The female-specified bathing area was only a few feet away from the library.

The room was sterile yet uninviting, its walls lined with white subway tiles that reflected the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights above. Partitioned into bathroom-like stalls, each was shielded by a dingy, off-white plastic curtain hanging limply from rusting hooks. 

The curtains bore the telltale signs of neglect—soap scum streaked in uneven lines along the edges, mingling with grayish spots of mildew that clustered like unwelcome constellations. Faint discoloration ran across the bottom, where the plastic had warped and curled from too much moisture. The smell of dampness lingered, faintly sour, adding to the sense of something long forgotten.

Nothing about the space invited comfort or even basic decency. It was a place where cleanliness was more of an illusion than a reality.

We walked toward the stall furthest from the entry point—an intimidating tactic used during one-on-one shower sessions like this one, in case any inmate contemplated escape.

I felt the roughness of the guard's left palm once again as she pressed on my wrists with forceful strength. Her weight shifted as she used her other hand, concurrently, to grab the chain of keys from her left pant pocket and unfasten the handcuffs.

With one simple turn and click, the steel-binding handcuffs clunked into the tiled flooring as they slipped off. Without any cause for concern, she immediately jostled me through the stained curtain of the isolated stall.

"Hand me ya' clothes," she blatantly commanded as her voice echoed within the emptiness.

I promptly pulled off my vanilla-colored shirt and tossed it over the curtain.

"I said hand it to me," she attenuated. "Not throw it."

I rolled my eyes as I peeled off the specialty prison-made pants, socks, bra, and oversized granny panties. Balling them all up into a large group, I handed her the items.

"Three minutes," she insisted. "That's it."

I cautiously stepped closer to the shower, eyeing the white-crusted showerhead that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in decades. The moment I moved into range, the automated system kicked on with a sputter and hiss, spitting out water in weak, uneven streams.

I leaped back with a yelp as the first icy blast hit me, stabbing into my skin like tiny needles. The water pressure was pathetic, just a dribble that seemed to get colder the longer it ran. Still, I had no choice. Gritting my teeth, I leaned forward, angling my neck awkwardly to wet only my hair, keeping the rest of my body as far from the freezing stream as possible.

It wasn't refreshing—it was survival, and even then, barely.

I rinsed out the tangled mess of hair before reaching for the prepackaged "shampoo" in the white soap dispenser mounted on the center of the shower wall.

I pumped it five, maybe six times, then piled the gooey liquid onto my hair, scrambling to scrub it in before quickly ducking under the weak stream to rinse it off.

"Time's up!" The curtain swung open, and a rush of cold air hit me, sending a shiver down my spine.

"For Christ's sake, that wasn't even three minutes," I protested, wrapping my right arm around my chest as my left hand covered the pubic area.

"Ya' wanna leave this place or not?" She meaninglessly rebuttal.

I ridiculed her remark while being forcefully pulled out of what was considered enough time to 'take a shower.' She supervised my naked, water-dripping, body around the corner to a small closet-like changing room next door.

A tall edgeless mirror made up one full wall, with my original clothes all balled up in a clear plastic bag, dangling on a hook next to a used towel on the adjacent wall. It reminded me of those diminutive dressing rooms you would find in department stores like Macy's, there was even a ripped faux-leather stool.

I relentlessly grabbed the towel, flipped forward, and vigorously dried my hair upside-down.

I stood up, my eyes instinctively drawn to the long mirror across from me as I tried to finish drying off. The first glance was almost a shock—like a jolt to the heart. I didn't recognize the reflection staring back at me.

The softness I once had was gone, replaced by sharp, defined cheekbones that felt foreign, even cruel. My skin had become a map of new, unflattering tones, a patchwork of imperfections.

"Who are you?" The words slipped out, barely a whisper. She stared back at me—undone, worn down, as if the weight of a thousand battles had been etched into her features. She looked like someone who had faced the brutality of war head-on, and yet, somehow, remained standing, consumed by it all.

My eyes scoured away from the reflection, down onto the three pink wounds positioned on my chest; two just beneath my right collar bone and another adjacent, between my armpit and shoulder.

I've seen them there before, but not in harsh bright light. When touched, along with the imprint it made, I could still perceive the shock of each bullet penetrating through my flesh—the pain and aromatic scent playing on repeat with every nerve contact.

I instantly recoiled my pointer finger from the scar; immediately accepting the truth of my reflection: I survived death, and now it was time to move on and live.

I quickly changed into my previously-owned undergarments, heavy black fleece-lined leggings, a popcorn-knitted oversized sweater, and brown, UGG branded, slip-on boots.

The other belongings I had possession of before my persecution, such as my watch, mobile phone, and wallet were seemingly missing from the plastic bunch. Although I had no sentimental attachment to either, I was, however, curious to their whereabouts.

"It took ya' long enough," the guard grunted as I stepped back into the hallway. Without warning, she grabbed my right wrist and yanked me forward toward the main entrance.

"Hey, I can walk on my own," I snapped, trying to wrench my wrist free from her grip. But she only tightened her hold, her silence louder than any words could have been. The message was clear—don't resist.

As we neared the main lobby, she rocked my arm toward the course of the front podium. I stood in front, while she stepped behind it.

"Where's everyone?" I wondered while visually witnessing my echo bounce around empty waiting-room seats.

"Visitations ain't open yet," she replied while raffling through several stacks of paper.

"Get here," she called out while picking up a chewed pen that was fastened with a shoestring onto the podium.

I approached the rear and grabbed the short-stringed pen from her hand.

"Sign."

I quickly glanced down at the paper. It was an official prison release form.

There was the usual language of legal nonsense such as 'you are now no longer part of the city's property...you are your own person...we are no longer legally responsible for you'...bla bla bla. Suddenly there was the declaration, 'I formally consent to the declarations above' followed by an empty line for a signature and date.

"Wait, I didn't get all my stuff back," I noted to her before considering signing off on anything. "I'm still missing things."

"Any loss or damaged items are not the faults of Cook County's Correctional Facilities," she recited. "If ya' returned items are not satisfactory, ya' must file a formal complaint to the Cook County Sheriff's office located at fif'dy West Washington Street in the Loop."

"You get this a lot, I bet." Saying with slight exaggeration as I signed the stupid document. I somewhat guessed that the items were most likely misplaced or sold off by the guards themselves.

"Wrong," she said flatly, pointing to the date next to my signature.

I froze, confused. "What?" I stammered, trying to make sense of what she meant.

"Cross that out. It's June 12, 2017," she sighed, her voice dripping with impatience.

I blinked, my mind racing. "What?" I muttered, the memory of my sentencing still clear as day. Six months—that's what I remembered.

I was admitted on December 18th, spent fifty-seven days in the cell, then another hundred-and-eighteen in solitary. It should have been July first, or at least that's what I had scratched down.

"June 12, 2017," she repeated, her tone unwavering. "Now, write that down so I can file it correctly."

"I'm being released early?" It didn't make sense. I vigilantly counted my days, kept track of meals, and made markings on the mattress, how did I possibly overcount by a month?

"The warden wants you out." There was a momentary pause before she pointed to the paper once more, "now ya' gonna' date it or not?"

Speculations emerged as I penned down the accurate date above the mass of the scribble. I was most surely appreciative of my untimely discharge, don't get me wrong, but I was curious to know if additional factors were in play.

"Does anyone else know I'm getting out today?" Questioning as I set the pen down on the podium and glanced at her for further direction.

She handed me a commuter card before clasping a concealed switch, positioned on the bottom of the podium.

"That card's good enough for two bus or train transfers, that's how you gonna get a ride," she said concurrently as a buzzing static noise rang in our ears.

The mirror-reflected front entrance opened, gradually letting in the heated summertime air.

"The 743 PACE bus will take ya' to the nearest Metro train, that's about two blocks east. Don't ask what time it comes 'cause I dunno."

"Thanks?" I willingly pivoted forward, feeling the intensity of her glimpse watching me as I glanced at the entrance.

"Go," she continued. "Don't give me a reason to lock ya' ass in here any longer for misconduct."

With eagerness, I proceed forward. My neck and joints felt loose, more flexible, as the clean scent of freedom filled my lungs and fueled my body. However, there was one more thing holding me back from crossing the threshold...

"Fuck you, Margaret," I beckoned before crossing the prison vestibule.

I turned about, witnessing the guard's dark complexion turn a much paler shade, as every minuscule detail I had previously studied was now wiped clear from its place.

Yes, I knew her name: Margaret Jill Swanson.

I knew where she lived too: 354 East 14th Street, apartment 3A.

I even fucking knew the damn shampoo brand she bought at the local CVS two blocks away from her place: Passion Coconut Swave

Solitary or not, I was still good at doing My. Fucking. Job.

Looking straight at her, I flung the most tenacious non-verbal 'fuck you' hand gesture I've performed. Fear saturated her eyes as I backed away, crossing the threshold, into freedom.

I proceeded outside following the gravel-paved empty parking lot terrain to the central road...

The early daybreak clouds moved at a constant pace giving off the sporadic when-needed cooldown, but it wasn't sufficient, the sun proceeded to peek its beams onto the drying ground.

June in Chicago was brutal with the additional humidity and moisture in the air, I was just about ready to strip down and walk with nothing but my undergarments when I noticed a large vehicle appearing from the reflected waves down the furthest peak of the street.

It swerved slightly off the main road as it veered closer, riding slowly and strictly on the emergency lane.

Quickly, I made my way off the pavement, remaining still on the grass with hopes that the vehicle and the idiotic driver behind it, would ride past.

As the black SUV came closer, it slowly began to yield, ultimately coming to a halt. A duel honk vibrated the silence around us.

Cautiously, I began approaching the SUV with the internal assumption that it was meant for me. An equivalent weight drove the passenger door as I had placed my grip around the handle.

A familiar grimace filled my view, Marco Montanari was leaning forward from the driver's seat.

"Hey Kitten," he spoke, lending out a hand. "Miss me?"