Orange Is The New Black Real Life Novels & Stories

"Though I have to say, even facing prison, you're still the best thing that ever happened to me." "I'm going to be the wife in federal prison. That's going to be great for your image." "My image is already destroyed. Might as well commit to being the CEO who stood by his wife through everything." He kissed her forehead. "Besides, it'll give me an excuse to wear orange when I visit. I look terrible in orange." "You look good in everything and you know it." "True. But orange is pushing it." Christopher burst through the door, waving his phone. "We have a problem. Actually, we have twelve problems, but one of them is urgent."

Marcus Blackwood stepped out of the halfway house on a crisp October morning in upstate New York, carrying nothing but a duffel bag and the weight of six years behind bars. The air smelled of wet leaves and distant woodsmoke nothing like the metallic tang of Rikers or the stale bleach of federal lockup. At thirty-eight now, the deceptive smile that once charmed investors and mistresses had thinned into something quieter, more cautious. His blond hair was cropped short, gray threading the temples; his once-reckless eyes carried shadows that no amount of therapy could fully erase.

The steel door of the transport van slammed shut, throwing me into total darkness. Every bump in the road jostled my handcuffed wrists, sending sharp pains up my arms. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the fire burning in my chest. Three weeks past… For three long weeks, I sat in a damp, cold cell at the Blackwood Maximum Security Prison. I had gone from the city’s top prosecutor, a woman who wore designer clothes and commanded respect in every courtroom, to Inmate 402. My emerald evening gown was gone, replaced by a rough, oversized orange jumpsuit.

Not regular detainees. Real criminals. One woman covered in tattoos stared at her through the bars and laughed softly. Another inmate yelled nonsense at the ceiling. Mallory stopped walking immediately. “No.” The officer looked back. “Keep moving.” “You’re putting me down here?” “Orders.” Mallory’s breathing changed instantly. “No, no, no— there’s been a mistake.” The officer unlocked a cell. Mallory stepped backwards immediately. “I didn’t kill anybody!” “Inside.” “You cannot seriously think I belong here!”

Somewhere were women reading articles about the bet and seeing themselves in Grace's story, seeing their own manipulations reflected in my documented strategy. And somewhere, maybe in Oregon, maybe in Portland or Cannon Beach or some small town I'd never heard of, Grace was building a new life. Pregnant or not pregnant, I didn't even know. Gone from my life completely except as evidence of my worst self, as the person who'd seen through me when I couldn't see through myself.

Satisfied with my haul I dig in, trying to focus on the TV drama than my real life drama. Who knew escaping prison would create so much drama? The drama wasn’t even 100% the prison's fault, it was old people sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. On the screen Spencer is going through a mental breakdown, constantly taking pills and not sleeping. Even though I was not taking pills, the mental breakdown felt too close to home, I mute the TV and focus on my breakfast. The first thing to disappear from my plate was the toast along with the first of many cups of coffee. Moving onto the orange I peel it slowly, imagining it being the flesh of Alpha Simon, a laugh bubbles up my throat, su