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Kelly smacked her lips grimly as she sat herself up on her pathetic excuse for a bed. She could still taste last night's dinner (chili and stale bread) in her mouth, and it felt like it was decaying between her teeth. This was the price of not being allowed to have a toothbrush, she supposed, and it was one of many prices she had to pay within the walls of Lockwood Women's Prison, a maximum security facility where poor Kelly had been sentenced to spend 20 years of her miserable life.

She looked at the wall next to her bed and softly counted the scratches on it to herself. 198 scratches so far. She had been a resident of her cell for nearly 200 days.

She still had more than 19 years to go before she saw the outside world again.

She sighed and rubbed her face with her grubby hands. She had resigned herself to her fate a long time ago, but that didn't make serving her time any easier.

Maybe that was because Lockwood Women's Prison was one of the strictest correctional facilities in the nation.

She stood up, giving her large bottom a scratch and stretching out her arms. She could smell the putrid odor coming from her pits as she did so (Lockwood didn't allow deodorant either). It wad a terrible thing when you reeked enough to make yourself gag, but it was still another fifteen days until her next shower day. The best she could do until then was wash herself in the sink, which never did much good, since the soap she was given in her cell was rough and scentless.

"How did you let things go this way, Kelly?" She had a habit of muttering this question to herself every morning, and every time the answer was the same: stupidity and greed. Well, that and perhaps a really crappy lawyer. A lawyer who promised her she would avoid prison time if she plead guilty.

She was struggling to figure out what time it was. There was no clock in her cell, but all of the prisoners appeared to still be snoring, so she knew it must be early. Still, it would be time for head count before she knew it, so she opted against trying to go back to sleep. What would be the point? All of her dreams these days involved her being locked up. She couldn't even remember the last time she had dreamed about anything other than being in the hoosegow.

Her big belly let out a demanding gurgle. Without hesitation she let out a loud fart (it smelled like last night's chili). Kelly had always had a problem with gas, but before her incarceration, it was something she was extremely embarrassed about. In those days, when she had felt the need to rip one out, she had made an effort (sometimes not successfully) to run into a bathroom before she did so. It was something that brought great amusement to her family.

In prison, however, such modesty wasn't possible, and flatulence could be heard pretty much everywhere. It was even common practice in the mess hall during meals or on the rare occasion when the inmates were allowed to shower. So when Kelly farted (which was often). she might sometimes get a crass remark from a guard, but for the most part, it was the social norm in Lockwood. It was disgusting, but also one of the more liberating aspects of prison life.

God, her life had changed. She imagined once again what she would be doing with the $80,000 she had stolen right now if she had never been caught. Perhaps she would've spent it on a tropical cruise, sipping on an overpriced drink with an umbrella in it, watching her daughter scamper around barefoot on the deck while her husband rubbed lotion on her (an unlikely scenario, given how prone he was to sea sickness, but still...). Maybe she would've purchased a new car and would be using it to go to spas and parties with her girlfriends. Hell, she might've even been selfless with it and put into her daughter's college fund or given it to the poor and less fortunate.

Okay, she probably wouldn't have done that. She didn't become a criminal to turn into fucking Robin Hood.

"You're a terrible person, Kelly," she whispered as she laid herself back down on her cot, and it was true. Kelly was an awful human being who deserved every misfortune prison life gave her. Who other than an evil bitch would put her family through the hell she placed hers through for no reason other than personal gain? She rested her head in her hands and stared up at the ceiling, counting the tiles yet again just to give her something to pass the time until the guards provided the inmates with their overly rude wake-up call. Whenever Kelly was asleep at the time of head count, the officers would bark at her that she was a "lazy fatass" ad a "slobby pig." She supposed that such insults were to be expected in prison, but she tried to be awake for role call as often as she could to avoid having them thrown at her anyway.

She had reached 69 ceiling tiles in her count by the time she heard that familiar wretched buzzer which had greeted her every morning since she was put in prison. It was like having an alarm clock on your nightstand with no snooze alarm that you could never, ever turn off. Not wanting any trouble, Kelly picked her striped hat up from her pillow and put it on, obediently getting to her bare feet and ready to robotically recite the final digits of her prisoner number. All around her, she could hear the inmates complaining ("Not already!" "God, can't a bitch get any sleep in this joint?") as they were forced up from their slumbers prematurely, not wanting to endure the military-style routine they had to do every single day (and they had to do it twice, as head count also took place before lights out).

How Kelly longed for the Sunday mornings from what felt like a lifetime ago. Sleeping until noon. Coming downstairs in her robe to coffee. Watching the afternoon talk shows. It wasn't like her life had been free of cares back then, but compared to now, it sure seemed like it.

One by one, each prisoner was counted, until finally a burly guard arrived at Kelly's cell. "Name?"

"Stone, Kelly. 101901."

The guard did a quick check off a clipboard and moved on to the next unfortunate soul. Kelly, however, had to remain standing straight until the full head count was done for everyone else. For Kelly was no longer a person anymore, but an object. A number. Property of the state. And another miserable day in Lockwood Women's Prison was just beginning for her.

Description
Kelly smacked her lips grimly as she sat herself up on her pathetic excuse for a bed. She could still taste last night's dinner (chili and stale bread) in her mouth, and it felt like it was decaying between her teeth. This was the price of not being allowed to have a toothbrush, she supposed, and it was one of many prices she had to pay within the walls of Lockwood Women's Prison, a maximum security facility where poor Kelly had been sentenced to spend 20 years of her miserable life.

She looked at the wall next to her bed and softly counted the scratches on it to herself. 198 scratches so far. She had been a resident of her cell for nearly 200 days.

She still had more than 19 years to go before she saw the outside world again.

She sighed and rubbed her face with her grubby hands. She had resigned herself to her fate a long time ago, but that didn't make serving her time any easier.

Maybe that was because Lockwood Women's Prison was one of the strictest correctional facilities in the nation.

She stood up, giving her large bottom a scratch and stretching out her arms. She could smell the putrid odor coming from her pits as she did so (Lockwood didn't allow deodorant either). It wad a terrible thing when you reeked enough to make yourself gag, but it was still another fifteen days until her next shower day. The best she could do until then was wash herself in the sink, which never did much good, since the soap she was given in her cell was rough and scentless.

"How did you let things go this way, Kelly?" She had a habit of muttering this question to herself every morning, and every time the answer was the same: stupidity and greed. Well, that and perhaps a really crappy lawyer. A lawyer who promised her she would avoid prison time if she plead guilty.

She was struggling to figure out what time it was. There was no clock in her cell, but all of the prisoners appeared to still be snoring, so she knew it must be early. Still, it would be time for head count before she knew it, so she opted against trying to go back to sleep. What would be the point? All of her dreams these days involved her being locked up. She couldn't even remember the last time she had dreamed about anything other than being in the hoosegow.

Her big belly let out a demanding gurgle. Without hesitation she let out a loud fart (it smelled like last night's chili). Kelly had always had a problem with gas, but before her incarceration, it was something she was extremely embarrassed about. In those days, when she had felt the need to rip one out, she had made an effort (sometimes not successfully) to run into a bathroom before she did so. It was something that brought great amusement to her family.

In prison, however, such modesty wasn't possible, and flatulence could be heard pretty much everywhere. It was even common practice in the mess hall during meals or on the rare occasion when the inmates were allowed to shower. So when Kelly farted (which was often). she might sometimes get a crass remark from a guard, but for the most part, it was the social norm in Lockwood. It was disgusting, but also one of the more liberating aspects of prison life.

God, her life had changed. She imagined once again what she would be doing with the $80,000 she had stolen right now if she had never been caught. Perhaps she would've spent it on a tropical cruise, sipping on an overpriced drink with an umbrella in it, watching her daughter scamper around barefoot on the deck while her husband rubbed lotion on her (an unlikely scenario, given how prone he was to sea sickness, but still...). Maybe she would've purchased a new car and would be using it to go to spas and parties with her girlfriends. Hell, she might've even been selfless with it and put into her daughter's college fund or given it to the poor and less fortunate.

Okay, she probably wouldn't have done that. She didn't become a criminal to turn into fucking Robin Hood.

"You're a terrible person, Kelly," she whispered as she laid herself back down on her cot, and it was true. Kelly was an awful human being who deserved every misfortune prison life gave her. Who other than an evil bitch would put her family through the hell she placed hers through for no reason other than personal gain? She rested her head in her hands and stared up at the ceiling, counting the tiles yet again just to give her something to pass the time until the guards provided the inmates with their overly rude wake-up call. Whenever Kelly was asleep at the time of head count, the officers would bark at her that she was a "lazy fatass" ad a "slobby pig." She supposed that such insults were to be expected in prison, but she tried to be awake for role call as often as she could to avoid having them thrown at her anyway.

She had reached 69 ceiling tiles in her count by the time she heard that familiar wretched buzzer which had greeted her every morning since she was put in prison. It was like having an alarm clock on your nightstand with no snooze alarm that you could never, ever turn off. Not wanting any trouble, Kelly picked her striped hat up from her pillow and put it on, obediently getting to her bare feet and ready to robotically recite the final digits of her prisoner number. All around her, she could hear the inmates complaining ("Not already!" "God, can't a bitch get any sleep in this joint?") as they were forced up from their slumbers prematurely, not wanting to endure the military-style routine they had to do every single day (and they had to do it twice, as head count also took place before lights out).

How Kelly longed for the Sunday mornings from what felt like a lifetime ago. Sleeping until noon. Coming downstairs in her robe to coffee. Watching the afternoon talk shows. It wasn't like her life had been free of cares back then, but compared to now, it sure seemed like it.

One by one, each prisoner was counted, until finally a burly guard arrived at Kelly's cell. "Name?"

"Stone, Kelly. 101901."

The guard did a quick check off a clipboard and moved on to the next unfortunate soul. Kelly, however, had to remain standing straight until the full head count was done for everyone else. For Kelly was no longer a person anymore, but an object. A number. Property of the state. And another miserable day in Lockwood Women's Prison was just beginning for her.