Prison Rape (Brook's & Claire's Stories)

Some people know only one way to ask for help, and it is often unrecognized.
Unknown
Brook’s Story
From the very beginning of my life, I learned to do as I was told, keep quiet and not to question authority. I learnt this lesson after several beatings at the hands of my parents. At age six I knew what was expected of me: to be seen but not to be heard. From age seven to ten I learned that when my father and two years older brother entered my bedroom, I was to immediately undress, lay on the bed and spread my legs. In my family silence was golden. My mother never raised her voice when my father hammered away at her body with clenched fists, and kicked her with his steel toed work boots, as my brother and I stood by and watched. Occasionally my father would order my brother to join in the beating of our mother. Every time he did, he did so with glee in his eyes. He was a monster, a monster of his father’s creation. Like father, like son, so they say.
When I was ten, my mother finally ran away with me. We escaped to another state and lived in peace with each other for six years. During those six years, my mother became a chain smoker. She would go through two to three packs a day. Cigarettes eased her urge to always look over her shoulder, eased her nerves and paranoia that “today he is going to find us.” When I was sixteen and a half, my mother died of lung cancer. I loaded up a duffel bag and hitched a train ride back to Oregon. For four months I lived on the streets, slept in abandoned buildings, begged for food and hung out on street corners. Returning to Oregon was the biggest mistake of my life; hanging out in public was the most stupid decision that ever crossed my mind.
I was panhandling outside a Payless Drugstore when they saw me. For a split second I did a double take; such hesitation on my part gave my father and brother enough time to pull over, grab me and throw me in their car. Once we arrived at “Home sweet home” I was beaten and tagged teamed by them – they took turns beating and fucking the truth out of me. “Where’s your mother?” father hollered as he spat in my face. “She died of lung cancer.” “You lying little bitch, where’s mom?” my brother yelled. “She’s dead, dead, dead!” I screamed back at him. For two weeks non-stop I was their captive, enduring beatings and fuckings. I was too sore and bruised to walk or run; too malnourished and hungry to do anything but stare up at the ceiling and pray that God would deliver me from this life. My prayer was answered. I found my brother’s gun while doing a search of his room – the very room I was being held captive in. He left to go to the bathroom for a brief second – and God told me to find a weapon and kill my brother and father the next time they entered the room.
When my brother walked back into the bedroom I shot him and shot him again. When my father came into the house from the backyard, after hearing the gunshots, I shot him as well. Then, I picked up the phone and called 911. Self-defense was clearly my motive. Murder is murder though, as many courts of law have ruled. I was sentenced to twelve years in prison, with the possibility of parole for good behavior. For the first seven years of my incarceration I had no problems with other prisoners or prison officials. I did as I was told, kept quiet and never once questioned the authority of prison officials or the prisoner pecking order.
One day, I was in the units’ aerobic room working out to an aerobic tape, when four other women prisoners entered laughing and pushing each other around. When they saw me, they encircled me like piranha. They began to feel me up with their hands. I was wearing a prison’s uniform, which consisted of a pair of red sweat shorts and a blue tank I also wore a pair of white socks and tennis shoes I bought off canteen. Within seconds I felt a finger inserted in my anus and another inside my vagina. Hands were on my breasts and over my mouth. As quickly as it had begun, it stopped. They entered the aerobics’ room, did what they did to me and then made their exit. I know the pecking order of prisoners and being a snitch is the second lowest of the low (right after being a child abuser). I am not a snitch. I am a killer, that’s what I am. I carry a shank with me now and I am prepared to use it. I will never be a victim again.

There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you.
Zora Neale Huston
Claire’s Story
“If you know what’s best for you, keep your mouth shut about what just happened,” correctional officer Ourang said in a threatening aggressive tone, as I hurriedly pulled up my panties and red shorts. He then slapped me on the ass and said: “Do you understand what I just said?” I coughed and said: “Yes, I understand.” In a voice that sounded like the devil himself, he said: “Turn around and look at me.” I did as he said. “Are you sure you understand?” “Yes,” I replied.
“The yoga mats are there,” he said pointing to a shelf in the closet. I grabbed three and nervously dropped one of them walking out of the closet with him on my heels. “Act normal!” he whispered as I stopped and looked down at the mat on the floor. “Bend down and pick it up, then get to class.” I followed his order with what must have been close to the speed of light. When I arrived in the classroom where yoga was being held, I noticed everyone had already started, except for me and my two friends who talked me into accompanying them to the program service building to do yoga – even though we were not on the call out to attend. Due to this, there were not enough yoga mats and in order to participate I had to go to get some more: that is how I ended up in the closet with the officer in the first place. As I entered the stupid closet, I looked around for the light switch. Stepping right behind me, he let the door close and put his hand over my mouth, and with his other hand pulled down my shorts and panties. While he was doing this, I managed to flip on the light switch. He kept his hand on my mouth, and kept making a “Sssshhhh! Sssshhh!” sound. I could hear his zipper going down and some fumbling around, then he pushed me on my lower back and said: “Bend over! You’ll like this.” Officer Ourang then jammed his penis inside of my vagina, and I felt I was gagging. I could not breathe! He kept pumping away, as I felt his belt jabbing at my upper buttocks. I don’t even recall having another thought, except that his belt, loaded with all the keys, handcuffs, mace can and other tools of the trade, was jabbing me. When he was finished he took his hand off my mouth and that was it. When my friends came up to me in the classroom to get their yoga mats – I was going to say something about what just happened, but he was standing outside the classroom door, looking in, menacingly. So I just laid down the remaining yoga mats in my arms, as one of my friends asked me: “What took you so long?” “The mats were in a hard area to reach,” I responded.
I then looked the clock on the wall and noticed I was only gone for six minutes. Those six minutes I was being raped seemed like twenty minutes to me. Knowing that he was just outside the door watching my every move – I got into the yoga position that everyone else in the classroom was in, and like a robot on automatic shift, without a thought, copied their every move – just as I felt his sperm dripping out of me into my panties. When yoga was over, I left in the middle of the crowd of inmates rushing out into the rain from the program services building, back to the unit/dorm building. I kept my eyes downcast in fear of seeing him looking at me, watching me, scrutinizing me…
As soon as I got back to my unit – I rushed to my bunk, grabbed my towel, soap and shampoo and headed to the bathrooms, where I flushed the panties down the toilet. Then I got into the shower and turned the water on as hot as it would go, as I scrubbed my entire body till it was welted red. I scrubbed myself clean all right - but I still feel dirty.