Wildflowers - A RDR story

0.1 - Freedom

-Sisika Penitentiary, Female wing, September 1898-

It's a scorching day, though it feels no different from any other. The Lemoyne heat is just as insufferable as I remember, my skin burning red as it all reminds me of the painful past I endured under this relentless sun. The air hangs heavy with humidity, accentuating the oppressive atmosphere that seems to cling to every corner of this damned place. I can hear the guards shouting at the other inmates, their voices echoing off the prison walls like a sinister chorus, but I have no desire to listen to their words. For six months now, I've been sweeping floors and shoveling shit, the stench making my insides burn each day. It's a pathetic assault on my senses, a rough reminder of my circumstances. I barely get a break, pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion just to avoid the guards' wrath for taking a much-needed pause.

When I finally return to my cell at night, sleep escapes me; instead, I sit and reflect on my miserable life. As I toss the pebbles that litter my cell floor, I feel their rough edges digging into my frazzled mind, a gentle torment that echoes my despair. I feel myself going insane.

This place truly is hell on earth, stripped of any semblance of humanity. It's fair to keep bloodthirsty criminals or petty little thugs just like my parents locked up here. After all, the grueling labor under the unforgiving sun, combined with the guards' cruel words, is what they deserve. Yet I must remind you—I'm locked up here for a crime I didn't commit. Sure, I may not be the most innocent inmate; I did kill folks after all, but don't we all?

No? Oh well... I suppose getting locked up is the price I pay for wanting to be free. Ironic, isn't it?

The oppressive silence of my thoughts is broken by the approaching footsteps of two officers, but I don't bother to look their way. God forbid I make eye contact, so I continue sweeping the floor, the same monotonous task they assigned me this morning. How delightful! The repetitive motion of the broom feels almost meditative, numbing the sharp edges of my reality, even if just for a moment.

The footsteps halt near our group, and I dare to glance up at the officers. "You, you, you with the hammer, and you, you'll do," one of them barks, pointing at me and a few others whose names I don't know—or care to know. "We need to perform a work detail out near Tumbleweed. Come on, get in." The officer strides towards a prison stagecoach as the other leads us to the back, where we'll be locked up again. The stagecoach lurches roughly, tossing the other inmates and me around like potatoes in a sack as we're driven away from the penitentiary, each jolt echoing the chaos in my mind.

As we near Saint-Denis, my thoughts drift to my family, my broken family, and the pain they caused me. "I tell you what... Old Jameson is a wretched sour old bastard, no mistake..." I catch one of the officers saying, though I pay little attention to it. The other officer briefly casts a glance in our direction before barking, "You lot stay calm in there." It's almost absurd how he treats us like animals, herded into a cage, yet I can't muster the energy to protest.
"We weren't saying nothing!" I reply, my voice dripping with bitterness, an act of defiance amidst the suffocating atmosphere.
"Well, you are now, so shut up," the guard snaps, turning his back. That sack of shit.

Later that day, we make our way down to the Heartlands, near Valentine, if I recall correctly. The officer keeps rambling while the other listens out of politeness, the mix of their banter a cruel soundtrack to my exhaustion. "Personally, I'm against education. For women, I mean... and men too, I guess. Unnecessary." 'Oh lord...' I think to myself, the absurdity of it all swirling in my mind as I try to block out their words and focus on the horizon beyond the dusty trail.

Finally, what feels like days later, we arrive at Gaptooth Ridge. I sense the stagecoach slowing down, and anticipation thickens in the air. I glance around, thinking we've reached our destination, only to find another stagecoach blocking the path directly in front of us. "Good day, gentlemen," I hear a voice say, dripping with authority. What is happening? The tension escalates. "Don't do anything stupid; nobody gets shot. Act like a fool, and you'll both be dead in a minute. Now, what are your names?" the man asks, slowly advancing toward us, his eyes fixed with a threatening glare. My heart sinks; is this it? Have I reached the end of my short life?
"Jenkins, and Milliken," the officers reply, their voices steady despite the unfolding chaos. At least they're cooperating...