A Prison Break Ch. 02

I placed a doubled paper towel on the countertop to put the newly washed glasses on, there wasn't any room in the high pile of dishes draining in the other sink. I bit the bullet and separated the previous washed glasses from the big pile, put those on the paper towel, then stuck in the newly washed dishes in the drainer. I looked at the clock. 7:58AM. I figured I needed to get some fuckin' clothes on.

I quietly walked to the master bedroom and peeked inside. Lana had rolled over to face the opposite wall. I silently walked in, picked up my jeans, underwear, and T shirt, then went to the living room, pulled the damp towel off, and got dressed. There were a few small semen stains in my briefs. There had been semen leaks in all my fuckin' underwear the entire previous week from either watching Lana's tease shows or thinking about Lana's tease shows. I picked up the towel and tossed it on top of the washer in the mud room.

I put more ice in my water glass and refilled it. I thought about making coffee but my stomach wasn't feeling very well and I was too thirsty to drink coffee. I lit another smoke. I wondered how long Lana was going to sleep. I had to get my shit together. What the hell was I going to say to her? I sat at the kitchen table.

Well, I couldn't fuck her again. It was wrong for a hundred reasons, a few vying for the top of the list. I didn't want Barb to know for good, and for some selfish reasons. It would devastate her, emotionally it would kill her. She hadn't done very well those first couple months drying out. Those visitations had been afternoons from hell. Would she off herself if she found out? My gut tightened yet again. I knew that answer was "yes," at least a good possibility. How could I have fucked up so badly? Did I want to leave Barb? Did I want to divorce her? To have her divorce me? Can prisoners divorce their spouses? Locked up in prison, she'd be in utter despair if she found out I had fucked Lana, especially if she knew I had freakin' paid Lana.

Jeezuz. Barb might reach some crazy conclusion that cutting off Lana's allowance was my way of getting Lana to fuck me for money! Oh shit. Would she think that? I hadn't done that! Yeah, I've been thinking about fucking her, especially the last week or so, but yesterday I was fuckin' praying she would be out before I got home last night! I didn't plan any of it, she did! She had the whole fuckin' thing planned out!

It suddenly felt like the wind got knocked out of me. Last Sunday, going to that goddamn truckstop con whorehouse... that's when she started planning it all. We talked about that one whore last night. Shit! Why the fuck did I stop there?! Did I subconsciously go there on purpose for her? So she'd see those prosties? Did I hope she'd get the idea?

I stared out the window over the sink and considered it. NO! I didn't think anything like that! Did I? NO! I had a taste for that fuckin' chicken and I didn't want to go to some fast food joint she might have liked. That's why I stopped there. How could I have ever thought seeing a few whores would make her jump to the conclusion that she should offer me sex for money?! I may stretch possibilities sometimes, but that would have been a fuckin' colossal intellectual leap of fantasy, even if it was subconscious. Fuck subconscious! What the fuck does subconscious have to do with any fucking thing! If it was subconscious, I wouldn't fucking know it, and I sure as hell didn't think it consciously!

Why should I feel any of this is my fuckin' fault?! What the fuck does Barb expect me to do for three to five fuckin' years?! Become a priest?! The knot in my gut tightened yet again when I recalled thinking something like that last night. I pushed the thought from my mind.

Lana is the one who fuckin' propositioned me. She's fucking eighteen, that's legal age in this fuckin' state, in EVERY fuckin' state. She fuckin' teased me for three, four days! Like any whore on a street corner, hell, MORE than street walkers! She had the whole thing planned! She preyed on me, not the other fuckin' way round! She knew I was horny and she made me even hornier, insane fuckin' horny! She knew I was drunk, she knows I fuckin' get half smashed nearly every evening some weeks, and she fucking goddamn well knows I don't give a shit about anything sometimes when I'm half in the bag. She must have noticed that in all my fuckin' arguments with Barb! She played me like she was a fuckin' whore! Just like a fuckin' whore!

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I crushed the butt in the ashtray, then swept the ash that had fallen on the table top off the edge. If it was her fault, why the hell was I so fucking full of guilt about it? Because I was a weak fucking asshole, a drunk, and now a cheating fucking prick of a husband? I had vowed to myself that I would never... NEVER do that to Barb, even though I guess I thought she might do it to me. I had promised myself I'd divorce her before I ever cheated on her. If I couldn't do that, then the broad wasn't worth fucking.

Shit. Fucking shit.

I buried my throbbing head in my hands then rubbed my face and skull. Why couldn't I just stop fucking drinking? Some days I didn't drink at all, other days I'd plan to have one or two beers but then I'd drink an eighteen pack. Why couldn't I just fucking quit?

It was my safety valve, that's why. It was a way to release the pressure. And I didn't do crazy shit every time I got wasted. Barb liked me drunk, she always said I was so funny, and so hot after I had a few drinks. We had fun at the bars, we had hot times in the bedroom too. Yeah, I'd wish I could recall every minute the next morning, but sometimes it was fun with Barb the following day filling in each other's memory gaps of the night before, like hearing about some movie where you were the main character. When I was loaded, I didn't worry about anything, I didn't feel like some fucking shithead failure, the edges were taken off everything, for the most part.

Not always though. Sometimes it made me plain crazy or turned me into a mean son-of-a-bitch. That's usually when I got into the fights. The next day it would scare the hell out of me sometimes recalling how I had done some crazy shit like driving the truck at 95mph, or how I made a fool of myself in some bar, or how I had really wanted to kill some asshole who had said some shit to me, or who I just thought was a fuckin' prick. Half the fights I had been in had been me picking them. Maybe more than half.

After I met Barb, I had cooled it a little, but sometimes even Barb screaming at me to leave some bar instead of fighting, or physically trying to restrain me from duking it out with some fucking asshole in the parking lot, didn't stop me. Once I shoved her away so hard in some bar, she fell over someone else's table, which had the bouncer on me in a microsecond, holding me while the asshole I was about to fight, delivered a few fists to my face and gut as the bouncer dragged me to the door and pushed me outside. Barb came out and screamed at me for at least five minutes, the bouncer standing at the door watching. Then in the car, she sobbed between shouting tirades at me all the way home, telling me that if I ever shoved her like that again, she'd kick me out of the house and never have anything to do with me again.

I never planned to get drunk. No, that's a lie. Of course I did. The thing was, I never planned to be an asshole. Yet if I was honest with myself, which sometimes I can't manage, I probably knew or at least could feel the nights I was going to end up in a shouting match with some prick in a bar, or worse. It was usually after a lousy day, a day when I'd lose my "sober" temper during the day. Sometimes my fuckin' goddamn anger just exploded. Half the time I didn't even know why.

Sometimes on the days I felt it brewing, I could keep it under control, other days, it really did just explode. It would truly surprise me, like some terrorist bomb had just detonated. There was never any conscious decision to go off on some prick. Like at that truckstop with Lana. At first I really was about to throw a punch at the guy, who undoubtedly would have mopped the floor with me. I pulled back from it though. Sometimes I could pull it back, think with my brain not my gut.

Thinking with my brain. I certainly wasn't doing that last night. I was thinking with my fuckin' dick. Along with the ball of guilt inside, I added self-loathing. What the fuck was wrong with me? There were some days I could just have a couple beers, or no alcohol at all. Why were there other days, when I would start out thinking just a couple, and end up opening the Comfort and drinking myself into blackouts? Why don't I know when I'm going to do that?

I thought of AA. I hated AA. I had never gotten a sponsor, never gone to the smaller touchy-feely meetings, just the large general ones. I never stayed to the end of those. I'd been going to the general meetings on and off for five years. I would get so fuckin' depressed listening to the fuckin' testimonies or stories or whatever you call them. I hated it because I saw my own bullshit and lack of control in every one of those assholes. I didn't want to admit that I was like them, that I'd end up like any of those sick looking older guys. All I had to do was somehow figure out why there were those days I could not stop drinking, then when I figured that out, all I had to do is just not drink on those days. It was one of those days that Barb drove home, me passed out, the night she killed that kid on the bike. It was like one in the fuckin' morning, why the fuck wasn't that kid home in bed?!

Oh jeezuz. She is in prison because of me. My eyes teared for a moment.

'If' and 'What if' and 'Why can't I' were the fucking chapter headings of my fucking life.

I fucked Barb's daughter last night. I cheated on Barb with her own daughter. What's lower than scum? I looked out the window again. I had to get my head together. What the hell was I going to say to Lana? I blinked. What the hell was she going to say to me? I thought for a minute. I had to find out if she was going to tell Barb. I had to find out if she was going to tell anyone. I was sure she said a few times last night that she wouldn't say a word to anyone. I thought she said that. She had to have said that, right? Shit. I'll have to ask her again.

A fresh, gut wrenching thought entered my head. Oh fuck. What if she's now thinking about selling her body, selling it to fuckin' high school boys? Oh jeezuz. I had to make sure she didn't do that. How the hell was I going to do that? She doesn't listen to me about any fuckin' thing. Don't become a whore, Lana. Don't ever sell your body like that again. Sex is for people in love. It should be making love, not fucking. Yeah, like she's going to listen to me! Especially now. I wouldn't even believe that bullshit. She'd just laugh at me. I was her first trick, now I'm going to be giving her advice as her counselor? As her priest? Yeah, right.

I gave it more thought. Was her plan to fuck me once for money, then use it as leverage to get her allowance back? Threaten to tell Barb? But, wouldn't Barb also be insanely angry at Lana then too? Wait. She could tell Barb I raped her. Oh shit. I had already mentioned that to Barb, and that would make Barb think that I was trying to make her believe Lana would lie before I had actually raped her daughter. Yeah... yeah, she might think that. Oh shit. Oh jeezuz. How could I have been so goddamn fucking stupid?!

Barb would tell the cops. Wait. Maybe Lana will threaten to tell the cops, extort money out of me with the threat. Blackmail. But, unless she goes in for a rape exam today, maybe even tomorrow, how could she prove it? Her word against mine? Would the cops believe me when I would say she had propped me for sex? Yeah, right.

My hands rubbed my face again. I was spinning my wheels. I had to find out what she was going to do and say. She had me over the proverbial barrel, and she goddamn knew it. Fuck. Maybe I should just give her the fucking allowance and not discuss last night at all, or... maybe tell her it was a mistake, that it would kill Barb if she found out, and that it would destroy her mother if she started hooking for high school guys or... jeezuz, just hooking for any guy. I blinked again. She could use the house during the day for fucking her johns. How the hell would I know or stop her?

I leaned back in the chair. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I was still spinning my wheels. I had to talk to her. I wouldn't know what to say or do until I talked to her. What if she didn't say anything to me, didn't answer any question, just left me guessing about all of it? What could I do then? I could do... ... nothing. She's not going to listen to anything I have to say anyway. She never has, why would that change this morning? The only thing I could do is try to talk to her, try to get answers. That's all I could do.

I can't show fear though. I do that and she'll have even more 'hand' over me. I can't show fear. I guess my fuckin' father was right all those years growing up. I do have my fuckin' brains up my fuckin' butt. What the hell is wrong with you? You got your goddamn brains up your ass?" Yeah, and fuck you too, Dad.

My fucking dad. He was a drunk too. A periodic drunk, like me, but my periods are shorter. I guess I inherited the right fucked up gene from him. He gave me the fucking anger too.

I thought about the 'strappings.' I didn't think about those very often. Other kids got spanked, maybe not with a belt, but spanking was still part of parenting when I was young I guess. He never did it to my older sister, just me. From the time I was four.

A sardonic smile curved my mouth.

I never knew what I had done so wrong that deserved a whipping. What could a four year old do that would deserve a lashing? I didn't burn the garage down, didn't do finger paintings on my bedroom walls, didn't break or ruin shit in the house on purpose. And if a four year old did any of those things would it validate a whipping?

Sometimes I was just slow to follow his 'orders.' I don't wanna stop playin' yet. Can I play more? On his bad days, that fell under 'backtalk,' or giving him 'lip,' and I'd hear, "I'm not taking any shit from you like that!" or, "I'll teach you to show me some goddamn respect!" I was supposed to 'jump' when he told me to do something, and when I didn't that was more than enough at four, five, six, seven, and eight to have him grab my arm and drag me to my parents' bedroom, order me to lay on the bed. He'd remove his belt, then he'd whip my ass with it until he got his fill of my screaming and sobbing.

Other days, he would tell me he and I were best friends. "You and me, we're buddies, right? C'mon, get your glove, let's play some catch." Those buddy days were usually a day or two after a whipping.

I love-hated him.

When I was seven, I figured out what his rush was about it the strappings. He wanted, needed, maybe even craved to hear me scream and cry in pain. Finally my own hate and anger gave me some backbone. One evening when I gave him 'lip' or somehow didn't give him enough 'respect,' he gave me one of the usual lines, "I'll teach you respect!"

He grabbed my arm and pushed me to his bedroom, shoved me onto the bed, took off his belt and started lashing away, craving to hear me crying and screaming that I was sorry and I'd be good. I clenched my jaw and kept my mouth shut. I didn't utter a sound. My eyes welled up and tears flowed but he couldn't see it because my face was pressing into the bedspread. He whipped my little ass harder. With each lash, my anger and hate grew, which reinforced my resolve not to make the smallest whimper. I think about halfway through he muttered something like, "You think you're tough, huh? I'll show you." He whipped harder. A minute or so later, I heard my mom at the doorway. He kept that belt coming down adamantly while she spoke.

"Anton... that's enough... Anton, stop. That's enough. Anton! That's enough!"

The son-of-a-bitch gave me at least four more. He then pulled the belt away and started putting it back on his pants. He was actually a little breathless, huffing air, when he said, "That'll teach you to respect me." He left the room.

The fucking, ignorant prick didn't realize he and his belt just made lose respect, made my disrespect grow, and taught me to hate him even more. As I slid off the bed, Mom came up and put her arm around my shoulders. I shoved it off, told her to leave me alone. I went to my room, closed the door and lay on the bed. My ass was burning as I buried my face into the pillow trying to muffle the sound as I cried and choked with sobs. A couple minutes later Mom came in, sat on the edge of the bed, stroked my back gently, and said something like, "Just try to be good. Just do what he says right away. Okay, honey?" I didn't answer. I hated her at that moment too.

I never cried after that or tried anything like I had when I was five, stuffing a book in the back of my pants. I think I had seen that in some really ancient cartoon very early some Saturday morning, some animal character about to be spanked, putting a book in his pants. Dad didn't always push me to the bedroom, sometimes he'd shout at me to go there, make me wait for the strap, probably trying some psychological terror on me. It was one of those times that I stopped in my room first and got the book. It was a thin but fairly large hardcover book on butterflies. Looking back now it's funny. Of course he saw it as soon as he walked into his bedroom, not too many kids had flat rectangular butts. He didn't laugh. He rained that belt down on the back of my thighs that time. Probably gave me a few extra for being so fucking stupid, shoving a book in my pants.

I didn't get whipped every day, not even every week. It was periodic, like his drinking. Maybe they both coincided. I was too young to differentiate when he was drunk and when he was sober. I never cried again during the punishments, even though the strappings got move severe. When I was eight, I won. Dad lost.

He didn't lose to me, he lost to Mom. I think she finally realized I wasn't even getting teary eyed anymore. I think she could see that my hate and anger grew after each strapping, just by looking at my face, just by seeing my clenched jaw and the intensity of my eyes. I also think she may have thought Dad would really injure me some day, being drunk, being even more pissed off that he couldn't elicit a scream, or a tear, or a pleading sob from me begging him to stop.

Even at that age, I had decided I'd fuckin' die first before I'd give that fuckin' prick the satisfaction of hearing me cry ever again. I never heard Mom speak to him, but I was sure she told him to stop the strappings. I'm glad she finally did. I bet I'd be an even meaner son-of-a-bitch now if she hadn't. Funny, but I never did and still don't respect my fuckin' ol' man. I also know, he could have beat me a lot harder and more often than he did. I never once had to pull my pants down. Later I learned there were other kids who had it a hell of a lot worse than me, although I didn't know that then. I guess it really wasn't that big of a deal, although it was during those four years or so when I was little.

I was staring out the window blindly. My jaw was clenched. I relaxed it and took a slow breath. How had I gotten on that shit? Why the fuck was I thinking about the fuckin' ol' man now? I had bigger fuckin' problems, real problems I had to deal with.