House of Correction

black tee shirt riding up to show a ring in the belly button. Finally, a smooth oval face, long thick dark hair with a fringe, circular hoops in her earlobes. She was very tall, maybe six feet, and looked strong; in her late twenties perhaps, although it was hard to judge. Tabitha hadn’t seen her last night, not really. She’d just climbed into her bed and pulled the blanket over her head and lain there.
“Hi,” she said now.
The woman didn’t reply. She went across the cell and opened the little curtain.
That was another thing. The cell had been built for one person. Now it had bunk beds, two chairs, two narrow tables, two tiny chests, a sink and a toilet with a little curtain rigged up in front of it. The woman tugged her trousers down and sat on the bowl. Her face was quite expressionless; it was as if she were alone. Tabitha turned to the wall, wrapping herself in the blanket so that she couldn’t hear.
The toilet flushed and taps were running. Tabitha waited till the woman was done, then climbed out of her bed and washed herself under her arms, splashed water on her face. Then she pulled on canvas trousers, a tee shirt and a sweatshirt. She slid out her sneakers from under the bed.
“I’m Tabitha,” she said.
The woman was methodically brushing her hair. She looked down at her. She must be almost a foot taller than me, thought Tabitha.
“You told me that last night.”
There was a pause.
“What’s your name?” asked Tabitha.
“Michaela. I told you that as well.”
There was a rattling sound at the door and it was unlocked and the door pushed inward. A stringy, colorless woman was standing next to a trolley with two stainless steel urns on it.
“Tea,” said Michaela.
“Tea,” repeated Tabitha.
The woman filled two mugs and handed them across.
Tabitha’s breakfast pack was on the table. She opened it and laid it out: a plastic bowl, a plastic spoon, a miniature pack of Rice Krispies, a small carton of UHT milk, two slices of brown bread wrapped in polythene, foil-wrapped butter, a little tub of raspberry jam. There was no knife so she spread the butter and the jam on the bread with the handle of her spoon.
She couldn’t remember when she had last had a meal and she ate the sandwiches in quick bites. The bread was dry but she helped it down with gulps of her tea. She tipped the cereal into the bowl and poured the milk over it. The milk was warm and had a sour under-taste. It almost made her gag, but she ate it all and when she was finished she tipped the bowl to drink the last of the milk. She still felt hungry.
She sat on the toilet behind the thin curtain. She felt like an animal. As she sat there, her trousers around her ankles, she felt as if lights were flashing and there was a ringing in her ears. She suddenly thought of smashing her face into the wall, over and over again, something that might bring relief, that might make all of this stop.
Instead, she wiped herself, pulled up her trousers, washed her hands and sat back on her bed against the wall. She didn’t have anything to read and she didn’t have anything to do. The day felt shapeless and vast. Anyway, if she had sat there reading, that would feel like this was now her life instead of a nightmarish mistake, a mistake that would be corrected when everyone realized that she didn’t belong here and let her go.
Michaela was leaning over the sink, brushing her teeth. She was taking a long time over it. She spat into the sink, bent down and drank straight from the tap. She stood up, leaned her head back and gargled noisily. Tabitha felt like everything was turned up too high: the noises, the smells, the physical proximity of the other woman. Michaela pulled her hair back in a ponytail, then walked out of the cell. A few seconds later she walked back in. She leaned back on the table and looked down at Tabitha.
“Don’t just sit there.”
Tabitha didn’t reply. It felt too much of an effort.
“It’s worse if you do that. I know, I’ve been here for fourteen months.”
“What did you do?”
Michaela stared at her, her face quite expressionless. “Did they give you the bit of paper with all the shit about exercise and showers and when the library’s open?”
“I’ve got it somewhere,” said Tabitha. “But I don’t care about all that. It’s just a mistake.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t think you can just hide in here and get through without anyone noticing. It’s like a school playground. The little girl who stands in the corner wanting to be left alone, she’s the one who gets picked on. You need to get up. You need to get up and get a shower.”
“I don’t feel like it. Not today.”
Michaela reached under the little table that was reserved for Tabitha.
“Here.” She tossed Tabitha the towel she’d been issued on her arrival. “You take the towel and the soap and you have a shower.”
She went out of the cell, leaving the door open. Tabitha got to her feet. She was cold to her bones. She looked out of the little barred window again: the sky was white. It might snow, she thought. That would be something: feathery flakes falling thickly just a few inches from where she stood, covering everything in a blanket of unfamiliarity.
She took the towel and the soap from the side of the sink and walked into the central hall that was echoey with sounds: footfalls and doors and voices raised, laughter, coughs, the slap of a mop. A very thin woman with long white hair and her face a muddle of wrinkles hobbled toward her. She wore a thick brown dress to her shins and her hands were swollen with arthritis. She was holding a bundle of papers clutched to her chest.
“You’re here too,” she