There are mornings when I wake not knowing or caring what day of the week it is. Sometimes, I go whole stretches of time without ever checking the date. I prefer it that way.
There’s less chance of my having the hope of a better life if all the nothingness blurs together.
Above me, my husband labors over my body with practiced movements my own recognizes and responds to, if only out of habit. His head carefully tilts to the side so he doesn’t have to look me in the eye. As he’s told me countless times, “Fucking doesn’t have to be personal to be effective.” Somehow, he’s taught my body to believe him. Played it and tuned it as finely as a musician tunes an instrument. He molds and shapes me to his liking, and I let him until I’m nothing more than a thing he programs for his pleasure—his real-life porn queen/sex robot. It’s a wonder something so mistreated can still respond to the cause of its neglect.
The soft scrape of his buzzed haircut rubs the side of my face raw. It’s an irritation I don’t dare turn away from. The smell of sex, musk and lubricant, fills my nose, so I switch to moaning from my mouth. He likes it when I make noise, even if it’s more for his benefit than any real reaction to anything he’s doing between my legs.
Fingers bruise the skin on my wrists as easily as they can crush the delicate flesh of a peach. Fingers that once were cause for delight but now cause nothing but devastation. Vic's movements quicken at my strangled cry until he drives into me at an unrelenting pace. I lift my hips in time with his, if only to stoke to life a spark guaranteed to burn away the nothingness my existence has become. Anything to forget.
Each thrust of his cock mixes pleasure and pain until I don’t know how to differentiate one from the other. Until they blend into the fathomless darkness I’ve come to know and love. I reach for it, yearning for it to wrap me in its bleak comfort.
His grunts draw me in the other direction, back toward reality. The pleasure ekes away with each of his sharp exhalations in my ear, the keen edge of oblivion dulled to an irritating reminder. An itch to go unscratched. I want to growl and claw at him, but I twist my fists into the bedspread instead and pinch my eyes closed until moisture leaks from the corners and down my cheeks to wet my pillowcase. Beside us on the nightstand, an alarm drones, and I mentally countdown the long minutes until he finishes and I can reach over and turn it off.
With his arms a relentless cage around me, he stiffens above me and groans. The promise of oblivion fades, taking the blissful sense of nothingness with it. The beeping punctures the promised haze of relief and reality claws its way back. The sweat sticking our torsos together reminds me of how dirty I feel, but I know it’s best if I don’t move, best just to wait until he gets off me.
When he does, I’ll roll to my side of the bed, make appreciative noises when he asks if it was all right for me, and then I’ll shower and get ready for yet another day. I repeat the lists of tasks in my mind until he leverages his weight on one hand before tossing it to the side with another grunt. I loose a relieved breath and cover myself with a sheet. I’ve long since lost the ability to sense shame where he’s concerned, but there’s a part of me—deep down—that aways needs to run and hide.
He slumps on his back with a satisfied groan and paws at his stomach with one meaty hand. “You need a shower,” he says. “You look like shit.”
Another of his not-so-subtle digs. I swallow my angry retort and tell him I will. His attention drifts to the smell of coffee brewing downstairs. As he swings himself off his side of the bed, my breathing and heart rate return to normal, and already I’m counting down the seconds until I can move on with my day, even if I’ll just have to start all over again tomorrow morning.
He ambles to the desk chair, retrieves his robe, and throws it around his shoulders. Without another word or a backward glance or even a show of concern for the fact that I didn’t finish, he walks out of the bedroom and disappears down the hallway. After a few seconds, I hear the sounds of cabinets opening followed by the click of his coffee cup on the counter and then the sound of liquid splashing.
I shove the discomfort to the back of my mind—like I do everything else—and go to take a shower. Hot water doesn’t wash away much besides the sweat clinging to my skin. I never understood people who thought showers could make them clean. I feel just as dirty getting out of them as I do going in. There are some things water and soap just can’t wash away.
I dress in a simple uniform of gray scrubs, blow-dry my long, dark hair until it’s pin-straight, and then pin it back in a severe bun at the nape of my neck. I only put concealer on the lavender smudges beneath my eyes and run mascara over my lashes—more out of habit than any real concern for my physical appearance. Less is better. The last thing I need is to draw any attention to myself. Vic's, or anyone else’s. I’ve become very skilled at blending into the background.
With a steadying breath, I turn my back on the mirror and join him in the kitchen. He sits at the table with the paper spread out in front of him, the cup of coffee at his elbow, steam curling from the top. It’s a typical morning. Picturesque almost. The goddamn American dream. All that’s missing is the two point five kids and the golden retriever.
I fill a thermos with coffee and snag a banana for something to fill my deadened stomach. “Have a good day at work,” I tell his bowed head as I pass by him to the door.
He stops me with one hand on my arm and angles his cheek up to me. I oblige him with a kiss, and he says, “I’ll see you for dinner.” The underlying threat of what will happen if I’m late hangs heavy between us. Dinner is to be served promptly at six from an approved menu. The lack of autonomy doesn’t matter. I’ve long since lost the ability to enjoy the food I eat, and it’s but one of the aspects of my life he controls.
Dismissing me, he turns back to his paper, and I push through the side door that leads to our covered garage. It’s February in Upper Michigan, and the cold seeps through my jacket with icy, penetrating fingers. In my haste to leave the house and my husband, I forgot to grab my gloves. Turning back is unthinkable, so I unlock the car with numb fingers and resolve to deal with it.
The drive to work is an arduous process. Roads are slick from the previous night’s snow—I’m too early for the sweepers, but don’t have time to wait for them to clear the way. The layer of ice underneath the fresh dusting crunches as I pull up to the gate to flash my identification.
The officer on duty, Ernie, pokes his head out of the ancient window, his cheeks blazing red. Despite his bushy white eyebrows, I can’t miss his appraisal.
Without a word, I hand over my badge. Any friendly good morning I’d planned wilts as Ernie's eyes linger on the V of my uniform bared by my unzipped jacket. When he finally turns away, I wait as he scans it into the computer. I want to snap at him and tell him to keep his eyes to himself, but I don’t. He’ll spend the rest of the day out here in the cold, I tell myself. His suffering is a comfort. I didn’t always use to be so cold-hearted, and as I wait, the irritation I’d repressed from losing the pleasant numbness this morning comes back a thousand-fold. Only this time it’s directed at Ernie. My complacency in his blatant ogling reminds me of what Vic has turned me into, and I want to take my rage out on Ernie by grabbing his neck and slamming his face into the window frame.
The spurt of anger shocks me, and I jump as Ernie leans forward with my badge. “Whoa there, steady,” he says as if I’m some spooked horse he can calm down. “Must be jittery because of the big day.”
I make sure to take my ID between two fingers so I don’t have to touch him again. My concentration is so absolute it takes a few long seconds of silence for me to realize he’s waiting for my response.
“Why’s that?” I ask, knowing there are eyes on me, even now, that will report back to my husband, who, as warden of Blackthorne, isn’t to be crossed. Despite my feelings, I must play the dutiful wife and make pleasant conversation because any employee I encounter has the potential to relay my actions back to Vic.
Ernie pulls a face. “New arrivals,” he says slowly. “Didn’t you hear? One of ’em’s supposed to be a real piece of work.”
Eyelids shuttering closed for a second at the memory of last night’s conversation with my husband, I do recall him mentioning that I should be extra careful today. Apparently, one of the new inmates is high-risk. He must be if he warranted such a warning.
“Must be the president himself,” I remember to say.
Ernie snorts. “I’m sure he thinks he is. You be careful now. Wouldn’t want one of them criminals roughing up that beautiful face of yours.”
Laughter bubbles in my chest and nearly breaks free. For a moment, it threatens to overtake me, but I choke it back and wave to a bewildered Ernie as I pull my car into the parking lot.
The quick dash from my car to the entrance takes an eternity. In the interim, I lose all sensation south of my kneecaps, and the tips of my fingers and nose tingle with numbing heat. As I step into the dank front office, I daydream about sandy beaches, coconut drinks, and crowds big enough to lose myself in.
It doesn’t matter how much I think about it, though. A tiny part of my mind knows that these prison walls are my reality. I push through the main employee entrance, toe off my sensible shoes, and hand them and my lunch bag to the officer manning the metal detector. He nods good morning but doesn’t engage me in useless conversation. His eyes barely even register my presence.
Once I have my shoes back on, I retrieve my keys to medical from the control room. The officer on duty pauses before handing them over.
I’ve learned it’s best to wait little power plays like this out, so I stare at the paunchy middle-aged man until he speaks. “You’ve got a patient this morning.”
“Oh?” I say without inflection, though it does pique my curiosity that I haven’t been at work ten minutes and already someone’s waiting for treatment. “Who is it?”
The officer pulls back, and I know I should have just kept moving. It isn’t as if I won’t find out who the patient is in a few minutes. I glance to the doors, hinting that I would like for him to let me through, and he relents without answering my question. The inner hallway is as silent as a tomb for once. The hush is so uncharacteristic that I keep looking behind myself, expecting someone to jump out from one of the doorways.
The walk to medical is a long one, and I’m on such tenterhooks that I don’t even look up as I unlock the door. My eyes are on my feet as I put my lunch in the fridge in the small office they have for the nurses on call. I swing around to pick up the charts from the overnight patients and nearly gasp when I realize I’m not the only person in the room.
I open my mouth to call out or to question his presence, but something stops me. Without a word, the man sitting on the examining table in front of me manages to do what it took my husband two years to learn: how to shut me up with just one glance.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles as my body recognizes a predator in its midst. The layer of muscle underneath my skin contracts, preparing for flight even as I take a step closer to the prisoner in front of me. The other officers and nurses are in the infirmary, which is close, but at the same time an eternity away. There is nothing stopping this man from hurting me. It only takes one glance at him to know it’s entirely within his capabilities should it serve his means. Taut muscles, which are too large for the standard issue prison uniform, stretch against the confines of the top. Ropes of ink snake around his right forearm and his left bicep.
My throat bobs reflexively as my eyes flash up to his. He doesn’t taunt me, but his smile speaks more loudly than words.