Forbidden

𝔬𝔫𝔢

February 15th, 2089

I swore to myself I would never see the face of another man, and yet majority of the faces that plagued my trip to jail belonged to - once again - more men.

For some reason I had this strange notion that all the people who worked at a women's penitentiary would be - oh, I don't know - women.

Clearly my attitude must have been written all over my face and not just in my thoughts, because most of the men that weren't directly dealing with my case took one look at my disgusted scowl and strayed far from my path. Those that had the bravery to hoot and holler at me as I made my way down the halls of the Bayview Prison for Women were given death glares. 

No longer would I be the sweet and silent Dylan Lewis. A man got me in here, and I'd be damned if a man would be the reason I got out. I'd rather rot and end up in Hell.  

The prison itself was once a correctional facility for women of all criminal backgrounds, but since the mid-2000's had been renovated to house anyone who violated certain laws in the Best Wishes Act. It was meant to be a temporary placement until women accepted a marriage proposal initiated between their parents and a prospecting suitor. 

When the President would boast about this facility and several others all across the nation during his televised campaigns, he would talk about how it was a facility with the safety and well-being of America's daughters in mind. The staff were supposed to be composed primarily of women, and prisoners were to be treated with respect. 

I ought to have laughed out loud. If he only knew the half of it. My first step into this place was nothing but misery. Nothing about the place screamed 'relaxation and redemption'. Men were the ones calling the shots in here. 

The women were behind bars and wearing white. The only thing to differentiate them were numbers on their right lapel with a different colored heart beneath. The coloration in the fabric of the heart would provide an inkling as to what their offense had been. 

They stuck me in a simple white t-shirt dress with matching fuzzy slippers. Etched into mine were the numbers 89222 and a red heart, meaning I had been caught 'red'-handed trying to commit premarital sex. 

I carried a small but varied array of other white outfits in my hands as I was led down the hallways of the jail. At least they had a slight sense of fashion here. In all the old movies, men in jail wore ungodly orange jumpsuits. Orange was never my color.

The fluorescent ceiling lights were dim and several of them clung to their last sliver of life as they sputtered out every so often. The walls were a sickly shade of seafoam that tried so hard to pass for tiffany but just didn't make the cut. Some of the cells were single occupant cells while others housed two to four inmates at once. They looked like a spruced up, cleanlier version of your average run-of-the-mill jail cells. 

The older guard who had been leading me through the row of cells stopped right in front of an empty cell with a bunk bed. 

"This one is yours," he said in a thick Brooklyn accent.

A woman with buzzed blonde hair that swooped to one side and was streaked with blue dye stood leaning against the bars in the cell across from mine. A plethora of plastic piercings aligned her ears, as well as the one in her nose. Her eyes were caked in old eyeliner, and she watched me through thick lashes with stone-cold grey eyes. She was certainly tall, but her figure itself was rather pixie-like. Despite her youthful aesthetic, I could see creases here and there in her face. She had to have been in her mid-to-late forties.

"Got yourself another one, Howell?" She remarked with her arms crossed.

"You know how it goes," he said as he fiddled with the lock on my cell, "you can't stop the lovin' in these girls."

"Whatever that means," remarked the blonde as she craned her head against the side of a sleek metal bar, "I was starting to get lonely anyways."

Howell let me into my cell and gave me the run down on the rules and schedule for the hall. Apparently, he was the guard assigned to our hall for day shifts, and the night shift guard, Macintosh, was - and I quote - a 'far less nice gentleman'.  

To me, that sounded like quite the oxymoron. 

I plopped onto the bottom bunk and slid my stack of clothes in a little drawer underneath. I stared blankly at the wall, urging myself to be strong as a I fought back the need to cry.

"You're a pretty little thing," regarded the blonde, "you'll be out of here in no time."

Void of emotion, my head slowly turned in her direction. "And how long have you been in here?"

She smirked. "About a year."

I pulled my knees to my chest and let out a heavy sigh. 

"The name's Tosha," she dropped down and sat criss-cross on the floor as she spoke, "Tosha Powers. And you?"

I stared down at the thin white sheets beneath me. I'd seen coffee filters thicker than the bedding in these cells. With New York winters being as cold as they were, I sure hoped the heating system in this godforsaken jail was at least up to code. 

"Dylan Lewis."

"Don't get discouraged, Dylan. The only reason I'm not getting out of here any time soon is because I'm a widow."

It was incredibly hard for widows to remarry in society as there was such a negative stigma around their age, and it made them hard to be courted without any legal guardian to guide their proposal process. Because of this, they usually remained unmarried and were compensated for their contribution to maintaining the sanctity of relationships. I'd never heard of one being sent to jail before.

"I don't understand," I mumbled as I stared back at her.

Tosha grinned despite there being some semblance of pain hiding in her eyes. "I was married to a wonderful man. He was a doctor - a fantastic one, too. He caught pneumonia and died. My best friend, Lacey, was there for me every step of the way. We ended up falling for one another. My husband's father stopped by unannounced for a visit, came through the front door without knocking, and stumbled upon Lacey and I smoking weed and making out on the couch. He reported us instantly. Honestly, I think he was still bitter over losing his son. Still no reason to take it out on me."

I made note of the yellow heart on her shirt.

Homosexuality.

What was once a legal act to love another human being regardless of their gender had somehow gotten tied into the Best Wishes Act. 

Poor Tosha had opened her heart to a trusted friend in a time of need and found unconditional love. Yet what followed would be unconditional jail time. If she was a jailed widow, then the government would be the ones sending her potential marriage suitors in order to negotiate her freedom. It made me wonder how many men she had already turned down in the past year.

"What about you?" She asked in a heartfelt attempt to get me to open up.

And so, I did.

I told her. Everything.

I told her about how my parents came to be and how I had met Nathaniel and how we wanted a love just like my parents. Or at least I thought that's what he wanted, too.

Nathaniel.

Just thinking about him made my skin crawl. I let him make love to me. God, I must have been so stupid. Perhaps he'd try and prey on a girl far less naive and lovesick than me. Maybe she'd see right through his spy-for-the-law act and sock him one right in the jaw. Lord knows he deserved it. 

"I'm so sorry, sweetie." Tosha looked genuinely hurt for me. "What a douchebag. Sounds like you dodged a bullet with that one. Like I said, you'll be out of here in no time."

I shook my head. "Like hell I will. They're supposed to know what's best for us? They're the ones hurting us. The last thing I want is to marry a man who is just going to be my next jailor but in a husband's clothing."

Tosha gave a hearty laugh. "Damn, kid, that's deep. But if that's the case, then it looks like you and I are in this one for the long haul. Things are pretty easy going in the daytime. Just watch yourself around Macintosh in the evenings."

As so I'd been told.