away from me. Who the hell asks that question on the first day of prison? Is that not prison 101?

"ID 34527, Skylar Carabello Velez Ernez...Goddamn. What're you married Velez? Why you got such a long name? Fucking mouthful" Officer Walker asks me. She's an older black woman leaning on the wall next to the "Intake" door. I guess late thirties, but by the look of those bags under her eyes, deeper than trash bags, they age her by an additional ten years. She wears an awful dingy, royal blue-collar shirt with grey slacks, and chipped black rubber boots. She must've noticed my distressed face after catching a glance of her uniform.

"Don't worry your uniform is much better than mine, sweetie" she says sarcastically. "Now go" pointing to the door with her thumb, pen in hand. 

"There better not be anything up your ass Vontoe! Now cough!".

Across the room, an inmate in dark brown clothing is bent over with her pants halfway passed her knees, with an officer almost rubbing her forehead sweat on the inmate's face. In fact, there is a line of inmates enduring the same process. How often does this happen? A dry, dreadful voice and poignant smell of overnight coffee startles me.

"Name and ID number."

"Uh, Skylar Carabello Velez Ernez, and I'm sorry I don't remember my ID number. She only said it once, and I couldn't remember" I respond apologetically, yet it serves no justice. She exhales a long sigh.

"Here's your badge. And no worries" she looks up, "you'll have plenty of time to remember it. NEXT!"

I follow a fellow inmate in front of me when we come to a halt. There is a muscular woman dressed in the dark brown inmate uniform. Seriously, what is up with the uniforms in this place? Covered in tattoos from neck to hands, she has a smug look on her face as she's staring at me like she's ready to devour me.

"Hello ladies, I am Kim Belgino. Call me Belgino. But my friends call me Kim" she says winking right at me. Ew. "I am here to show you your rooms where you'll find your uniform, shoes, and toiletry. As I show you to your rooms, I will give you your schedule of your job. It is your responsibly to follow and be on time. Let's go!" waving the clipboard midair. We make our way to everyone's room where I eavesdrop on the jobs they had. Electric, gardening, driving, laundry, and janitorial. 

"Last but not least, Velez. You will be here in B23 with Hahn. And you are in kitchen. Good luck." Belgino winks before leaving. She hands me my schedule where I see the start time in bold lettering 5am, monday, wednesday, friday. What the actual fuck? I haven't gotten up that early since college. Will I even be getting paid for this? 

"She's into you. But so is she with everyone else, so watch out. Come on in, I'm Hanh your cellmate". Hanh is a tall, Asian girl with milky skin and long black hair. She looks a little too young to be in here if you ask me. But her youth isn't what captures me the most, it's the tear drop under her left eye. 

"Velez" I reply shaking her hand.

"So what are you in here for?" Hanh asks.

"Sorry puta, no hablo ingles."

"Que hijistes pendeja que estarar aqui? (what did you do to get yourself in here dumbass)" Hanh replies in Spanish. I almost pass out from turning around so fast to see Hanh looking at me unamused.

"You speak Spanish?"

"You speak English?" Caught.

"Sorry I just thought you weren't supposed to ask that in here....You go first."

Hahn softly chuckles at my ignorance. But in all honesty, I wasn't sure if I should share. Part of my plan was to act like I didn't know English but clearly that wasn't working too well. Oh what the hell, she's my cellmate, she's going to find out one way or the other, and I don't want to be the second tear drop under her eye.

"Okay fine.....accessory to the drug cartel, transporting".

"Oh shit, really? -- Sorry you just – don't look like it. But I guess that'll be crime shaming."

I tried to hold back a smile. Hanh didn't seem that bad. Sure, she had a tear drop under her eye but maybe I'm judging too fast and wrong.

"What about you?" I ask Hahn.

She scoffs, "You're not supposed to tell people why you're in here", and walks to her side of the room. No she did not just make me say mine but not hers. 

"Are you seri – "

"I'm just kidding loca (crazy). I killed my stepdad for molesting my sister. That's what the tear drop is for. To remind myself although I'm in this shithole, I know I made the right decision. Bastard deserved it" she shrugs. "I did some drug dealing, but they never caught me. So, I could've been more strategic with killing him. But I wasn't thinking clearly at that moment. All I saw was red".

I stopped putting my things away and look up at Hahn, she has dark emerald eyes, darker than a rainforest. But passed through the green I can see that she truly had no guilt or shame for what she did. And if she could go back in time, she would gladly do it again. 

"I'm sorry about your sister" I reply in a low gentle voice.

Hahn was right, about me. I did not look the part because I never had any plans to get involved with anything in association with drugs or cartel or the lifestyle. That was never part of the plan. I was finishing up nursing school and needed a part time job asap to cover my expenses. My parents tell me I have a pride issue because I could've just asked them for help, but I saw it as a selfless act. I didn't want to bombard my parents with my issues. They took care of me all my life. I wanted them to enjoy their retirement in their ranch home in Georgia, where the summers are blissful and winters are cozy. Sometimes I wonder if I would've just set my pride aside, asked my parents for help, would things have turned out different. But even if it did, would I have wanted it to?