Prisoner {ethan dolan} (re-upload of oreolovinq)

CHAPTER 1

"You're scared, aren't you." Dad glances over at me, his wrist draped lazily over the steering wheel of the cruiser.

"No, I'm not scared at all. Just a normal day, you know. Going to a prison and being surrounded by murderers and rapists and stuff. Really fun."

"Welcome to my life." Dad mumbles, taking a turn onto a narrower road.

"Remind me why I signed up for this?"

"You wanted to exploit your father's job as a Correctional Officer to get a shot at Counselling in prison, so that you can get extra credit for your psychology module."

"That question was supposed to be rhetorical." I pick at a loose thread on my shirt.

"If you don't want an answer, then don't ask."

"Ugh." I pull my jacket around myself tighter and set my gaze straight ahead. We sit in silence for the rest of the ride. I watch as the road gets smaller and more deserted with every passing second.

Then I see it.

As we get closer I can see the high concrete walls, painted a pale white but still managing to look dead and dull. I see sharp fencing and barbed wires, and the main gate rusting in corners. It looks pretty much abandoned and dilapidated.

How is this sturdy enough to confine wild criminals?

Dad guides his cruiser through the narrow gates and into the parking space. He cuts the engine and I'm suddenly aware of how silent this place is. I take a deep breath and step out of the car.

Dad's already brisk walking ahead of me, I jog to keep up with him. Gravel crunches under my sneakers with every step I take.

"Don't worry, they won't hurt you." Dad reassures me as we near the cast iron double doors. "You will be matched with someone about your age anyway."

"There are people my age in here?" I'm 17 and the worst thing I have ever done was sock a bitch in the throat during last year's football game.

Or stealing my Grandma's antique vase and selling it on eBay.

"Well yeah, I think." He shrugs, reaching for the handle. The door swings open, creaking on it's hinges, Dad holds it open for me and I step in with my breath hitched in my throat.

It just leads to a dimly lit hallway.

The door shuts behind us with a clang that echoes down the hallway and sends chills up my spine, I tuck my clammy hands into the pockets of my jeans.

"This place looks haunted." I muse.

"Well it probably is." Dad laughs.

"Dad," I punch his arm, "you're fucking scaring me."

"Mind your language, honey." He raises a brow at me as we turn around a corner. I hate how our footsteps reverberate.

This time when he pushes open the white door at the end of the hallway, all the tension melts off my back. There's better lighting, people and a flurry of activity.

Everyone's in a uniform, or a button down shirt and I'm here trailing awkwardly behind my dad in a navy green jacket, ripped jeans and sneakers.

"I guess you can call this the reception area, where visitors wait, all that stuff." Dad explains, waving at the dude behind the front desk.

"The office is upstairs," Dad hustles me into the elevator, I lean back against the cold steel as the doors slide shut.

"There are 4 basement levels." I state, gesturing towards the buttons of the lift.