by Susanne Beck
Knowing of my interest in books of all kinds, Corinne immediately put me to work cataloguing her vast assortment of reading materials into some kind of coherent system. I was also appointed her chief scribe and soon developed blisters on my fingers from pounding out notes begging various governmental and non-profit agencies for books or the funds to procure more. More often than not, rejection notices filled our mail slot, but there were times of happy surprise, like when the ACLU donated seven cartons of used and new books as well as a five hundred dollar check to purchase more.
In addition to my own college studies, which Corinne insisted I pursue, I was also pressed into service as a teacher-at-large, doing my best to help several young women in their quest for educational advancement. Most of the women who came to see me weren’t hardened criminals by any stretch of the imagination. Prison life scared many of these women straight, and they begged me to help them do whatever it took to be able to get a better life once outside these cold walls.
I must admit that it gave me a great deal of satisfaction to be able to help these women make something better of their lives.
It was during this heady time that I ‘earned’ the name Angel as well as the reputation as the woman who could get it for you. The Amazons had taken to giving me small jobs to do which usually involved asking the guards for some inmate favor or other. Because I was young, innocent-looking and unfailingly polite, my requests were granted more often than they were refused. I was soon able to set up my own contacts, both inside and outside the prison walls and before I knew it, other prisoners were coming to me asking for favors. By dealing with everyone fairly and granting as many requests as I could, my reputation grew and my status within the prison rose.
They say that pride goeth before a fall, and that was certainly true in my case.
Breathing a huge and heartfelt sigh of relief, I snapped off the final light, allowing the library to go dark and silent around me. I soaked in the feeling of peace with a hungry soul, taking in the comforting smell of printer’s ink and binder’s glue with a sense of satisfaction over another day ended without bruises or bloodshed.
The day had been a particularly trying one. I had offered to teach English as a Second Language to three young Mexican women whose knowledge of our language was sparse, to say the least. Because my knowledge of Spanish wasn’t much better, our time together started off bad and only got worse as the day turned to night.
To say I wasn’t looking forward to the next day’s class would be putting it mildly and so I left the library, my head already filled with dread over another twelve hours of fruitless work. Arriving back at my cell, I decided to take a shower, figuring that perhaps the shock of cold, stinging water might force a plan into my head. In so doing, I managed to break yet another unwritten prison rule. Never shower alone.
To be perfectly honest, that thought did cross my mind, but to my shame, I dismissed it with a shrug and light laugh. My workouts with the Amazons had been inspiring and I’d taken to them like a fish to water after an initial brief bout of awkwardness. My body, after an hour a day and three on weekends for the past six months, was lean and tight with hard muscles beginning to emerge from the softness of my skin. I was quite proud of the work I’d done on it and felt much more capable of defending myself against all comers.
As I’ve already said, pride is a spiteful master. Just when you think you have a handle on it, it turns around and bites you on the ass.
If you’ve ever watched a prison movie, you probably already know what the inside of a prison shower looks like, that being the site of so much action it seems, but in case you need to be reminded, I’ll tell you.
The shower room in the Rainwater Women’s Correctional Facility is a green tiled number that smells of mildew and sharply scented disinfectant. It’s one large square without dividers or privacy of any type. Twenty showerheads, ten to each side, jut out nakedly from the wall. The knob beneath each head dispenses just two temperatures. Cold and colder. The water pressure is sometimes set to ‘sandblasting’ and sometimes, ‘gentle rain’. It’s always a bit of a gamble as to which you’ll be blessed with. The floor is solid cement with a large drain in the middle and is always slimy. Shower shoes are always recommended attire.
Anyway, back to my story.
Shower time was usually closely regulated, but I’d managed to get on the good side of the guards and could pretty much shower whenever I pleased. This was the first time I went so close to ‘lights out’, but I figured myself safe enough, since most of the others would be busy wrapping up their business before turning in for the night.
With a nod to one of the guards who sat behind thick plexi-glass in the observation station, I took the short hallway and followed my nose to the shower room. By this time, our uniforms had been switched to those atrocious bright orange jumpsuits and I had a fresh one under my arm, with my shower shoes in my other hand.
Snapping the naked flourescents on, I listened to the steady drip drip of the faucets while I disrobed, tossing my dirty uniform into the laundry chute and grabbing a stiff and scratchy towel from the pile outside the showers. Slipping into my shoes, I walked into the shower proper, selecting the third nozzle from the end and, taking a deep breath, hit the button.
Icy cold water shot out full blast, drenching me in seconds and sending a spray of fine, stinging needles to pierce the closed pores of my skin. We weren’t allowed shampoo or conditioner, so the slimy bar of off white soap would have to do. Humming softly to myself, and let me warn you right now that I am not a singer, I proceeded to lather up as best I could, musing idly that my nipples were so hard, I could probably etch my name into the ceramic tiles with them and smirking at the thought.
So wrapped up in idle thoughts and off key singing was I that I never heard the snickering coming from behind and to the left of me. I lathered up my hands and proceeded to start on my hair, at that time still long and thick, when soap made its stinging way into my eyes, causing me to drop the soap and reach blindly for the towel I’d dropped beside me.
My motion was arrested by the feel of thick hands on my hips and a pair of muscled thighs pressed tight to my bare ass, grinding into me wantonly. I tried to straighten up, but another pair of legs trapped my head between them, forcing my body to bow tautly.
The water shut off abruptly and evil laughter came to ears which were muffled by wet cloth.
"Hello again, little fish. Tell me, do your little buddies get to play with you like this? You like em ta give it to ya up the ass, do ya?"
I tried to struggle, only to have the legs around my head clench tighter, crushing against my skull.
"Yeah, I thought so. Those freaks probably like it when you struggle." The body moved away from me slightly, though the hands remained tight on my hips. "Let her up, Shorty."
The pressure on my skull loosened and I shot up quickly, rubbing at my stinging eyes and whirling on my tormentor.
Mouse took a short step back and laughed. "Well, well, well. The little Angel has horns, huh? That’ll just make this more fun."
"What do you want from me?"
"Same thing I’ve always wanted, fish. You. You’re getting too big for your britches and ya need someone ta knock you down a few pegs. Your friends are always around to protect you." Mouse took an exaggerated look around the room. "Don’t see em anywhere now, though." Her grin turned into a leer. Thrusting out a hand behind her, the woman grunted as a long length of wood, a mop handle by the look of it, was slapped solidly in her palm. "Let’s see how pretty you can scream for Mouse, ok?" Looking past me, she set eyes on the woman still standing behind me. "Hold her steady, Shorty."
Hard hands clamped down on my shoulders, freezing me to the spot as I blinked my stinging eyes, trying to clear my vision enough to watch as Mouse took a few practice swings with her stick. "Here it comes, little fishie."
From the corner of my eye, I saw the tip of the stick start toward me as Mouse planted her feet on the wet concrete and swung.
I tried to dodge out of the way, but Shorty held me fast and the wood cracked against my unprotected side, grazing my hip bone.
Clenching my teeth against a scream, I felt my knees buckle as my right leg went numb. Shorty held me up, tight against her body, and laughed as Mouse drew back for another swing. The stick went low, cracking solidly against the outside of my right knee, welting the skin and totally numbing my leg. I listed drunkenly, almost managing to get away from Shorty’s slippery hold before she clamped down hard on me once again.
The room echoed with their laughter and my heavy breathing and something in me snapped. It was like that night in my apartment all over again, and the redness of rage washed over my vision once again. The mop handle came at me again, but this time I was ready. I caught it in my right hand and pulled hard, managing to grab it away from Mouse.
Like the bat before it, the weapon felt perfect in my hands. I found myself twirling it experimentally, getting the heft of the handle even as my body jerked away from Shorty’s grasp. My leg threatened to give out, but I willed myself to stand straight and steady, narrowing my eyes to mere slits as I stared down my tormentors.
"Think it’s fun beating up on defenseless women, do ya?" I taunted, twirling my weapon again and enjoying the looks of uncertainty that were crossing the women’s faces. "Well, this time, you miserable sack of shit, you picked the wrong girl!" Grabbing the handle firmly in my hands, I swung for all I was worth, listening to the satisfying crack as it landed hard against Mouse’s arm, right above the elbow. Drawing back, I pivoted and swung again, catching Shorty behind the legs and neatly sweeping her off her feet. She landed with a splat onto the puddle filled floor and rolled away quickly, her eyes wide and rolling.
I had no idea how I knew these moves, but I went with the feeling, enjoying my body’s reactions and the adrenaline surge that accompanied them. Mouse was howling in pain, cradling her arm and screaming incoherently at me. I stood patiently, working some feeling back into my leg as I did so, and waiting to see what would happen next.
The third woman took advantage of my stillness to rush into the fray. I walloped her in the abdomen as she came at me, and when she doubled over, I finished her off with an upswing to the face, watching as teeth and blood fell from her face in a ghastly torrent.
With a bellow of rage, Mouse came at me again. I drove her back with a hit directly on her injured arm, but she continued to come at me, her eyes filled with hatred and rage. Raising my staff, I aimed higher, levering a blow at her unprotected skull.
A strong sense of déjà vu flashed though me and, suddenly sickened, I pulled the blow at the last moment, glancing the handle off her meaty shoulder and dropping my weapon in horror.
Still bellowing, she crashed full into me, taking out my already weak leg and bearing me to the floor with her. I immediately curled up into a fetal ball, legs tucked tight to my chest and my arms clamped hard around my head.
Jumping off of me, she grabbed the handle and brought it down on my back time after time after time until all I could feel was the sting and welt of the falling wood as my body rocked to the rhythm of her blows.
How long the beating went on I’ll never know, because my body gave up the fight and I passed out, falling quickly into a place that knew no pain.
To this day, almost five years later, I believe the only thing that saved my life that night was the fact that I’d chosen such a late hour to go into the showers. The lights out head count is taken with the utmost seriousness in the Bog and the warning buzzer must have rung during my beating because when I woke up, I was alone, save for a broken and bloodied mop handle and the third woman’s broken teeth sharing space with me.
When I came to full consciousness, my body was a flaming ball of exquisite agony, pulsing with a life of its own that mirrored the beating of my heart. My back and ass were on fire and I wondered idly if my spine had been damaged. Trying out an experimental move, I screamed out in agony as my muscles sent warning flares up and down my nerve endings. Doubling over, I retched weakly between my splayed arms, screaming as that action further jolted my already overloaded senses. "Oh God," I cried out softly into the emptiness of my seeming tomb. "Please help me. Somebody, please help me."
Only the dripping of the showers answered my plea.
I knew that the only person to get me out of this situation was me. Despite my agony, I shuddered at the thought of being discovered, huddled, bloody and shivering, the next morning. "Ok, Angel. This is your chance to show how tough you are."
I’d always been a big one for mental pep talks, and if there ever was a time one was needed, it was now. Breathing as deeply as I dared, I managed to drag myself up on my hands and knees, swaying violently as spots of pretty colored lights swam in my vision, threatening to engulf me and take me under with them once again. I spared a long moment considering exactly that option, before dismissing it out of hand. "Get a move on, woman. Don’t let them beat you. You can do this. You have to do this, right? Right. So let’s just get up and get moving."
The spirit was more than willing, but the flesh was beyond weak. Getting to my feet was not an option, so I resigned myself to a slow crawl across the slimy shower floor, fighting against the seductive pull of unconsciousness with every inch of progress I managed to make.
After what seemed like an hour, but was in reality no more than five or ten minutes, I managed to make it out of the shower proper and into the changing room. Just as standing was impossible, so too was clothing myself. Shaking my head and telling myself that only the guards would be around to see me in my helpless nakedness, I set off for the hallway using that same slow crawl and willing myself to stay alert and fully conscious.
I made it to the hallway and was slumped down, panting through the pain, when I heard the sound of running feet heading toward the hallway. I knew instinctively what had happened. I’d missed the head count and was being searched for. Luckily, I had spoken briefly to the guard as I went to the showers, and so I slid back against my haunches and waited for them to find me.
The sounds of running footsteps came closer and the light in the hallway dimmed as a large body filled the entrance. "Angel!" a voice cried out, spying my huddled form. The figure broke into a run once again, skidding to a stop bare inches from me. "What happened?!? Who did this to you??" Forcing my eyes open, I craned my stiff neck to look up into the concerned eyes of Sandra Pierce, who was pulling graveyard shift that month.
"Help me," I whispered, biting my cheeks against the sobs that were threatening to overcome my resolve. The relief at having been found left me feeling weak and nauseous, fully conscious of my pain for the first time since just after I’d awakened.
"Who did this to you?" she demanded once again, squatting in front of me and running tender hands down my lacerated and bruised back. She yanked them away quickly when I yelped, her voice sorrowful and tender. "Oh, Angel."
"Please . . . ." was all I could manage to get out. "Please . . . ."
"Simmons!" she shouted over her shoulder. "Get down here with a stretcher and tell Kotter to call the doc!"
Pulling my strength from somewhere, I managed to grab her arm. "No! Please. Just . . .take me to my cell. Please."
"Angel, I can’t! You’re badly hurt. I’m taking you to the infirmary. The doc needs to look you over."
"No! Please!"
"Angel . . . ."
"No. Sandra, please. I can’t let them win. Take me to my cell. Please."
"Angel, you know I can’t do that. You’ve been badly beaten and your back’s a bloody mess. You might have permanent damage. You need to be checked out."
"Here then," I pleaded, fighting the darkness that hovered at the edges of my vision. "Can’t let them win."
"Who did this, Angel? Was it Mouse and her crew? Tell me."
My strength gone, I slumped against her, letting the sobs finally come.
Though to this day I’m not sure how I managed it, I was able to talk Sandra into allowing the doc to ex
amine me in the hallway to the shower room. After determining that no major damage was done, the head guard agreed to take me back to my cell. Though she had to carry me in her arms like a small child, I felt an absurd sense of triumph in the fact that I would spend the night in my own bed, in my own cell. I can remember falling into bed, still sobbing, praying that one day, a way would be found to give my abusers the justice they so richly deserved.
I’ve heard it said that sometimes, when prayers are made with a pure and hurting heart, someone listens and gives an answer. Mine certainly were.
* * *
It’s nighttime once again and as the prison settles down for the evening, I look back over these pages I’ve managed to write and can’t help but wonder what you must think of my naivete in the face of so much obvious danger. I’ve also noticed that I’ve managed to, yet again, bring the story back around to me, though it was never my intention to write a tale about myself. However, I’ve also discovered that if the Muse points you in a certain direction, it’s always best to just follow along so your words don’t turn on you and make you fight and scrape for every inch gained.
In the preceding twenty or so pages, I’ve used two different pens to differentiate between things happening now and scenes from my checkered past. Since I’ve grown to absolutely detest this purple pen of mine, I’m going to trust that you have figured out my writing style by now and will be able to tell the difference without it.
* * *
The morning after my altercation in the shower, I woke up wishing I hadn’t. There wasn’t a place on me that didn’t throb and my body was doing a very good job convincing me to just throw in the towel and spend the day in bed trying to let the blissful fog of unconsciousness soothe away the pain.
Luckily, my brain had other ideas, most of which involved dragging my ass out of bed and being seen as one who wouldn’t back down from a fight anymore. After a long internal debate, I decided to go with mind over matter and slowly pulled myself, like an arthritic old woman on a rainy winter morning, out of bed and onto my feet. I stood by the side of the bed, panting, swaying and willing down the terrible nausea that had decided to come out to play.