Harrington 4

Junkie Slip

The prison is a lot farther than I remember, and it's already past six when I walk through the doors and approach the lady behind the glass, who taps away on her computer, her hair as tall as her head. I clear my throat, but she doesn't look up, just blowing a bubble with her gum and letting her long, painted nails click away.

"Excuse me," I say, but she still doesn't look up. I knock on the glass. "Hey!"

She glances lazily my way. "Welcome to Hawkins Prison. If you're looking for a missing person, please find a seat on the benches and someone will be with you shortly; if you're here to admit to a crime or to report one, I'd advise you to head to the police department; if you are here to visit a prisoner, please fill out one of the forms on the left. If you—"

But I tune her droning voice out, snatching one of the sheets on the counter next to me and grabbing a pen from the bin beside the pile. I head over to the benches and begin to rapidly fill out the boxes.

Relation to prisoner? Daughter.

Reason for visit? I just miss my dad so dearly.

Time of entrance? 6:12pm.

Length of visit? Depends on if the waterworks come.

By signing here, you promise not to damage the phone, touch the glass, or provoke the prisoner in any way:

I sign messily on the dotted line and stand, returning the pen to the bin and shoving the paper under the little slot in the glass. The woman doesn't look up, and I knock on the glass again, gesturing to the sheet with a fake smile.

"I've finished."

She looks at me and then away.

"You can hold onto the paper," she says. "Please place your bag in a cubby and find a seat on the benches. Someone will be with you shortly."

I roll my eyes, snatching my sheet back and walking over before plopping back down. I stuff my bag into one of the cubbies under the bench, taking the time to look around the room. It's bland, nothing much to see other than grey walls and grey floors and grey light through the grey windows. I find myself trying to find traces of my father in the walls, to hear his voice floating through the vents, but it's just a room.

I wait impatiently for ten minutes, tapping my foot and drumming my fingers on the bench until I'm sure I've annoyed the receptionist enough to get her to get me out of here quicker. Soon enough, a man in a grey outfit that matches the grey walls and the grey floors and the grey light through the grey windows comes in, wordlessly gesturing for my sheet. I hand it to him, and he skims over it swiftly before raising an eyebrow at me.

"You left your address blank," he states, and I shrug.

"I'm visiting."

"We'd still like you to state your address," he says, handing me the sheet and a pen from his breast pocket.

"Fine," I say with a fake smile, grabbing the paper and scribbling on it before handing it back. He examines it and looks back up at me.

"123 Shithole Drive?"

"Don't be fooled by the name," I say, "it's a beautiful neighbourhood."

He stares at me, unamused, then ultimately sighs in a 'whatever' fashion and begins walking. I stand and follow him, and together we venture out of the all grey room and into an all grey hallway. Well, this one has green floors, but they're a swampy, grey-ish green.

Then we open up into another room, this one dominated by white. There's a row of glass splitting it in half, with a counter and seats on either side of it, phones hanging on the walls that separate the individual alcoves. The room is empty, and I wonder briefly how many visitors this prison gets. The man brings me over to the seat on the far wall, and he gestures to it before jotting something down on his clipboard.