Sweet Hell on Fire (24 page)

Small spaces were not the problem, so it wasn’t claustrophobia in the traditional sense. It was any space I didn’t have control over. Since the sally port had bothered me, I wondered if I’d be okay in the tower. The towers were small. Enclosed.

But I had control over my space, over entry and exit. Unlike the sally port, where someone else controlled the gates.

That’s always been one of my biggest triggers, the loss of power. Only now, it was magnified ten thousand percent.

I’ve had a harder time coming to terms with my debilitating and gut-wrenching terror at being confined to any space that resulted from the rape than I do with the rape itself. Yes, he took my power away by raping me, by forcing me to submit to a physical act that was unwanted. But the fact he was in my head, that I allowed him to be in my head, that was the cardinal sin. Because I was supposed to have control of myself. I choose my actions. I choose my reactions.

But I didn’t choose. I was being swept away by this tidal wave of fear and that was so far beyond unacceptable to me. I’d always been fearless, strong, armored in a sense. I was the one who always had an answer and a safe, warm place beneath her wing for those who weren’t as strong as I was. Craven weakness had always disgusted me more than stepping in a pile of warm dog shit with bare feet, and now I was the one with broken wings out in the cold.

I know some people would say it wasn’t weakness, that I needed time to heal, that my reactions in the situation were perfectly normal. Maybe they were. For other people. Not for me. I’m the one who ran down Independence Avenue in my bare feet after my ex-boyfriend chased me with an axe and laughed about it later with the Mexican gang members who saved me. I’m the one who was a single mother who went back to work two weeks after my daughter was born to take care of my responsibilities. I’m the one who stood between a friend and her abusive shit-bag ex when she finally decided to leave him and when he took a swing, he was the one who got his ass kicked in the most cliché way possible, a dirty frying pan on the stove. That was me. This sniveling, needy,
broken
thing was not.

But it was.

And I hated it. I was so disgusted by myself. More so than even with the drinking because when I realized I was self-medicating with the alcohol, I just stopped. I said I was going to quit and I did.

I guess my mother was right and someone was, finally, stronger than me.

While on some level I knew my husband and I were going to work it out when in the middle of Best Buy he pulled me close to him and we started dancing to Etta James, I hadn’t been ready for it then.

I wasn’t ready to acknowledge it until the night I came home from work and he was waiting for me in my apartment. That was the reason I didn’t want him to have a key to start with, but I found I couldn’t be angry with him for being there, even though I wanted to be.

We finally talked about everything. He admitted who he’d slept with and I admitted who I’d slept with. Then it got ugly. All the confession wasn’t good for the soul; it just hurt. We said some horrible things to each other. I guess to really take you there, I should describe them. Tear the hole wide so you can see everything, but it’s not just about me and I don’t want him to look like any less the knight in shining armor he is now. It’s okay if you know what an asshole I was because that’s mine to tell.

But the details of what was said don’t really matter. What matters is when everything was said and done and he was ready to walk out my door for what would be the last time, I couldn’t let him go.

I asked him to stay.

He said only if he was staying for real. Only if he could move in. Only if we were together.

I said yes.

In two weeks, we had the kids living there with us too.

It was a shitty one-bedroom matchbox, but it was ours. We were together.

Boy, were we together. We gave the kids the bed and we slept on a broken-down futon. Once we lay down for the night, that was it. There was no wiggling, no stretching, no turning over. We were forced to sleep snuggled up together. That wasn’t something we’d ever done before. If we didn’t keep all the weight in the middle, the leg would collapse.

We’d fall asleep all cuddled up together in front of the tiny TV with a movie on we’d all seen before. I remember those as some of the happiest times we’ve ever had.

I told my friends that my husband and I were back together. I shouldn’t have been surprised by their reactions, but I lost even more friends than when I quit drinking.

A couple told me they were happy for me and wished us the best. Others asked if it was a wise idea. Others still kept telling me my husband was still sleeping with this woman and that woman, but they were saying the same things about me, and they were patently untrue.

Even the inmates knew what was going on, and some congratulated me. Others said we deserved each other because we were both the meanest and most awful people they’d ever met in their lives.

As much as I tried to leave our personal shit at home, it followed us behind the walls. Either because inmates heard us talking or officers talked to inmates about other officers’ business. Like the woman (another officer) he’d been spending time with. She spilled her guts all over the place. Told every inmate who would listen about her would-be relationship with my husband, and how she planned to get me out of the picture.

The funny thing was this inmate she’d confided in, he’d asked me if I wanted him to take a shot at her. He said she was a dirty whore who’d never get enough dick and put us all in danger. He didn’t like the idea of her trying to screw with my life and my career. He said he had no respect for her.

I told him no, that no matter what she’d done, she was still an officer and not to talk that way because I’d have to turn him in.

And he said he should have known better than to ask, apologized for putting me in that position, and said that was part of why he respected me so much.

This part may be the hardest for me to write. To admit to. Not being a shitty mom, a shitty daughter, or a shitty wife. Not even being raped. I owned all of those things. Even with the rape, I did have a choice. Choosing my children’s safety over my own didn’t feel weak. But this…it makes me feel so naked.

Exposed.

You know those stupid online memes where they ask you a million getting-to-know-you questions? When it comes to “biggest fear” I never answer it. Admitting I’m afraid of something is like pulling off my skin so all my nerves are exposed, and rubbing them with sandpaper. If I tell anyone what I’m afraid of, they can use it against me. Back to the loss of power. So that made what happened all the worse.

But I promised myself I wouldn’t half-ass it. I’ve bled all over these pages this far, I’m not going to stop now.

I came into work like any other day, and there was a different Captain on shift. One I hadn’t worked with before. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’d had one run-in with him before. When I was new on shift, I’d been assigned a post where the officer had to come in two hours early. Whoever was in charge of scheduling was supposed to call me or send me some notification of the post. That didn’t happen. Control called me a half an hour before shift started when they realized the oversight. I said I’d make it as soon as I could.

When I came through the gates, the regular officer assigned to the post on the first shift was already leaving.
Without
being
properly
relieved
. I was only three minutes late. They didn’t even pay overtime until seven minutes after the hour.

I was standing in the sally port, the small space between the sets of gates, waiting for the other gates to open, and a man stood there giving me a shitty look. He had his name on his shirt, but he was wearing a polo. Not the BDUs that had rank insignia on the collar. Although, I have to say, that probably wouldn’t have mattered if I had known who he was. He was a raging cock.

“You’re late.”

Really? I didn’t know that. Thanks for clearing that up.

“The post is unattended and that’s unacceptable. You’re probably going to get a write-up.”

A write-up for something that wasn’t my fault? If it was my fault, fine. But someone else had dropped the ball and I had hauled ass in to cover. So a write-up? A stain on my record that would affect my promotability? Fuuuuck you. “What’s unacceptable is whoever the dumbshit was who let him leave without being properly relieved. Or whoever didn’t give me twenty-four notice of my change in shift like they’re supposed to. That’s what’s unacceptable.”

“Do you know who I am?” he snapped, like he was someone famous and I should be licking his ass and calling it caviar.

I almost said I didn’t give a shit, but considering where we were and the time, I assumed he was probably brass. I wasn’t going to back down now. If he was the one who let the other officer go early, he was the one who was wrong. So I shrugged dismissively.

“Can’t say that I do. And like you said, I’m late.” I pushed through the door into the Max and went to my post. I found out later he was the Captain.

And I’d called him a dumbshit. Great. But honestly, and I say again, he was the one in the wrong and I’m not going to take an ass-chewing or a write-up that I didn’t have coming.

So he’d just come to our shift, and when he started announcing post assignments for the day, a brick settled in my gut. I knew he was going to give me the shittiest thing he could find. He gave me an entry/exit point in the middle of the institution. A place where staff and inmates could pass between the Max and the Medium. It was where inmates entered and exited the institution. It was where staff turned in and exchanged equipment. It was a big, fat pile of shit. I could have gotten over that. Shit I could handle. The part where it was in a tiny, dark room no bigger than a bathroom was what I couldn’t handle. Added to that was that the only way I could get in or out of this tiny room was with two keys. One person on the outside and me on the inside both turning keys. If there was a fire, any officer inside would be fucked face down like a dead whore in the back of a Lexus.

I’d be trapped.

I waited until everyone left to their assignments and I approached the Captain privately.

“Captain, sir?”

He looked down his nose at me, like I knew he would, but the fear of that small room was stronger than my pride. “Can I please be assigned to another post?”

He laughed as if I’d asked him if he’d give me a million dollars. “No, girl. We’re short-staffed. I don’t have anyone else who’s done the post before.”

“I haven’t either, really. I trained in there for three hours. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You will after tonight.”

“I can’t.” I shook my head. “Please put me somewhere else. I’m claustrophobic and—”

“We don’t have time for this. Go to your post.”

So I did.

I told myself that I could do this. It was part of my job. I
had
to do it. I thought about going home sick, but then I got really pissed off at myself for even thinking it.
Go
to
fucking
work. Pay your bills. Put food on the table and quit fucking whining.

Fear coiled like a serpent around my guts as I walked across the facility to my post. My hands started shaking and I felt those tremors through my whole body.

It’s just a fucking room, I told myself. There’s nothing in there that can hurt me. It’s just…stuff and paperwork. Nothing to get my knickers in a wad over.

I felt like some kid afraid to look under the bed, but rather than fearing what could possibly be under there, I knew the exact nature of the beast. It was a golem of memory dredged up from hell that would close off my air and my senses until all I could do was relive those moments, that helplessness over and over again.

The building loomed before me, somehow bigger and darker in my dread. The gates like some hallway to hell.

I can’t express how much I hated myself in that moment. Even my disgust at my reaction wasn’t enough to drown out the fear, although it propelled me forward anyway. My instincts demanded I run in the other direction and never look back.

My common sense told me to stop being a pussy and do my damn job.

As I watched the key turn in the lock, I thought I was watching a Sword of Damocles slicing ever closer to my throat and the other officer smiled at me kindly. She’d seen plenty of first-timers to the post awash in trepidation.

When I stepped into that dark, tiny space, it hit me in the face with a sledgehammer. The smell of
him
. The weight of
him
. My head cracking the glass of the mirror. His hands on me. I wanted to fucking scream, but I couldn’t get enough air in my chest to make a sound. Then that door slammed behind me and the key twisted in the lock, bolting me inside.

Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed hard. Like the simple act of swallowing could push down the fear, the disgust, and the memory. Even talking about it now, I want to vomit and cold fingers are digging into my shoulders, spiders skittering up and down my spine. I want it to stop, but we’ve come this far. I can do this. I’m stronger now. I’ve already survived this, so there’s nothing more to be scared of, right? I’ll call my critique partner and cry after the chapter is done, but it’ll be good. A release. And she’ll tell me it’s okay and I know that it really is.

With one other officer in there with me, it wasn’t so terrible. I didn’t feel trapped. So I sat in the corner and quietly started putting equipment away in the cubbies that were specifically labeled for equipment for each person. The monotony of the task made my brain shut down; the memories faded, and by the time I’d put everything away, I thought it would be okay.

Until the other officer left and I was alone.

God, the sound of that door when it clanged shut was always heavy, but this was like some great satanic bell tolling in the dark.

I sat down at the desk, hands shaking, and tried to do my job. I had to monitor inmate movement, staff movement, and nine doors I had to use to process this movement. It was a busy time of day, but I couldn’t concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. I could barely concentrate on breathing, let alone higher brain function.

The room seemed smaller, darker. He lived in the shadows and he was there with me. His hand on my throat again, the ripping sensation of his fist inside me. His whiskey breath in my face. That wrecking ball of memory slammed into me over and over again, harder and harder, and there were some moments when I wasn’t sure what was real and what was recall.

To my absolute shame, tears gathered and burned down my cheeks. I remember thinking they were like acid. I tried to keep up with what was going on outside, tried to do my job, but I couldn’t. Not reliving that over and over again. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could do was remember.

I managed to call the Captain. I told him I was sick and I had to go home. He told me that the staffing situation hadn’t changed and I wasn’t allowed to leave.

That was the nail in the coffin.
I
had
no
control
. I was locked in a little black room with my terror, and he wouldn’t let me out. I begged him. I was sobbing hysterically. He hung up on me and left me there alone with my demons.

All I could do was cry. Inmates and staff were pressing their faces up against the window and I sank to the floor. I had to get away from them, from the accusation I saw in their eyes, the glee, or even, in some cases, concern. I had to hide. I didn’t want anyone else to see me. Everyone would already know that I’d cracked, had some kind of meltdown. But they couldn’t see this. Then everyone would know I was weak, helpless. That I was prey—a victim. I crawled under the desk and sobbed.

The phone kept ringing, the buzzer kept ringing for staff to be let through the gates, and I couldn’t do anything. I was paralyzed—my fingers wouldn’t move. I was rooted in place like some heavy chains had been wrapped around me. I was drowning in terror.

I had a gun. I wildly thought about shooting my way out, but I had enough sense to remember that the glass was bulletproof and I’d probably just end up shooting myself. And it briefly occurred to me that if I did shoot myself that this would stop.

This would all end and he’d never be able to get to me again. It would be over.

That thought was a smack to the face, not quite like the sledgehammer, but it was just as jarring. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted it to stop.

I finally reached up and answered the phone. It was another officer who’d already heard that I was losing my shit, and she asked if I was okay. I told her I was definitely not okay and I needed to go home. She said she’d call the Captain for me.

I stayed under the desk.

The Captain called me back and said he was sending someone to help, but I still couldn’t go home.

When the yard officer came to help me, he stayed in between me and the door until it had been secured. Another officer turning the key to lock us both in. He’d been instructed not to let me out.

I don’t know if the Captain was trying to teach me something or if he thought I was being a drama queen, but he wasn’t going to let me out until shift was over. Hell or high water. Bastard.

I think if I’d fought him, the other officer, I could have gotten out. The other officer was smaller than me and I had a gun. But I wasn’t in my right mind. I was still half-frozen and out of my head with fear. It didn’t occur to me then that I could have pushed past him and gotten out. I was too lost in that haze of terror.

Crumpled up on the floor, I kept bawling and the other officer did my job. He handed me tissues every once in a while, but other than that, he ignored me until he had to leave. He didn’t ask what happened, didn’t ask if I was okay. I think if I’d stopped breathing, he probably would have stepped over me and gone about his business.

By eight o’clock, I’d been in Hell for five hours and it finally sank into my brain that I couldn’t leave. No matter what I did. That surrendering to this fear, this terror, wasn’t helping me, and if I could just make it another two hours, I could go. It would stop. I’d never have to come back.

So when the other officer left, I got up and I did my job. I stopped crying. I didn’t have any tears left to cry anyway. He was still there, my rapist. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck, his glee at my pain and fear, but I knew it wasn’t real. And if it had been, there was nothing I could do to change it anyway. All I could do was suck it the fuck up and do my job for two hours. Just two hours.

I ran a paper towel under cold water and put it on my face and made myself breathe and forced myself to go through the motions until my relief arrived.

When the door opened and I could leave, I was afraid of that too. Almost like I thought if I went through the door, someone would make me go back inside. I kept thinking someone was going to stop me as I was leaving.

I finally exited the institution out into the parking lot, and the cool night air chilled my tear-streaked and swollen face. Breaths came deep and slow, filling my lungs, and I concentrated on the simple pleasure of that—inhale, exhale, inhale…The repetition was soothing, calming. I don’t think I’ve taken such joy in the simple act of breathing. Then I saw my husband in the car waiting to pick me up. I almost fainted with relief. Or at least I think that’s what fainting would feel like; I’ve never fainted in my life, but my knees were weak and I felt boneless, exhausted, and like my consciousness was hanging on by a thread. Darkness hovered at the edges of my vision and it wasn’t scary like the dark inside that room, it was warm, comforting, and safe.