Last Chance

Staring disapprovingly, the blank prison walls swallow her whole and spit her out, over and over, until there is almost nothing left. A lock of matted, mushroom-coloured hair falls into her face; she brushes it back with one hand. It slips over one eye. Screaming in frustration, she entwines her fingers around the tangled clump of hair and tugs hard. The tuft floats to the ground.
The young woman curls up into foetal position and shuts her eyes, struggling to block out the oppressiveness of the four walls which, over time, have become her bullies, her tormentors. She opens her mouth to scream again, revealing several fissured, yellowing teeth, dripping with saliva and pent-up adrenaline. Nothing comes out. Chewing her already mangled lower lip, she starts to scratch another mark in the concrete wall with a jagged fingernail. It is one among many; her days spent trapped inside the cell blend into one another, like drops of rain out at sea.
At the jangle of a prison officer's keys, she rises to her feet. Sleeping on nothing but a foam mattress for months on end has given her a stooped gait. Her coordination is erratic, as though she is out of sync with the rest of the world. Does she regret what she did? No, she tells the despairing counsellor every fortnight. But deep down, she knows that isn't true; every day, those cold fingers of guilt inch their way just a fraction further up her spine.
“Visitor for you.” Smiling grotesquely, the prison guard fumbles for his keys and unlocks the door. He has thinning ginger hair and sagging jowls. A yellowing complexion from years of smoking add a few unwanted years onto his age. It was his brusque nature that landed him the job as a prison officer. The woman in the cell knows him only too well and spits at him. The globule lands just centimetres away from his boot. He glowers.
A black stiletto heel appears next to the guard's chunky boot. Catherine McCall walks hesitantly into the cell and gently closes the door behind her. Dressed in a trouser suit which screams law and order, the middle aged woman exudes confidence. Despite being slathered in several layers of makeup, she has a naturally pretty face. The makeup does not have the effect she was hoping for, serving only to draw attention to the fact that she is trying to conceal her age. Her piercing eyes, both blue and as chilling as ice, match her daughter's. Attempting eye contact is difficult. She tries to smile. She has one hour to enjoy; she has one hour to endure.
“Darling.” Her only child stares blankly ahead. She tries again. This time, she receives a response. Her daughter swears, spitting the word out like it’s a piece of regurgitated food. Catherine flinches at the coarse language. The curse rebounds off the wall before landing at her feet. It glares at Catherine maliciously, laughing at her.
Once upon a time, Ramona McCall was a different woman: beautiful, bubbly and bright. She spoke eloquently, she chatted with ease, she loved to sing, she went to church every Sunday, she always had a smile on her face. Now, she is just an empty shell. The lies started. The unbearable silence. The atmosphere at the dinner table was always weighed down with untold truths and secrets. Soon after that, she no longer had a place at the dinner table.
Slipping silently down her left cheek, a tear leaks from Ramona's eye; it is a small fragment of emotion that was never supposed to escape. Why did she come? Catherine wonders. She longs to comfort her daughter but there is an invisible barrier between them which is perhaps not quite so invisible any more.
"You were once such a bright girl," Catherine murmurs.
"I'm still me," Ramona rasps. Her voice comes out sounding like a door whose hinges haven't been oiled in a decade. Catherine just shakes her head and scrapes her chair back, then rises to her feet. The harsh noise dents the smooth sheen of silence. She doesn't need the hour. She departs without a goodbye, leaving nothing but a cloud of strong perfume in her wake. The smell evokes a wave of nostalgia. Ramona knows she won't be coming back.
Once the sound of her mothers black stiletto heels have faded away into nothing, she curls up into foetal position and cries. Staring disapprovingly, the blank prison walls swallow her whole.

Reviews

[Jake]

Well written. You capture the angst of helplessness in confinement very well. I noticed a spelling error ('foetal position'), and you mention that the girl has 'erratic coordination'. Would something like 'jerky, awkward movement' or 'erratic movement' more completely capture the idea behind it. I also enjoyed how you showed the sadness of those outside the prison at seeing their loved ones 'reduced' to incarceration. Overall, a gripping read. More, please.
P.S. Would you mind reviewing some of my work?

[DayDreamer]

thank you! and I'm british haha foetal is the english spelling! hmm I agree with that actually, not sure if coordination was the right word.... I will keep writing, don't worry!
Sure will do :)

[Jake]

OK. Stupid Americans...you really feel out of place anywhere else. Went out of country, and I heard a bunch of Spanish speakers griping about "touristas". Hahaha. And I really, really like your work. Things like these help bring me back to Earth. Sometimes I feel like I live in my own little world...

[DayDreamer]

Wow its amazing and inspiring to hear that from someone.. Thank you

[Philip Muls]

You do an excellent job describing the despair of being locked up. The oppressive walls, the guilt and frustration. The anger, the nostalgia. Well done.