The Prisoner Project

The air hung thick and humid, clinging to me like a shroud. I stood before the Stockholm Correction Centre for the Damned, its old, towering silhouette a dark promise against the dull, unforgiving sky. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, each beat a stark reminder of the reckless decision that had brought me here.

"You asked for this," I whispered, wiping sweat from my forehead. "You picked up your pen and wrote a letter, begging for this. This was the change you had always wanted, right?"

The words were meant to reassure, but they tasted like ash. I knew, deep down, that this wasn't just about change. It was about escaping a past that had me wrapped around its fingers, occasionally knocking me over the head and into dire situations like this. My life had been a muted monochrome, and now, standing before this edifice of despair, it felt like an explosion of dangerous, blinding reds and oranges. An inferno, and I was walking straight into it.

I stumbled through the grand doors, past the stern-faced security team, and into a vast main hall. The scent hit me immediately: damp wood, stale sherry, and a cloying sweetness of hairspray. It was an unsettling cocktail, even more so within the walls of a maximum-security prison. My gaze swept across the room, taking in the other women, at least twenty, all as equally misguided as I was. No sane person would be here.

Finding a metal chair at the far end, I slid into it, the screech echoing too loudly in the otherwise hushed room. My interview wasn't for another ten minutes, but the tension was already suffocating. I sighed, leaning my head against my knee, and waited.