Picture This...

You walk, handcuffed and escorted by a polices man with brown eyes, through a parking lot into a large white building, sort of the highway. You feel bloated, gross, heavy, dirty. You wait in a room with several other teenagers, girls in bright orange jumpsuits, boys in blue. All of you wear leg chains, bolted across your ankles, sitting in chairs, bolted to the floor, all in a line, facing a large wooden desk about seven feet in front of you. When you are called into the court room by a scary, erect, strict woman, your heart starts to beat a little faster. You meet a temporary lawyer, and you are surprised by his disheveled appearance. You don't get very far into the hearing, because while you are sitting at the stand, looking out at the dim room with three talls windows to the left and several seats out front, your chest starts to ache and release fluid. You start to cry and blubber up, embarrassed. You are taken away, and given a pile of white, scratchy bedding to carry. You walk down a white with flourescent lights and stale air and a number of doors on either side of you. The hallway leads to a set of double dark green doors. You enter and, with much force, drop the bedding which reveals your soiled jumpsuit to a dozen or so teenage girls in neon jumpsuits, sitting around circular tables doing various activities. You are rushed through and brought to your cell. On the inside, there is a twin sized bed with peeling white, metal railings and a toilet in the far right corner. You are left there until other notice, no information or explanation. The door clanks shut behind you, and your ears ring with the finality of the sound.