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Aug. 2, 2009 The world was greeted with the face-numbing winds, gray skies, and flame-colored leaves of fall. That morning, after rising at her usual time of 5:30 a.m., Cassandra rose and took a look at her half-sleep cellmate, Chantico, a brown-skinned girl with a heavy Mexican accent. Chantico cocked one eye open. “You go for appointment?” “Yes. We don’t have to be at the laundry for another two hours.” “Agradezca a dios (thank God).” Cassandra slipped on her white, plastic flip-flops, and then pushed herself to the door and called for the guard. A black woman unlocked the door and called cheerfully, “Morning, Cassandra.” “Good morning, Lucy.” Cassandra was cuffed and afterward, Lucy walked along as Cassandra dragged her feet along the grate flooring of the prison. Two minutes later they arrived on the third floor at the office of prison therapist, Dr. George Koontz. Cassandra was uncuffed and allowed to enter on her own. “Good morning, Miss Fellows,” the doctor said, motioning for her to take a seat on the examination table in the foyer. The room was paneled on all four sides, giving it a narrow, suffocating tone. Koontz explained to her during their first session together that she only had to come to the room once a month for a multi-vitamin injection. The entire session took less than three minutes, but they were always a long and eerie three minutes. This day was no exception. As Cassandra rolled up her sleeve, the doctor engaged her in small talk. She said as little as possible during this time, for being in close quarters forced her to endure his sour breath and the row of gritty, corn-cob looking teeth. The front two were longer than the others, like a rat’s, and he walked hunched over which only enhanced his rodent-like profile. At least when in therapy session, she could lie on the chaise lounge and didn’t have to look directly at him. “Like this time of year, Cassandra?” “Not really.” He held her wrist and dabbed at the crook of her elbow with a cotton swab. “I hear there’s a possibility you’ll be going home in a few weeks.” “I’m not getting my hopes up.” He removed a syringe from its protective wrapping and inserted it into a small vial. “Maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones. Maybe you’ll find a good man.” “That would be nice.” He tapped her arm and smiled at the sight of a thick green vein. “Relax.” He injected the needle into her arm. Unlike the previous injections, this one burned and almost immediately her arm felt cold and itchy. “Doctor Koontz, wha—” She twisted loose from his grip, but her legs were without life and incapable of supporting her weight. At that moment she was greeted by a brilliant blast of blue-white light, then the image of Koontz’s wide, surreal grin, which is the last thing she remembered. * * * * When Cassandra came to, she prayed that she was in the midst of a nightmare. The first thing that overwhelmed her was the stench of mold. The chamber she was in was damp, dark. She was naked and her mouth was gagged and both her wrists and ankles were bound with something that felt like duct tape. She lie upon a cold, marble-like slab, marinating in her fear for several hours until she heard the creak of a door and saw a sliver of light enter the room. The door closed and for several seconds the door was again black, after which she felt the breath of someone standing over her. As she began to hyperventilate, the person shined a penlight in her eye. She recognized the face as that of Dr. Sharkey. “I am going to remove your gag.” Sharkey untied the cloth knot that pressed against the back of Cassandra’s wet, matted locks. Cassandra was to weak to rise, as she lie on the cold table, her respiring pushing out misty clouds that evaporated into the darkness. “I’m cold,” she moaned. Sharkey answered her in a dry monotone. “That is by design.” “Where am I and how did I get here?” “You were anesthetized and are at the original penitentiary where you were sent after your conviction.” Cassandra shifted her eyes around the room, frightened by the familiar brick and mortar of the prison basement. “I was told I would remain at CIW until my parole hearing.” “We thought it best that you undergo the final part of your recovery in familiar surroundings.” “What do you mean? I thought it was over, that I—” The remainder of her sentence froze in her throat as she saw Sharkey’s sneer and his shaking head. “This is the last stage before your parole. Yes, Miss Fellows, a week from now you will leave this facility a free woman. You will be introduced back into society, your eyes opened and forced to view the world as a woman victimized by an evil aggressor.” “I don’t understand. I did everything you asked of me!” “Oh, but you will understand shortly.” Sharkey went to the door and yanked it open. Cassandra could make out the silhouettes of four men, all of whom she could see were nude and muscular. All of whom had long, dangling members…She saw Sharkey exit, and while doing so heard him tell the men, “Remember, take your time, gentlemen. We’re in no hurry.” Cassandra rolled her eyes upward and furiously tried to work her wrists free of her binds, but could not. Good Lord! No! No sooner had she heard the words register in her head, when she felt her binds being cut away, but no sooner were they loosened when four hands grabbed hold of her—one on her breasts; one clasped hold of her buttocks, three fingers of another penetrated her vaginally, and a fist that met her kidney region, then her cheek bone and finally firing a fusillade of punches to the back of her head. As the room grew dim she felt her legs being jerked apart, and serpentine tongues lapping against her flesh. As the first man made penetration, she cried out to no avail. The assault continued off and on for two days, as each man had their way with her repeatedly, filling her with their filth, shaming her with vulgarities and mewling their lustful intents. Cassandra didn’t know how long the men tore at her, but when she found some semblance of normalcy, it was in Mann’s office. Despite the throbbing of her orifices, and the pain from the bruises on her face, legs and back, she managed to keep herself upright in an oaken chair on the other side of Mann’s desk. Mann’s expression was a sympathetic one. Sharkey’s was one more befitting of his role as an observer; while Dr. Quarles sat impassive, content with Mann doing the talking. “Congratulations, Miss Fellows.” Cassandra sat mute and she averted his gaze, as if her name was a vulgarity. “I have good news.” Mann paused, as if waiting a response. After none came, he continued. “The parole board has approved your release. It will take a couple of days for the paperwork to go through, but as of this moment, you are a free woman.” There was a long pause, through which Cassandra squirmed and searched her mind for the right words, before she settled on, “I don’t want to go.” Mann raised an eyebrow, and he looked to Quarles and Sharkey for answers. They shined him on, and Mann replied, “I don’t understand, Cassandra.” “I don’t deserve freedom.” “That’s not true.” “I can’t protect myself. I couldn’t do so here, so why should I be expected to do so on the outside.” “Part of your new reality is that you conform to the outside world and you are prepared to do that.” Her hands trembled as she spoke. “No.” “Why not?” “Because there are people out there who will hurt me.” “You were a victim of something horrible, but you are strong enough to pull through it.” “No, I can’t. I’m nothing, I…” Mann rose and stepped toward her until they were eye-to-eye. “Stop it, Cassandra! You’re a victim of circumstance,” “I’m not like those on the outside!” Cassandra threw her arms around her shoulders, bowed her head and drew her feet closer to her chair. “I don’t understand how you could have bent over backwards for me.” “The goal of this program was to insure you had a new beginning.” “”I’d rather be dead!” “No, Cassandra, don’t say that.” Mann shook his head. “Today marks a new beginning, not only for you, but for the others who will follow in your footsteps.” Sharkey stood with his chest pushed out like a soldier at reveille. “You have done nothing more than experience the fact that turnabout is fair play! You must get over it and accept the fact that as of now, you are discharged from this prison!” Cassandra rose and took two steps backward. “I don’t want this!” “You have no say in this.” Cassandra’s bottom lip drooped as her eyes locked with Sharkey’s. The look on her face was like that of one lying in a casket. In her heart she felt a similar finality, the acceptance of her bitter reality. * * * * Two days later, a gloomy Cassandra Fellows stepped into a day of similar temperament. She worre a state-purchased pantsuit and strode with determination from her cell, into the intake lounge at San Quentin prison. She was officially signed out. There were no final good-byes from inmates wishing her well, nor did Mann and Sharkey come across with last-minute expressions of sorrow or kudos. The release occurred at four a.m., and a Greyhound bus had been slated to meet Cassandra and take her to a halfway house in San Rafael , where she was to reside for six months or until she began to show signs of self-sufficiency. She toted no luggage, knapsack or packet. All Cassandra carried with her were the words of Warden Mann: You conform to the outside world and you are prepared to do that…So she walked with her shoulders squared, he stride long and her hips and arms swinging in synch. She knew what she could do and what to do. So she walked outside the gate and waited for her bus. Fifteen minutes later the bus signaled a right turn, to pull up to the sidewalk and Cassandra ran to greet it. She ran, leg-pumping-knees-riding-high, and as the bus began its swerve to the curb she veered to her right and hurled herself through the air like a missile. The driver turned loose the steering wheel and fell from his seat, as Cassandra lowered her head and struck the windshield. Red and gray matter exploded across the shattered glass, as the bus ran onto the curb and smashed into a chain link fence before the driver recouped his bearings and brought the bus to a stop. The Warden and his Chief of Medical Staff, Sharkey, stood at the gate looking on, when Mann clapped Sharkey on the back. “C’mon. I have a bottle of Jack in my desk drawer,” Mann said. Sharkey looked over his shoulder and took one final look at the crumpled heap, covered in blood and lighted by the lamps of the bus. Other than the hissing of the busses airbrakes, the morning remained cold and silent. ------------ About the author: Timothy N. Stelly is a poet, essayist, novelist and screenwriter from northern California. His novel, HUMAN TRIAL, is the first part of a sci-fi trilogy and is available from Amazon.com, allthingsthatmatterpress.com and in e-book format at mobipocket.com. website: http://stellbreadO@tripod.com Email: stellbread@yahoo.com 
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