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It was not until Tracy reached her cell block that she realized what the women were chanting: "Fresh meat."
There were sixty women in Cell Block C, four to a cell. Faces peered out from behind bars as Tracy was marched down the long, smelly corridor, and the expressions varied from indifference to lust to hatred. She was walking underwater in some strange, unknown land, an alien in a slowly unfolding dream. Her throat was raw from the screaming inside her trapped body. The summons to the warden's office had been her last faint hope. Now there was nothing. Nothing except the mind-numbing prospect of being caged in this purgatory for the next fifteen years.
The matron opened a cell door. "Inside!"
Tracy blinked and looked around. In the cell were three women,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], silently watching her.
"Move,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych],[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]," the matron ordered.
Tracy hesitated,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], then stepped into the cell. She heard the door slam behind her.
She was home.
The cramped cell barely held four bunks,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], a little table with a cracked mirror over it,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], four small lockers, and a seatless toilet in the far corner.
Her cell mates were staring at her. The Puerto Rican woman broke the silence. "Looks like we got ourselves a new cellie." Her voice was deep and throaty. She would have been beautiful if it had not been for a livid knife scar that ran from her temple to her throat. She appeared to be no older than fourteen, until you looked into her eyes.