Evangeline

Three months later. 

The prison's visiting room is worse than I imagined. It's basically pale and lifeless concrete walls carrying the stale scent of bleach and rusted metal. 

One of the prison guards leads me past the crowded hall into a private cubicle. Hesitantly, I plop down on the seat. My fingers curl into fists on my thighs, trying to keep my feet from bouncing. 

The truth is, I'm nervous. Maybe a little too nervous to come face to face with that inhumane bitch that ...