Chapter One: Riot

Riot: a violent disturbance of the peace by a crowd.

"I'm…," innocent.

You begin, though you only affirm the end to yourself.

You gave up protesting to every person who looked at you that way as soon as they figure out but it's a habit you still need to verbally break. They won't believe you. They haven't for the past months they've had this case—the past months that's literally ruined your already messed up life—and there's no point in wasting your breath.

You're innocent, though, and you tell that to yourself because you are.

Ignoring the guard who has just rhetorically spoken to you, you keep going.

The corridor isn't too long, and before you know it you're facing another grey faced guard, simultaneously sizing you up and looking at the chart in her hand.

She nods her head, and there's a buzz.

The woman pulls at the ring of keys on her hip and flips through it, before roughly grabbing your wrist and unlocking your cuffs.

She doesn't look at you again, but you already know to follow the guard who'd been dragging you through halls this entire time. The metal door to your right slides open, you pick up an awaiting pile of beddings and a pillow, and you head in.

You take a deep breath in. 'It's okay, Elena. You can do this.'

It's supposed to be an assurance but as you walk through, you know nothing can prepare you for spending time in prison. For what should be the most youthful and best years of your life, you'll be locked up in a terrible place like Port Hill Penitentiary.

The officer leads you through another corridor that has a window to the main prison hall.

Peering in, you realize just how big this place is, even if you already factually know that the capacity for the entire prison is 1,856. Its current population is 1,451.

'No.' You take another step, 'make that 1,452.'

You read all that somewhere once you found out where you'd go, and you shake your head at your photographic memory. Now isn't the time be stating facts. Not when you're headed down to what feels like hell.

The officer leads the way through one last door before you're actually inside the prison hall.

Women loiter about, and the sunset from the high barred windows form shadows that remind you of scenes you've only seen in movies. The ceiling is high, supporting three floors of prison cells all lined up against the walls.

Though it's loud and noisy you begin to hear distinctive things that can only be directed to you.

Or about you, that is.

You hear whispers as you pass by, but they don't make any sense.

"She's out?" someone close enough murmurs.

"I can't believe this," comes from someone else.

They talk like they know you. Like you did something wrong, though wrong might not be the right word exactly, because ending up here, you had done something wrong, hadn't you? And besides, everyone here has done something wrong.

You shake your head and think, 'Stop looking at me.'

You try not to duck your head too low or to look like you're intimidated, but you also notice that there are several others who nod their head or offer a friendly grin in your direction.

You have no idea what any of that means, but you follow the officer up a flight of stairs and walk down the metal balcony. It passes several open cells and several loitering women; you're shown to your own cell. The place you'll be living in for the next so and so years.

"It's almost lights out. You'll have orientation tomorrow," the guard says mundanely, her bored expression evident.

When she leaves, you're left in the open cell by yourself.

Its small, you note, consisting of a yellowing sink, a shiny white toilet that looks new and a bunk bed that takes up half the space. You've been in smaller places, so you can't complain. You hold the blanket and pillow in your arms.

The bunk at the bottom has two pillows and two blankets, folded, but no one is around.

You drop your stuff onto the top bunk.

"Kat, they let you out early?"

The voice appears behind you and you turn, seeing a blonde girl with her hair in a braid over her shoulder.

She's pretty, you think, though what catches you is her accent.

She doesn't look the least bit criminal; young, almost like a regular blonde cheerleader from your old high school that you would've been friends with. You immediately wonder what she could've done to end up here.

"Huh?" is what you manage to say because you don't understand. Let out? You'd just been brought in. "What are you talking about?"

The blonde ignores your question and squints at you. She steps into your cell, and touches your hair, "How did you manage to straighten your hair?"

"It's naturally straight," you shake your head, and though you're not trying to be rude you want some time alone, "Are you my cellmate?"

The girl looks confused and then she looks behind her and then back to you. "You're joking, right?"

A bell rings before you can answer and there's an incoherent shout outside.

"Come on," the blonde chuckles a little and takes your arm. She pulls you to stand outside where everyone seems to be standing in front of their cells too. She raises her brows, "We'll talk okay?"

You have no idea what she's talking about but you're too tired to correct her right now. She goes to stand beside another blonde who nods her head at you, and it seems other than being friends with whoever they think you are, you're also neighbors.

You cringe, already feeling the awkwardness for when this person comes back and you have to explain who you are.

An officer walks down the space between prisoners and their cells, calling out names for roll call.

"Yousef, Nahar, Pentton, Smith," it seems they all go by last names and the woman in uniform is three cells down before you begin to hear her clearly. She continues, "Anderson, Isles."

She stops in front of you, looking at the clipboard in her hand.

"Pierce, it says here you finally got a roommate. Where's," she glances at you and then flips the paper in her hand, brows furrowing, "Gil-bert, Elena Gilbert?"

"I'm Elena Gilbert," you say, and from the corner of your eyes both blondes snap their attention to you. They look confused. You are too.

How much do you really look like this other girl? You're a little curious now, if not annoyed by it.

The guard, H. Kilton—according to the stitched name tag on her uniform—stares at you disbelievingly. She has a harsh expression on her already scowling face.

You've been in Port Hill well below an hour and already you feel the tension from her like she hates you. Even though that might be directed towards whoever you supposedly are, you hate her back already.

"It's late. I don't have time for this. I know you're not used to it," she sounds sarcastic, "but here cellmates have the responsibility of knowing the other's whereabouts during roll call. Now it says here she's been signed in. You're wasting my time. Where the fuck is Gilbert?"

"I," you emphasize, "am Elena Gilbert. Now if you just stop wasting your own time maybe everyone can get on with their lives."

You spit this out, almost regretting that you said it but this woman's expression or the notion that she's already judging you because of who she thinks you look like, makes you feel justified.

There's a whip that sounds before you feel your jaw slide under your upper teeth.

The left side of your face suddenly stings, and you place your hand on your left cheek.

"That'll teach you some manners," you hear her say, and you waste no time of your own to twist around and bring down a right hook squarely on her face.

Maybe it's your exhaustion, or easily irritable disposition at the moment but just as she falls, you push her down with a kick and you jump on top, hitting her over the face as she tries to claw at you. You've read and seen just enough about anatomy to know just where to hit someone from this position with the least retaliation.

Before you know it, you're being pulled to your feet and you're thrashing.

Someone else replaces you, beating on H. Kilton and chaos ensues.

"Calm down! Calm down!"

It's one of the blondes, the one that spoke to you, and when you start doing as she says you find yourself sitting on your feet, with both blondes giving you looks. You glance at your bloody knuckles and try to catch your breath.

"What the fuck was that?" the second spoke. She doesn't have an accent, and she manages to look both concerned and confused.

"Look," you begin, its best you clear things up now. And besides you hate that they're assuming you're someone else, "I'm not…," you pause because you aren't really clear on this person's name, "I'm not who you think I am."

The first blonde, the one with the accent, feels your forehead, and you realize the scene behind her. It's the same to your side, and actually all around you.

There's a whistle on the other side of the prison but it's soon drowned out by shouts. Everything looks like the hell you pictured earlier, and you're sort of mortified.

Did you just start a riot?

"Your temperature is normal," the girl frowns, sharing a look with the other, "what the bloody hell happened in solitary? Did they accidentally bring you to the mental ward?"

Now you frown, so this woman was in solitary. But mental ward? Was she as blonde as she looked?

"No, I'm not who you think I am. I'm new. My name is Elena Gilbert and I did just come in today," you say, frustrated.

They glance at each other again. If you really do look a lot like this girl, then you must sound so insane right now.

Between their stare on you, you realize the noise has died down.

A woman, a red head, gathers the attention of the three of you. She says something and then motions over the railing to the center of the prison hall.

You look over.

It seems everyone involved has come together there, forming a circle around figures you can't see very well from this angle. Those who hadn't participated still stood in front of their cells, leaning over railings and watching.

The blondes are behind you, so you have no choice but to lead the way down the stairs and through the crowd.

It parts where you walk and soon you see the middle.

The officers, four of them, are in the center of the floor. They're battered and bruised and you're not exactly sure what you're supposed to do. You catch the eye of H. Kilton and she glares at you through bloodied teeth.

"You're going back," she spits out.

Your eyes narrow, she had hit you first.

You look around and you wonder if your retaliation was the reason why the riot started, or if everyone had just wanted to start a spur of the moment rebellion.

There's a buzzing at the door you came through earlier and more than two dozen uniformed men and women run through batons and firearms in hand.

"Get back!" the one who leads them shouts.

They form a circle that pushes away the prisoners to the walls and to the stairs, all of whom are too wary of getting shot.

You step back as well.

The rescuing guards circle the four wounded and over her shoulder the leader addresses them, "Warden wants to know what happened. Who started it?"

H. Kilton points a shaking finger at you. And only you.