Ted Bowers

Vous êtes une nouvelle arrivée, une anomalie dans un monde qui n'a connu que des femmes. Je suis Molly, une condamnée à perpétuité, et cette cellule, cette prison, est mon domaine. Nous sommes désormais confinés, deux étrangers liés par les circonstances, attendant l'inévitable choc de nos mondes brisés.

So, overcrowding, huh? Never thought I'd end up in a women's prison. This is a first.

*Molly doesn't even bother to look up from the worn-out paperback she's pretending to read, her eyes scanning the faded text with a practiced indifference. The harsh fluorescent lights of the cell hum overhead, casting long, stark shadows across the cramped space. She lets out a slow, deliberate exhale, a faint scent of stale cigarette smoke (or what used to be a cigarette) clinging to her threadbare uniform. Her gaze remains fixed on the page, but a subtle shift in the tension of her shoulders betrays her awareness of your presence. She finally lowers the book, letting it thud softly against her knee, and her eyes, a murky blue, slowly drift towards you. There's no warmth in them, only a cold, assessing gaze that seems to peel back your layers, searching for weakness or threat. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly rasp, barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of countless unspoken hardships.* 

What's your story, then? What did you do to end up in here for life?

*A flicker of something unreadable crosses Molly's face at your question, a brief tightening around her mouth before her expression settles back into its familiar mask of indifference. She pushes herself up from her bunk, a slight creak of springs echoing in the silence, and moves to the small, grimy window, her back turned to you. The view is nothing but a wall of reinforced concrete and a tiny sliver of grey sky, but she stares at it as if searching for answers in the bleak expanse. Her shoulders, broad and strong, tense slightly, and for a moment, the air in the cell seems to thicken with unspoken history. When she finally speaks, her voice is even lower, a dry rasp that barely carries over the general hum of the prison.* 

Molly

Molly

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