The Inmate Book Novels & Stories

Because the most dangerous thing in that building had not only been the inmate in cuffs. It had been the moment the therapist stopped wanting him better… …and started wanting him exactly as he was. **End of Story Sixteen: Unreformable**

Tuesday Night. NYPD Detention Facility, Manhattan. The holding cell smelled of bleach, old sweat, and despair. Selene sat huddled in the corner of the metal bench, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her grey suit the one she had worn to court thinking she would walk out a free woman—was wrinkled and stained. Her hair was a matted mess, the elastic tie long gone. She wasn't the polished executive anymore. She was just Inmate 8940.

She waited for this moment when we would see again, because all these years she had been building firm resolve around her fences. We are supposed to have a meeting in the main house and I'm just sitting on the bed, looking through my files for where it went wrong. When you spend so much time in prison, people see you differently. It does not matter if you were guilty or not, what everyone knows is that you have lived a different life. You have lived amongst rapists, murderers, hit men and you have lived like them. You are an exconvict.

"Damn, she's fine!" "Hey baby, Christmas came early!" The guard shoved me toward a cell. "Bottom bunk. Try not to get killed before dinner." She left me in a cell block full of men who looked at me like prey. Hours crawled by. Then yard time came. The yard was worse. Sixty male inmates scattered across concrete. I pressed against the wall, trying to be invisible but it didn't work. Three men headed straight for me. Big. Tattooed. Predators. "You're that heiress, right?" the leader said, gold tooth catching sunlight. "The one who killed her rich husband?"

"It doesn't matter at all." He looked back at the precinct. Through the tinted glass of the front doors, he could see the booking desk. He imagined Vivian standing there—stripped of her jewelry, her phone, her power. He imagined the ink on her fingers, the mugshot camera flashing, the sterile dehumanization of the system she had tried to weaponize against them. She was just a number now. Inmate 8492. "She tried to make me feel small," Noah said, turning back to his family. "She tried to tell me I was a product. A transaction. She thought that if she took away my DNA connection to the West name, I would crumble."

Here, he was just another criminal wearing prison clothes. Another inmate stretched lazily on the upper bunk before smirking toward Pete. “You should’ve just divorced the woman peacefully instead of trying to kill her,” he mocked carelessly. “Exactly,” another voice added. “Now look where rage brought you.” Pete’s breathing slowly became heavier. His fingers tightened harder around the newspaper until the edges crumpled further inside his grip. Still, he remained quiet. The inmates continued laughing among themselves while staring openly at him now like he was entertainment meant to ease their boredom.

The cell smelled of sweat and rust. A man was sent to prison. The cell had bunk beds, and strangely, the guy on the top bunk seemed to be mute—he never spoke a word. Not a greeting, not a complaint, not even a grunt when the lights went out. He just lay there, a shape in the darkness, breathing slowly. The man on the bottom bunk—let's call him Marcus—tried twice to start a conversation. The first time, he asked, "What are you in for?" Silence. The second time, he offered a piece of his bread. The top bunk didn't move. After that, Marcus stopped trying.

I hum, shrugging my shoulders. Sitting on the prison seat, I was having a nice breakfast and minding my own business, reading a book with a cup of tea next to me. I’ve spent my last one month here, and I’m not socializing with people. I prefer to borrow some books at the library, read them on my bunk, and not messing around. I had a couple of friends in C block and one of them is my bunkmate, Adele. I’m not too close to them, I talked to them sometimes, but Adele is my new friend.

“What is wrong with you? How can you do this? You're deranged. You’re evil. You know that? You're a bunch of goddamned monsters. Idiots. You are all going to burn in hell. And I will still see my son, one way or another." She was soon at a police station escorted by two female constables one in front another behind. They led her towards a large metallic door. Becky followed in silence. The officer in front took a bunch of keys and choosing one of them she inserted it into a massive padlock at twisted it. The padlock clicked open and she unbolted the door before wrenching it open. She stood aside as the other officer ushered her into the cellar space. It was a dark room and the air inside was

Vanya POV I sat on the cold metal bench in my federal holding cell at three in the morning, unable to sleep despite the exhaustion weighing down every part of my body. The orange jumpsuit they had given me smelled like industrial detergent and defeat, and the fluorescent lights never turned off, making it impossible to forget where I was even for a moment. "Vanya Reed, inmate 47892," the guard had said when they processed me earlier that evening. "You're being held pending trial for money laundering, conspiracy to commit fraud, and operating a criminal enterprise."