THE FIRST DAY
They shaved my head. Said it was for hygiene.
I think it was to remind me that I was no longer mine.
They took my bra. Said it could be used for hanging.
I think it was to remind me what it felt like to be helpless.
They gave me a name—726419. A number, stitched on a uniform two sizes too big, and a pair of plastic shoes that blistered within the hour.
I’d been in prison before. Not like this, no. Not as an inmate. But I’d walked these halls before—once with a camera crew, twice with lawyers, always with a notepad in hand.
Back then, I’d written about “inhumane conditions.”
Now, I was the headline.
“Investigative Journalist Accused of Leaking State Secrets.”
“National Security at Risk: Reporter or Traitor?”
The news cycle moved fast. By the time I stepped into that intake room, no one outside remembered my name. Inside, everyone already knew it.
“She’s the one who snitched,” I heard someone whisper as they handed me a brown tray of watery soup.
I didn’t respond. You don’t respond on your first day. You listen. You measure. You survive.
The Cell
My cellmate didn’t speak for three days.
Her name was Mali, maybe forty-five. A scar split her forehead like a second parting. She sat by the toilet all night whispering to something in her hand. I thought it was a rosary. Later, I saw it was just thread.
On the fourth night, she spoke without looking at me.
“You’re the one they said put that girl inside. The university one.”
I didn’t answer. Because she was right. Or at least, they thought so.
And that girl? The one I’d allegedly exposed? She was here too.
Somewhere beyond these walls.
Somewhere screaming.
