Sweet Hell on Fire

by Sara Lunsford

  One of the drug dogs had positively ID’d a friend of mine because she helped a friend who’d been a toker move, and they’d been in her car. Somehow, something had been transferred to her clothes.

  She’d been stripped naked, had to endure a urinalysis, a blood test, and a cavity search. She had three days off that ended up being paid because everything came back negative.

  I didn’t fancy being naked in front of coworkers I wasn’t fucking or having any one of them elbow deep in my vag. That did not sound like a good time.

  My husband didn’t give a shit. He said if they stuck their hand up his ass, they deserved whatever they got. He’d growl at the dog and try to get it to hit on him so he could get three days of paid vacation. Personally, I didn’t think the extra leave was worth the whole experience of the cavity search.

  The husband and I walked in together because we arrived for shift at the same time, and the first thing out of the dog handler’s mouth was, “Lunsford, don’t tease the dog.” But he wasn’t talking to me.

  After the dog, we had a closer examination of our person and our belongings, going through stations: the dog would sniff us, then we’d go to have our belongings searched, then on to the next table for a physical, hands-on search of our person. I hated the pat-downs too because it tickled. I hate being tickled more than a yeast infection.

  And it made me giggle.

  Everyone always laughed at me on these search days and I went to my cell house feeling thoroughly tampered with.

  It was for a good reason, though.

  I got a call later because gossip always spread like wildfire. They’d caught a staff member bringing in contraband inside of what looked like sealed and unopened soda cans. It was no surprise to me.

  I’d seen this staff member talking to inmates in the kitchen when I first started. She was being overly familiar with them, but everyone assured me I was confused about what I’d seen. So I went with the flow. I didn’t say anything about it because I’d been fresh off the truck and I didn’t want to make waves.

  Dirty bitch.

  One down and who knew how many to go?

  A new shopping area opened up not too far from us, and one of the women who’d been fired for dirty bitchery got a supervisor position with their security company, which seriously made me question their background checks and hiring procedure. Anyway, before long, the entire place was staffed with prison rejects.

  A couple officers came into my cell house one night and we were talking about what the hiring process must be like if they recruited straight from the prison’s HR. “Here’s your letter of termination and an application for…”

  One of the women who’d been fired was pregnant with an inmate’s baby. There’d be criminal charges following the paternity test because it’s a sex crime to sleep with someone in your custody. Inmates can’t legally consent to sex. And this place had hired her to see to the security of their center, made her responsible for shoppers, employees, property…Obviously she’d made such responsible choices.

  One officer said she’d sent this woman a little striped outfit for her baby and had the inmate’s number embroidered on the chest. She even sent a little hat. It looked like just the old-fashioned prison uniforms.

  That made me laugh so hard, I almost peed my pants.

  Maybe that sounds unreasonably cruel, but I thought it was kind, considering the ass kicking this bitch deserved. She put us all in danger because she couldn’t keep her legs closed. Her pussy was more important than everyone else’s life; that’s what it boiled down to from our point of view.

  Relationships between staff and inmates are dangerous because he’ll either convince the staff member to bring in contraband, which leads to violence, or will perpetrate an act of violence on the staff member when the inmate stops getting what he wants.

  Part of our job is the safety and security of the institution, and that includes all staff members. There isn’t one good officer who wouldn’t immediately launch themselves into the fray if they saw an inmate attacking another officer. Fights are never clean, and no one ever walks away unscathed. Any incident that involves the laying of hands of one party on another has the potential to escalate into a full-scale riot.

  I know an officer who lost the use of his arm because he took a shank in it trying to save the life of another officer. She’d been sleeping with several different inmates and was bringing in drugs. When she got scared of the consequences and stopped supplying the inmate with sex and drugs, the inmate decided to teach her a lesson. He was going to kill her.

  I still have the urge to trip her every time I see her and any other dirty bitch who could hurt the people I care about.

  I’d been in contact with an ex-boyfriend from high school. A lot of my male friends were ex-boyfriends from one point or another. He was going through a divorce and having a really hard time. So we talked a lot, mostly online. I thought we’d really gotten to know each other again, and I was glad to count him as my friend.

  He called me around midnight.

  “Hey, Sara. Do you have some time? I really need an ear.”

  “Tough day?” I asked.

  “Yeah, can I come over? I just…” he broke off.

  He needed to talk. I understood. I’d been there. I still had days where I didn’t know which way was up. It made me feel better about my own bullshit to help someone else with theirs.

  “Sure, come on over.” I didn’t think anything of having someone over that late. The shift I worked didn’t get over until ten; by the time everyone got home and ready to go do other things, it was usually eleven or twelve anyway. We were night creatures.

  “I’ll be there in five. I’m up the street at 7-Eleven. I just didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “I know. It’s okay. It’ll get better, I promise.”

  “Thanks, Sara. I’ll see you in a few.”

  It wasn’t long before there was a knock on the door. I peeked out the window to make sure it was him and opened the door. As soon as I opened it, the stench of Jack washed over me. He was drunk. He hadn’t sounded drunk on the phone. Shit. I couldn’t have that around the kids.

  “Hey, man, you’re drunk.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed.

  “That’s not cool. You should have told me you’d been drinking. I could have gotten my friend to come over and watch my kids and I would have come to you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m here now.”

  “Yes, you are. But you can’t stay. I have my kids tonight. I don’t want them to see you sloppy drunk. I’ve never been around them that way. Can I call you a cab?”

  He didn’t answer me, and I never saw it coming. For as careful as I’d been with who my children were exposed to, it had been a friend who was the predator. He punched me, his fist exploding in my face, and he knocked me backward—pushing his way into the apartment.

  I ran through a gamut of emotion in seconds. Surprise, betrayal, pain, fear, and anger. I held on to the anger with both hands because I knew it could help me. I could feel the rest of it later after I handed him his ass on a platter.

  “You fucking whore, taunting me, telling me to come over, now you tell me to leave. Fuck you, you’ll give it up.” He punched me in the face again.

  I blocked the next blow, but he was stronger than me. So I tried to be faster, more cunning. I punched him in the solar plexus, dug my knuckles into him, but he kept coming.

  But so did I. I went for his eyes, his throat, his knees, all the soft places that will bring a person down. I think he was on some kind of drug too because no matter what I did, he kept coming. I drew on all the things I’d learned at the prison, pressure points, things my husband had taught me on how to get out of different holds.

  He slammed me down into the floor and although the sound echoed through the place like a gunshot
, the sound of it barely registered. The heavy weight of him was like a brick wall, pushing me down, crushing me. I brought my knee up between us, but he clamped his thighs shut hard, holding my knee in place.

  I bit his shoulder and cracked my head against his, aiming for the bridge of his nose, but I missed. He dragged me by the throat to the bathroom and slammed me against the wall, cracking my head against the mirror, shattered glass spraying from behind me.

  It was then I realized how very loud we were. How the next sound could wake my children. I was struck by the thought of their sleepy little faces and the things they would see if they heard the noise and wandered out to see what was happening. I thought about my gun, and if I could get to it before he did. Where I should shoot him. Anywhere but in the chest or head and he could still keep coming. But if I killed him, I’d have to prove he was trying to hurt me, that I had a reasonable fear for my life.

  What if he hurt my children? What if I missed or he got hold of my gun instead?

  I’d kill him. I’d rip his fucking throat out with my bare hands if he hurt my kids.

  But he’d still have hurt them. No matter what retribution I’d take, they would still have suffered.

  I made the choice to stop fighting.

  No matter what he did to me, it was better that he do whatever he felt he had to and leave than have anything happen to my children. Whatever he put me through would be worth keeping my children safe.

  That’s not to say I was a willing participant. “Please,” I begged quietly. “Don’t do this.”

  “Shut up, whore.”

  “Why do you want to hurt me? I’m your friend.”

  He kept tearing at my clothes; his big, sweaty hands were on my breasts. He squeezed them hard, bruised me.

  “You want this, you fucking slut.”

  “No. I don’t,” I said quietly, fighting tears. I didn’t want to cry, I was determined not to cry. “Stop. Please, stop.” I hated how my voice shook with fear, I hated that I knew what he was going to do and how powerless I was to stop it.

  I didn’t fucking cry, but I couldn’t get enough air to bawl if I’d wanted to.

  He tore my pants down my hips, his hand still holding my wrists above my head and his weight locked me down beneath him.

  “Remember when you said you loved me? When I loved you? If you ever loved me, you won’t do this,” I said quietly.

  He didn’t hear any of it, or if he did, he didn’t give a fuck.

  So instead, I looked at him. At his receding hairline, the puff of his fat cheeks as he worked against me, the hair on the back of his neck and shoulders. The smell of him, his sweat, the Jack, and some cheap Dollar Store aftershave. I studied each detail that disgusted me and told myself that this wasn’t the end for me. This was happening to me, yes. But it would be over soon. My children would be safe.

  And I’d go to the hospital, I’d file a police report, and then when he went to prison, I’d make sure whatever prison he went to, all of the officers there would know he’d assaulted one of their own. I’d make him pay for what he did to me.

  He held me by my throat and tried to shove his dick into me. He couldn’t keep his dick hard, couldn’t make it stand up and perform. Since he’d been my friend, listened to my hopes and fears the same as I listened to his, part of me hoped it was because he didn’t really want to hurt me. Stupid, I know. Of course he did.

  This person who’d once said he loved me, once promised me the moon and stars, when he couldn’t keep his dick hard, he used his fist instead. He rammed his fist inside of me, his knuckles hard against my pelvic bone. I wondered if he’d fracture it. I’d started to go numb, but not before my perineum tore, just like when I’d given birth to my children. After I tore, he made some animal sound of pleasure. He was trying to ruin me, destroy that which made me a woman.

  “Please stop,” I begged again, trying to stay quiet.

  “I’ll stop when you scream,” he said, like it was some kind of promise. Something I’d want.

  Fuck you, motherfucker. You could set me on fire and I wouldn’t scream now. My children would hear and I would be goddamned if I’d let that happen.

  Since I dealt with sex offenders, I knew it wasn’t about sex, what he was doing to me. It was about power. I wouldn’t give that to him. Whether I screamed or not was still mine. He couldn’t take that from me. So fuck him if I’d scream. Fuck him and his limp little dick.

  My vision blurred, and I lost consciousness several times. He tightened his grip on my throat when I wouldn’t scream. I tried to stay awake, even though part of me kept telling me to let go because when I woke up, it would be over. But I wondered if I passed out, if he would kill me.

  Or if he got bored, if he’d find my kids and do this to them.

  I almost didn’t want to tell this part of the story. Again, for my children. I don’t want them to read this and know what happened to me, to think what I suffered was in any way their fault. It’s an ugly part of the world that I’d keep from them forever if I could. But when I started telling my story, I knew I had to show this too. It happens to thousands of women, and maybe my story could help someone else know they’re not alone. Know there is life after someone does this to you and it can be a good life. A happy life.

  He finally kissed me, his mouth heavy and wet—his tongue like a slug sliding between my lips.

  “You’re so beautiful.” He kept kissing me and I thought about biting his tongue off, letting him slip it in my mouth and biting down as hard as I could, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t. While he was squealing like a pig and bleeding, I could’ve bashed his head into the sink and done it until he was dead. Then he couldn’t hurt me or my children. “Tell me, Sara. Beautiful Sara, tell me what you liked best so I’ll know for next time.”

  I’m a writer. I should know the power of words. Here, these words, they were more powerful than any gun, any knife, even my teeth tearing out his tongue. They cut me so deep I couldn’t answer him.

  He kept petting my hair; I lay there, solid and still. A terror I’d never known before wrapped around me in the heaviest chains.

  Next time? He could do this to me again? Like I’d asked for it? Like I’d invited it? Like I somehow deserved it? What I liked? I was nearly hysterical when I thought of it again, kept hearing it over and over in my head as I lay there.

  He got up and pulled up his jeans, and left without another word.

  I cried when the door closed. I sobbed into a towel, my head throbbing, my hands bloody from the glass, and more blood sticky down my thighs. I knew I had to get up. I had to get up then or I wasn’t going to.

  I wanted nothing more than to take a shower, to scrub his filth off me, to turn the water on so hot it would melt every bit of him off my skin.

  But I didn’t.

  I cleaned up my face and my hands, rinsing away the blood and the glass I could get out myself. I knew since I’d scratched him, I shouldn’t have washed them, but they were bloody. I didn’t want my children to see. If they saw me like this…no.

  So I put on a sanitary napkin and clean clothes. I balled my dirty clothes up and shoved them into a plastic bag. Then I sat down and waited until it was time to get them up for school. Even sitting there on the couch was sheer agony; it was like being stabbed with a knife between my thighs. When it was time, I got them dressed and I made them breakfast. I took them to school and tried not to flinch when they kissed my cheek a little too hard.

  Then I went to the emergency room where I had to endure a rape kit and seven stitches where he’d torn me. I told them they wouldn’t find anything. There weren’t fluids because he hadn’t been able to keep his dick hard, but I handed over the baggie of my clothes. I’d done everything right, except washing my hands.

  The police came and the questions they asked me were almost as bad as
the kit. Had we ever talked about sex? Did I invite him over for sex? Why would I let him in so late? Was I sure it was rape? Maybe I’d invited him over to fuck and had buyer’s remorse. Because no woman who was raped would have the sense of self and presence of mind to bring her clothes.

  I was so angry, but I answered their questions. I wanted to do this the right way. I wanted him to be punished so he couldn’t do this to anyone else. I’d always prided myself on being strong, so now I had to prove it. I filled out my statement right there and signed it. It should have been easier from there.

  But they didn’t believe me.

  I didn’t act like a rape victim.

  What does a rape victim act like? Is there a script? I know how to disengage my actions from my feelings. It’s what made me a good officer.

  So because I didn’t lie down and fucking die, I must be lying? Since I didn’t become agoraphobic and lock myself in my house, I’m lying? Since I wanted them to catch his punk ass and put him in prison, I was lying?

  Motherfuckers. Every last one of them.

  But I continued to answer their questions and jumped through all of their flaming hoops to file a report.

  Weeks passed and when I never heard back, I went to follow up on my case. The officer I spoke to told me there was no record of any report and asked me if I’d like to file again.

  It had been bad enough the first time, and since I had no record of my report, anyone who’d been inclined to believe me the first time wouldn’t now.

  At first, I was really angry about that. I felt incredibly wronged. Like someone owed me something for this. But I know how these things work in a small town. I resolved to let it go, at least the legal proceedings, but if he attacked me again, I’d kill him.

  I was reminded of when The Old Man told me what a difference there was between saying and doing. It was my children that kept me from doing. I’d like to say I’m too good a person and I believe he’ll be punished in the afterlife, blah blah. But I want him to be punished in this one. I want him to know what it’s like to have his power taken away. To feel something trying to tear out his insides and telling him how pretty his suffering is and how much he likes it because he wanted that nightstick up his ass stirring up his guts.