Bucking off the sheets as the flames consumed me, lighting every synapse at once and flushing my perspiring body with its desperate, chemical payload....he welcome firecrackers in my head would bring closure, at least for one night, allowing me to float to sleep in the sticky aftermath. A pattern repeated almost nightly until, well, the stapler incident.It started innocently enough. My boss called me to her office and asked if I'd assemble a study group from the workforce. Volunteers to connect. I was thinking about my friends and family if they find out about it. Why no one is looking for me? Where is Marc? What is going to happen to me now? I do not know, and slowly I fall asleep.In the morning, two other guys came to my cell to transfer me into a truck, I tried to ask some questions but none of them answered. I was still tipsy, and I felt like I was in a dream or a nightmare! I heard a guy in the corridor talking about me:“There is no more space at the St Catherine women prison we. He now had the son he had always wanted. But still and all, Mr. Strait felt there was something missing from Joey’s life, something he lacked and needed. And there was also something Mr. Strait wanted. He began to make physical contact with Joey, placing a hand on Joey’s shoulder, a pat on his back, a slap on his butt, an arm around his shoulders. Slowly the pat became a rub, the slap a squeeze, the arm a hug, the hand on shoulder a hand on the chest. And then the hug became a lasting. I snapped my head up to look at him. “Oh we are, are we?” I asked derisively. Levi nodded, unfazed by my tone. I sighed and held out my hand as if he could just pass me what I wanted. “So can I have my brush back?” “Nope,” Levi said with a grin. “Come back when you’re ready to use it.” He waved at me, then shut the window on my frustrated groan. “But I am ready to use it!” I called after him. “On my hair!” There was no answer. “Damn it, Levi,” I muttered, leaving the roof to dress myself.
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