Page 192 of Craving Venom
Tables are bolted to the floor, and the concrete walls are painted a sterile gray. Inmates fill the space. Some sit in groups, playing cards or speaking in hushed tones, while others linger along the edges, their eyes tracking us as we pass. A few flash unsettling grins, but most don’t bother looking at all.
And I wonder…
Is he watching?
I don’t know.
We’re led into the library.
It’s bigger than I expected.
Rows of shelves stretch from wall to wall, filled with books that look too pristine to be touched. The floors are polished, and the air is cool but not uncomfortably so. Large windows let in filtered sunlight, making the space feel…
Almost normal.
But it isn’t.
Because this isn’t a college campus or a public library.
This is still a prison.
The tables, just like in the common area, are bolted to the floor. The chairs are anchored, designed to keep everything exactly where it’s supposed to be.
We’re told to take a seat, and the students scatter, grabbing spots around the nearest table.
Tria slides in beside me and Xaden takes the seat across from us. I sit quietly, keeping my head down as I pull out my notebook.
Just observe. Take notes. Don’t draw attention.
“Alright, everyone.”
Dr. Harrington’s presence dominates the room as he strides forward, his forced enthusiasm barely masking the rigid authority in his movements.
“Settle in. You’ll be spending the next hour here before we begin observing inmate behavior.”
Movement ripples through the group, quiet voices threading through the air, fueled by the excitement they can’t quite hide.
“Before that,” Harrington continues, “I’d like to introduce someone who knows this place better than any of us.”
He steps aside, gesturing toward the woman who enters behind him.
“Good morning.” The woman steps forward and greets us with a calm authority that immediately settles the restless energy in the room. “I’m Shirley Anderson. I oversee rehabilitation programs here.”
She looks to be in her mid-fifties, with short, practical hair that’s more gray than brown. Lines crease her face, but instead of hardening her features, they soften them.
And unlike the guards—who watch us like we’re one step away from fucking something up—Shirley’s presence doesn’t make my skin crawl.
“Some of you might be wondering,” she continues, “why a maximum-security prison like this one offers facilities that look… a little different than what you’re used to.”
A few students nod. One of the guys sitting near the front speaks up.
“Yeah, I read that this place has a music studio? And inmates can take cooking classes?”
Shirley’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s right.”
Another student chimes in. “There’s even an art room. And a gym. Why offer all that to people who’ve committed violent crimes?”
“Because punishment isn’t the only goal,” she says softly. “Redemption matters too.”
