Lost Memories

Chapter 2 - Annabelle

Annabelle's POV

This was it, the last room I had to visit this evening. I could do it, all I had to do was open the hatch and slide the tray through. Or so I thought. This door was different, there wasn't a hatch. No extensive locks and barricades, preventing the creature that was locked on the inside. Just one simple bolt. No hatch. Panic over came my senses and my palms got clammy, causing my body to shake like a flimsy sheet. They couldn't make me go in there, could they? No hatch.

I had been here for about three months and usually only delivered food to the north wing of this hellhole. I came from a poor family. Heck, we lived in a shack! We needed the money and this was the only opportunity I had in order to get my brother an education. Yes, my room sucked, the bed was hard and there's no heating, but the pay was more than enough (what do you expect if your stuck in a building with the states biggest criminals). I'm pretty sure my family was living the high life already, but unfortunately for me, I was going to be stuck here for another two years. Two more years of sliding food trays under doors and through the little hatches at the bottom of the doors that are locked and can only be unlocked by the finger print scanner to the right of it. That's right, no having to face the prisoners, ever. No having to personally give them food. This was the last stop for the day, I wouldn't usually come to this wing of the prison, but the guard had become gravely ill and had to be sent to the hospital in the west wing, so I had to detour here after my rounds in the north wing and deliver the food to this criminal, as the guard would usually give the food, but obviously couldn't right now.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, no hatch. I was physically shaking in my pathetic daps and drab, white cloth, which was hanging from my starved body. The food that I had been delivering had been pretty tempting, but I knew it contained drugs to keep the prisoners subdued, so I didn't dare eat it. This plate however, like the door, was different from the rest. It wasn't the same as the rest of the prisoner's food. Yeah, it was the same sloppy substance but it smelled different, distinctly like chicken or something. Like it was a proper meal from the canteen, just blended. Ugh, not particularly my favourite dish but I guess for those who have been here for a while it's better than nothing. I always remember the meal my family would have on special occasions, when we would crowd round the dinner table and talk between mouthfuls. We would always eat chicken with mixed vegetables and gravy, but it was a rare occurrence. Only on birthdays, holidays or, seeing as though I'm the oldest, when my parents were announcing that I was going to have a little brother or sister. But, alas, those days are long gone, now I'm left with slop and steel-faced prison wardens to talk to. Now those conversations are dull. Prison this, schedule that, I've pretty much memorised all their schedules because of them going on about them and what they have to do and where they have to go at what times. Seriously, have these people got no lives? What's wrong with at least talking about the weather? Come on, guys, get a life. Don't they have families that they miss? 'Cause I seriously miss mine and would happily talk about how I miss my sisters calling me Annie, my brother arguing with me about nothing, just to challenge my authority over him, my mother singing in the kitchen and my father whistling as he gets ready for work on the farm. I miss the oranges of sunrise and the golden leaves as they litter the ground in autumn, the blues at twilight and the laughter of people in the market. All the things that make life, life-like I guess. Here, everyone is like robots: lifeless and uncaring. Prisoners probably are too, which is another reason why I don't particularly want to come face to face with one right now. Especially not the one that's just through the door two metres in front of me.

How could they do this? This is child cruelty! But I guess I'm just going to have to suck it up, deal with it. In, then out. Edging forward, my feet scuff along the floor. Balancing the tray in my left hand, I raise my clenched right and lightly tap. My teeth begin to chatter and palms drip as I reach out for the handle. Slowly, I open.