"Think it's fun beating up on defenseless women, do ya?" I taunted, twirling my weapon again and enjoying the looks of uncertainty that were crossing the women's faces. "Well, this time, you miserable sack of shit, you picked the wrong girl!" Grabbing the handle firmly in my hands, I swung for all I was worth, listening to the satisfying crack as it landed hard against Mouse's arm, right above the elbow. Drawing back, I pivoted and swung again, catching Shorty behind the legs and neatly sweeping her off her feet. She landed with a splat onto the puddle filled floor and rolled away quickly, her eyes wide and rolling.

I had no idea how I knew these moves, but I went with the feeling, enjoying my body's reactions and the adrenaline surge that accompanied them. Mouse was howling in pain, cradling her arm and screaming incoherently at me. I stood patiently, working some feeling back into my leg as I did so, and waiting to see what would happen next.

The third woman took advantage of my stillness to rush into the fray. I walloped her in the abdomen as she came at me, and when she doubled over, I finished her off with an upswing to the face, watching as teeth and blood fell from her face in a ghastly torrent.

With a bellow of rage, Mouse came at me again. I drove her back with a hit directly on her injured arm, but she continued to come at me, her eyes filled with hatred and rage. Raising my staff, I aimed higher, levering a blow at her unprotected skull.

A strong sense of deja vu flashed though me and, suddenly sickened, I pulled the blow at the last moment, glancing the handle off her meaty shoulder and dropping my weapon in horror.

Still bellowing, she crashed full into me, taking out my already weak leg and bearing me to the floor with her. I immediately curled up into a fetal ball, legs tucked tight to my chest and my arms clamped hard around my head.

Jumping off of me, she grabbed the handle and brought it down on my back time after time after time until all I could feel was the sting and welt of the falling wood as my body rocked to the rhythm of her blows.

How long the beating went on I'll never know, because my body gave up the fight and I passed out, falling quickly into a place that knew no pain.

To this day, almost five years later, I believe the only thing that saved my life that night was the fact that I'd chosen such a late hour to go into the showers. The lights out head count is taken with the utmost seriousness in the Bog and the warning buzzer must have rung during my beating because when I woke up, I was alone, save for a broken and bloodied mop handle and the third woman's broken teeth sharing space with me.

When I came to full consciousness, my body was a flaming ball of exquisite agony, pulsing with a life of its own that mirrored the beating of my heart. My back and ass were on fire and I wondered idly if my spine had been damaged. Trying out an experimental move, I screamed out in agony as my muscles sent warning flares up and down my nerve endings. Doubling over, I retched weakly between my splayed arms, screaming as that action further jolted my already overloaded senses. "Oh God," I cried out softly into the emptiness of my seeming tomb. "Please help me. Somebody, please help me."

Only the dripping of the showers answered my plea.

I knew that the only person to get me out of this situation was me. Despite my agony, I shuddered at the thought of being discovered, huddled, bloody and shivering, the next morning. "Ok, Angel. This is your chance to show how tough you are."

I'd always been a big one for mental pep talks, and if there ever was a time one was needed, it was now. Breathing as deeply as I dared, I managed to drag myself up on my hands and knees, swaying violently as spots of pretty colored lights swam in my vision, threatening to engulf me and take me under with them once again. I spared a long moment considering exactly that option, before dismissing it out of hand. "Get a move on, woman. Don't let them beat you. You can do this. You have to do this, right? Right. So let's just get up and get moving."

The spirit was more than willing, but the flesh was beyond weak. Getting to my feet was not an option, so I resigned myself to a slow crawl across the slimy shower floor, fighting against the seductive pull of unconsciousness with every inch of progress I managed to make.

After what seemed like an hour, but was in reality no more than five or ten minutes, I managed to make it out of the shower proper and into the changing room. Just as standing was impossible, so too was clothing myself. Shaking my head and telling myself that only the guards would be around to see me in my helpless nakedness, I set off for the hallway using that same slow crawl and willing myself to stay alert and fully conscious.

I made it to the hallway and was slumped down, panting through the pain, when I heard the sound of running feet heading toward the hallway. I knew instinctively what had happened. I'd missed the head count and was being searched for. Luckily, I had spoken briefly to the guard as I went to the showers, and so I slid back against my haunches and waited for them to find me.

The sounds of running footsteps came closer and the light in the hallway dimmed as a large body filled the entrance. "Angel!" a voice cried out, spying my huddled form. The figure broke into a run once again, skidding to a stop bare inches from me. "What happened?!? Who did this to you??" Forcing my eyes open, I craned my stiff neck to look up into the concerned eyes of Sandra Pierce, who was pulling graveyard shift that month.

"Help me," I whispered, biting my cheeks against the sobs that were threatening to overcome my resolve. The relief at having been found left me feeling weak and nauseous, fully conscious of my pain for the first time since just after I'd awakened.

"Who did this to you?" she demanded once again, squatting in front of me and running tender hands down my lacerated and bruised back. She yanked them away quickly when I yelped, her voice sorrowful and tender. "Oh, Angel."

"Please . . . ." was all I could manage to get out. "Please . . . ."

"Simmons!" she shouted over her shoulder. "Get down here with a stretcher and tell Kotter to call the doc!"

Pulling my strength from somewhere, I managed to grab her arm. "No! Please. Just . . .take me to my cell. Please."

"Angel, I can't! You're badly hurt. I'm taking you to the infirmary. The doc needs to look you over."

"No! Please!"

"Angel . . . ."

"No. Sandra, please. I can't let them win. Take me to my cell. Please."

"Angel, you know I can't do that. You've been badly beaten and your back's a bloody mess. You might have permanent damage. You need to be checked out."

"Here then," I pleaded, fighting the darkness that hovered at the edges of my vision. "Can't let them win."

"Who did this, Angel? Was it Mouse and her crew? Tell me."

My strength gone, I slumped against her, letting the sobs finally come.

Though to this day I'm not sure how I managed it, I was able to talk Sandra into allowing the doc to examine me in the hallway to the shower room. After determining that no major damage was done, the head guard agreed to take me back to my cell. Though she had to carry me in her arms like a small child, I felt an absurd sense of triumph in the fact that I would spend the night in my own bed, in my own cell. I can remember falling into bed, still sobbing, praying that one day, a way would be found to give my abusers the justice they so richly deserved.

I've heard it said that sometimes, when prayers are made with a pure and hurting heart, someone listens and gives an answer. Mine certainly were.

It's nighttime once again and as the prison settles down for the evening, I look back over these pages I've managed to write and can't help but wonder what you must think of my naivete in the face of so much obvious danger. I've also noticed that I've managed to, yet again, bring the story back around to me, though it was never my intention to write a tale about myself. However, I've also discovered that if the Muse points you in a certain direction, it's always best to just follow along so your words don't turn on you and make you fight and scrape for every inch gained.

In the preceding twenty or so pages, I've used two different pens to differentiate between things happening now and scenes from my checkered past. Since I've grown to absolutely detest this purple pen of mine, I'm going to trust that you have figured out my writing style by now and will be able to tell the difference without it.

The morning after my altercation in the shower, I woke up wishing I hadn't. There wasn't a place on me that didn't throb and my body was doing a very good job convincing me to just throw in the towel and spend the day in bed trying to let the blissful fog of unconsciousness soothe away the pain.

Luckily, my brain had other ideas, most of which involved dragging my ass out of bed and being seen as one who wouldn't back down from a fight anymore. After a long internal debate, I decided to go with mind over matter and slowly pulled myself, like an arthritic old woman on a rainy winter morning, out of bed and onto my feet. I stood by the side of the bed, panting, swaying and willing down the terrible nausea that had decided to come out to play.

After making sure that I wouldn't lose consciousness with the least of my actions, I slowly began to prepare myself for the day. The rough cloth of my prison uniform rubbed the raw welts littering my back and I used the pain to steady and center my wavering resolve. Come what may, I knew that the only way I would be able to face myself was to start my day under my own power and wear my injuries as a badge of honor for a battle well fought and hard won.

Deciding to skip a breakfast I would, by all rights, be unable to keep within the confines of my stomach, I headed, at a slow walk, toward my sanctuary, the library. As I walked, I took in the glances tossed my way, some filled with barely veiled sympathy, some with hatred, and some with a new sort of respect. The prison grapevine was apparently in good working order.

There was also a sense of excitement that permeated the prison, as if a very important event were about to happen and everyone but me knew all about it. I couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with me, while at the same time praying fervently that it didn't.

Corinne met me before I even made it to the library door, catching me under the arm and leading me into the warm room with a hard sheen of respect shining in her eyes. Helping me over to one of the tables, she sat me down in a newly padded chair and bustled over to her hotplate, quickly returning with a mug of fragrant tea.

"Drink this down, Angel. It's got some stuff in it that'll help ease your pain."

I took the mug gratefully, bringing it to my lips and inhaling the steam with a sense of pleasure. It smelled of mint and lemon and something almost familiar, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I took a sip, groaning out my gratitude as the mellow taste soothed the rawness of my throat and warmed my insides. My stomach was apparently happy with the gift, for it remained steady and silent. "So, you heard, I guess."

Corinne smiled, her grin almost hard and predatory. "Sure did. Mouse's arm is in a cast and her little friend won't be talking clearly for quite awhile."

I winced. "I didn't mean to hit them that hard."

Reaching out, my friend put a gentle hand beneath my chin, tilting my head up. "Don't ever be sorry for defending yourself, Angel. They would have killed you last night if they could have. You managed to stop them, and put them out of commission for a long while to boot. Not bad for a night's work."

I winced again. "I'm not proud of what I did, Corinne."

"You should be."

"Well, I'm not." I ended the conversation by taking another sip from the mug and tilting my head back, my eyes drifting closed. The fact of the matter was that my actions scared me. It's one thing to know you're capable of defending yourself. It's quite another to realize that you have the strength, the skill, and even the will to kill another human being. I'd already done that once. I had no desire to ever do it again.

Corinne sat herself in the chair next to mine, placing a warm hand on my wrist. "I'll cancel your teaching session for today."

My eyes popped open and I fixed her with a stare. "I'd rather you didn't. I made a mistake by taking a shower alone. I paid for it. Those women don't need to suffer for my ignorance."

"They won't suffer, Angel. It'll only be for a day or two, until you're well enough to teach again."

Somehow I managed to straighten myself in my chair, leaning over just slightly to meet Corinne's concerned gaze with a steady one of my own. "Corinne, please. I need to do this. I appreciate that you care for me, but I don't want to be coddled, by you or anyone else."

After a long moment, Corinne threw back her head and laughed, her soft round belly jiggling in time to her mirth. "Well, well, well, our little Angel is all grown up."

I looked at her for a long moment, then let out a slow sigh. I even managed to chuckle a little. "Not really. For a minute there, I was worried that I'd offended you."

Corinne laughed again, shaking her head. Then she leaned over and engulfed my upper body in a hug that smelled of cinnamon and warm affection. "Don't you ever change on us, Angel. You're perfect, just the way you are."

"Thanks. I think." The words, spoken from the warm heart of a cold killer, warmed me right down to my toes. It was one of those unexplainable paradoxes of prison life, but one I accepted gratefully. Love, after all, is love and you learn to take it where you find it and be grateful for the giving.

Corinne finally released me and sat back in her seat. Looking closely, I could see that same sense of barely repressed excitement hovering around her.

"Corinne, is something going on here that I don't know about?"

The smile that crossed my friend's face would have done the Mona Lisa proud. "Could be," she allowed.

"Are you gonna tell me what it is?"

Her grin widened. "Angel, sometimes it's good to experience certain things by yourself."

Shaking my head, I heaved a sigh of frustration.

"I think you'll like it. You'll see."

"Can you at least answer two questions?"

"Try me."

"Ok. Will this thing happen today?"

"If the prison grapevine is correct, yes."

"Alright. Does it have anything to do with me?"

Corinne's thin brows knit together in thought for a moment. Then her face cleared. "Perhaps not at first, no. But I have a feeling that one day, it will have everything to do with you."

I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. "So, that's all you're gonna tell me, huh?"

My friend smirked. "Yep."

Any retort I could have made was cut off by the entrance of my two students, who walked in giggling and looking at me in a way I'd never seen before. Hero worship.

This time, I did roll my eyes.

Some three hours later, I found myself in a blissfully quiet library, taking a well deserved break. The session had gone only minimally better than the day before and I was beginning to despair over ever getting the basic concepts of English across to my two willing students. Several Spanish to English translation dictionaries hadn't helped as much as they should have and my mind was too tired to think up something new.

Corinne sat behind her desk, her gray hair sparkling in the round, soft light of her desk lamp. The sound of her ancient fountain pen filled the air with its soothing melody and I allowed my whirling thoughts to calm. The tea had done immeasurable good and, all in all, I was feeling as well as could be expected, given my ordeal.

The comforting sounds of pen to paper combined with the ticking of a clock to put me into a light doze which was more healing than all the sleep I had gotten the night before. A different sound cut through my senses suddenly, causing me to bolt upright in my chair, my body groaning out its protest quite loudly. "What was that?"

Corinne kept silent, smiling that blasted enigmatic smile yet again.

The sound repeated, then became a chant as more voices added their strength to the harsh chorus. Then the noise of metal on metal wove through, keeping time to the voices. My eyes narrowed, trying to make out the words. I stiffened suddenly as I realized that the chant wasn't a group of words, but rather one word repeated continually.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Turning to Corinne, I struggled to get up out of my chair, thoughts of retribution by proxy tumbling through my scattered thoughts. In my mind's eye, I could see Pony going up against Mouse and her gang with inmates standing around, cheering their favorites.

As she was often wont to do, Corinne appeared to read my mind and smiled a calming smile. "They're not fighting. Listen closer."

Try as I might, I could only hear the word "fight" being shouted over and over and over again. I looked back over at my friend. "Is this the surprise you were telling me about?"

"Most likely, yes."

"But it's not a fight."

"No."

"Then what is it?"

Turning her attention from me and back to her letter, Corinne smirked. "Only one way to find out, Angel."

Still not trusting my friend completely, I nevertheless managed to lever my sore body up and out of my comfortable chair and stand on my own two feet once again. "This better be a damned good surprise," I muttered half under my breath.

"Oh, it will be," Corinne smugly told her paper.

Shooting her a withering glance, I gingerly made my way out of the library.