You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison

"Guilty."

That was it. I was guilty. I'd be sent to an "experimental" prison—"experimental" because it wasn't your conventional prison—out in the desert.

Better go pack my bags, I thought.
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The bus bumped along the unpaved road, jolting me in all directions in my seat. It was especially bad for me, because I'm pretty small. Bigger guys—like my seat-mate, who looked like he could've carried the bus to the prison—hardly moved at all.

Finally, the bus came to a stop. The driver instructed us all off in an orderly fashion—door-side first, then driver's-side, and so on. I was one of the last ones off. I stood behind everyone as they were crowded around a tall, mustachioed man with reflective sunglasses, making it impossible to see his eyes.

"My name's Mr. Reynolds, but y'all'll call me 'Sir'," he barked in a thick Southern accent. "Understand?"

Mumbled "yessir"'s could be heard throughout the crowd.

"What did you say?" Sir demanded.

"Yes, Sir!" the prisoners called in unison.

"Much better," Sir replied. "Now, I'm goings to assign y'all yer division head. This person'll lead y'all to yer cell. They'll also supervise the division, chaperone y'all around, and the like, to make sure y'all don't git in no trouble, y'hear?"

A few "yes, Sir"'s answered him, and he seemed satisfied. Or didn't feel like demanding a proper response; I couldn't tell.

"Now, then. Let's get to assignin' yer division head." Sir announced.

I'm in about the middle of the alphabet, so I zoned out after the first couple names. I started to look around me. The bus pulled away and was driving towards the back of the property, I assumed to a garage. We were inside a tall, concrete, barbed-wire-topped fence. Before us loomed a massive concrete building. A few prisoners in bright orange jumpsuits hung around the fence, a lot of them staring at us. But one of the guys caught my attention, and captured it.

He had shockingly-unnatural short, snow-white hair. His eyeliner-rimmed eyes were shut and his pale, milky cheeks were caved in as he took a long draw on a cigarette. Ashe exhaled, his eyes opened. Those eyes! A dark, almost-brown hazel pierced through the swirls of smoke. Those eyes…

"FOR THE LAST DAMN TIME: FRANK IERO!" Sir roared.

I snapped to attention. "Ye-…yes, Sir?" I said timidly, standing up.

"Well what the hell are y'all doin' standin' there? Get your ass up here!" he yelled.

I fast-walked up to him. His face was red from rage and the effort of yelling.

He regained his composure somewhat when I approached him. "Frank Iero. Your division head is Miss Alicia Simmons." He gestured to a young woman, about my age, standing near him. She looked a bit scary. She was dressed head-to-toe in black. Her long hair was raven and razor-cut so it appeared a bit spiky at the ends. Her eyes were thickly rimmed with black eyeliner. She never spoke a word to me, just simply lead me into the building, down the hall, and to a door marked "Division B".

She scanned a card and the door unlocked. She led me in. Behind the door was a hallway, which was short—maybe 15 feet—and had eight doors total: three on each side of the hallway, and one across from the doorway I was standing in. Each door on the sides was made with a thick metal, with a window the size of a square foot, and a handle with a keypad lock. The door I was standing in was the thickest metal of all, with a larger, about 2ft-by-3ft frosted glass window and the scanner lock. The door opposite me was the thinnest door; simple metal with a standard push-button lock on the handle.

"That there's the bathroom," Alicia said, pointing to that door. It was the first time I'd heard her speak, and I nearly jumped. "These six doors on the sides are for your division-mates."

We started walking down the hall.

"This on the left belongs to Ray and Bob," Alicia waved a hand to that door. Two men, I estimated around six foot each, sat, hunched over, on the lower bunk of a bunk bed. One had a brown 'fro, and the other had straight, average-length blond hair and a short blond beard. They appeared to be reading a comic book.

"Here on the right's Brendon and Spencer." I could hear one guy with short, dark-brown hair singing about eyes the size of the moon, and I could see another guy with longer, slightly lighter-brown hair playing air drums.

We continued down the hall to the next two doors. Pointing to her right, Alicia said, "This here's Mikey and Pedicone, but they're outside right now. So're Tré and Billie Joe." She pointed to the door on her left.

We walked to the last set of doors.

"Jamia and Lindsey," Alicia stated simply, jabbing her thumb in the direction of the door on her right. "Normally we don't mix guys and girls, but we had an overflow of guys, and so we had to make some divisions co-ed."

I peered in the window. One girl had long black hair, tied into pigtails, and was playing air guitar (or maybe bass), occasionally writing musical notes on the wall with marker. The other girl had short black hair, falling across her face as she lay in the upper bunk, asleep.

"This is your cell." Alicia said abruptly, and I darted my eyes away from the girls and to the door on my left. "2019," she typed the numbers on the keypad and the door unlocked with a click. Alicia pushed it open, revealing its contents.