In the cold winter of December, with bone-chilling cold piercing through, Hattie caught a fever all night in the toilet due to being drenched in cold water. Despite attempts to wake her up with cold water, the prison guard eventually arrived and sent her to the infirmary for a brief examination.
Several fingers were injured, with her right pinky finger completely smashed, necessitating the removal of the shattered bones and flesh to facilitate healing.
Violence was not uncommon in the prison, but this was unprecedentedly severe. Apart from multiple injuries on her hands, there were also numerous wounds on her body. An examination revealed she had suffered a miscarriage, with blood still trickling down below.
After three days in the infirmary, Hattie was taken back by the guard to a newly assigned room. Despite the change, she continued to be subjected to beatings. The reason behind the assaults was undoubtedly the reminders from outside to “take care” of her.
Two years later, at Peachshire Town Women’s Prison, Hattie was wrapped in winter clothes and a blanket, trembling so intensely that the bed creaked softly.
One of the inmates on the bunk above couldn’t tolerate it and grabbed Hattie’s hair, slamming her head against the wall.
“D*mn it, can you stop moving? I can’t sleep!”
Hattie let out a faint groan, her teeth clenched tightly.
The inmate wanted to continue the beating but locked eyes with Hattie.
What kind of eyes were those? Empty and devoid of any light within the darkness, resembling a puppet, they sent a shiver down one’s spine.
Her forehead bore some redness, and it hurt, but over the years, she had grown accustomed to it.
With a faint glance, Hattie lay back on the bed.
Winter was always the toughest to endure. Two years ago, around this time, she had just entered the prison and was ambushed, resulting in broken fingers that shattered not just her future but also her pride.
Hattie used to be immune to the cold, but the constant beatings over the years had weakened her bones. With no proper rest, the cold weather now caused severe bone pain, trembling uncontrollably.
With closed eyes, Hattie curled up in the stiff bedding.
Falling into a daze only to be woken by the cold, Hattie found it hard to sleep today, counting the days like clockwork.
If she remembered correctly, once tonight passed, she would be released tomorrow.
In the winter, sunrise was late. As the guard unlocked her door at 7 a. m., he said, “3073, today is your release day. Get ready.” With that, he placed a bag on the ground.
Opening the bag, Hattie found her clothes worn before entering prison. Her lifeless eyes finally held a glimmer of light.
Forcing a smile, Hattie’s eyes welled with tears even though she wanted to laugh. She wiped away the tears, putting on the clothes from the bag.
A black down jacket, a warm sweater, and thermal pants.
Clothes that used to fit were now two sizes too big, emanating a faint musty odor.
As the guard escorted Hattie out, he paused at the entrance, lightly patting her shoulder. “Hattie, keep moving forward and don’t look back. Be a good person when you’re out there and avoid trouble that could land you back here.”
Hearing her name after so long left Hattie momentarily frozen. Since receiving her prisoner number upon entering the prison, she had been known only as 3073, a cold string of numbers.
As the cold iron gates creaked open, the sunlight poured in, warming Hattie’s pale face.
Taking a deep breath, she gazed up at a bird flying overhead, feeling finally free.
Braving the winter led to the arrival of spring, and the dim sky wouldn’t remain dark forever. There would come a day when the sun would rise.
This was what Hattie had always held onto. Lifting her foot, she stepped out of the prison.
Walking slowly, the prolonged beatings, hunger, and lack of rest had left her physically weak. She broke into a cold sweat after a few steps, gasping for air.
Her legs were lame, a consequence of someone pushing her off the building a few months back that resulted in a fractured leg. Without proper treatment, she ended up handicapped.
She could only walk slowly; moving quickly would cause stabbing pain at the injury site. While manageable in summer, the pain intensified in winter, making it difficult to move.
After walking for a while, she finally stopped under a tree, surveying her surroundings. She had expected little to change in her city over two years, believing everything would be just as she left it.
However, the buildings had grown taller, new buses had replaced the old ones, and shared vehicles dotted the roadside.
This prompted a mocking grin from Hattie as she recalled Harry’s words two years prior.
“Hattie, two years will fly by. I’ll wait for you.”
Initially, she thought time would pass quickly, but every day in prison felt like an eternity. While it might have been over 700 days for others, for her, it felt like a lifetime.
Approaching 29 years old this year, a prime age for a woman, she might have had a successful career or a family with children if she hadn’t been imprisoned. Now, where could a former convict go?
Lost in thoughts in this unfamiliar environment, a car approached Hattie. Due to severe vision impairment, she couldn’t see clearly within 20 meters and had to squint to discern the general outline.
The car came to a stop not far from her, and a familiar figure emerged.
A man stepped out, causing Hattie to instinctively recoil in nervousness until he spoke, “Hattie.”
Hearing the familiar voice eased her tension as she realized someone remembered her release today.
The man was Micah, a friend she hadn’t seen in two years. Taller than her, he blocked the cold wind, dressed in a black wool coat, his figure slender like bamboo.
Despite her limp, Micah chose not to ask about her legs, respecting her pride. To inquire about her prison experiences was akin to stabbing her heart.
Although the prison appeared calm on the surface, the reality inside devoured people without spitting out bones. Seeing how emaciated Hattie had become, one could imagine the suffering she endured.
Sitting in the car with the heater on, she relished the warmth she had long missed.
“What are your plans for the future?” Micah inquired.
“Get a job, maybe,” she replied.
“I plan to open a hospital. Would you consider helping out?”
“I wouldn’t be of any help,” she retorted, leaning against the window. Feeling chilly once again, her hands trembled, the left subconsciously gripping the right.
“As a reformed convict, I won’t step foot in a hospital. You know how I ended up in prison-stabbing someone 29 times. If that were to get out, who would dare visit your hospital for treatment?”