Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
But the thing is, Even if I could go back, I wouldn't belong there anymore.
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Chapter One "My Introduction to Prison"
Scarlett's POV:
The building in front of me is as daunting as the rumours suggest. Blankets of silver cover the high stone towers surrounding the entire prison. Guards of black armour line the spiked silver gate, guns raised as our truck shudders passed. It's the only way in-or-out.
According to my single source, that is.
The guard from my local holding cell told me all about Citadel Prison. The Judge came with an in-person sentence for me and my best friend. That didn't bode well for us, especially when our guard stumbled back a step, eyes wide and mouth dropping open.
He muttered something to the Judge, who did nothing but give him a pointed look before leaving in a whirlwind of robes and arrogance. Not exactly comforting from the person with our lives in their hands.
We were sent to a prison I've never heard of, in the middle of nowhere, while struggling to remember what I did to land myself in jail. It wasn't how I planned on spending my Saturday morning. The guard gave us a brief rundown on Citadel prison, his pitying glances eating at my skin.
I'm happy I'm not going in alone, to say the least.
"Holy shit! What do they expect to happen? A revolution?" Kylie, my best friend, gasps, eyes following the guards as they march on two grassy quadrangles. They're hard to see in the dark, uniforms blending into the midnight sky, but a sliver of the moon shines an ominous light on their stoic faces.
I hum in agreement, watching the fear fade in and out of her face, consciously aware of my body's lack of terror. Maybe it hasn't hit me yet; the fact this is real, and I'm going to be trapped here for God-knows how long. Or maybe I'm just trying to keep Kylie sane.
We're opposites, her and I. She's like my goodness meter, stopping me from being, well, a bitch to those who don't deserve it. In turn, I act as her anchor. Plus, we look completely different. Her hair is a light brown, mine a rich black with lavender streaks; my dull hazel eyes have tiny laughter lines at the corners while hers are an icy blue people can never seem to look away from; she's of average height where I'm a couple inches above.
Put us together and we balance each other out.
"Either way, I don't think we're getting out of this soon," I murmur, ignoring my body's instinct to cower in my seat. Showing my growing anxiety of this not blowing over means letting the prison win, and I'm nothing if not too stubborn to admit defeat.
And yet, my heart beats in my throat, my hands are clammy, and I can't stop clenching my toes into fists. I don't think my it was self-defence! is going to work here. Hell, it didn't work in my local prison, and the worst crime we've had – before my own - is a bank hold up.
