Misdemeanors

"Okay, it is 744 pm on December 28th, 20XX. I am Corrections Officer Chad Timothy, nine-one-one-nine, overseeing the execution of sentence 707 with a 667 enhancement, punishment to be carried out immediately on the living body of Miss Morgan K. Forrester (date of birth and case number redacted)."

-

For fifteen of the longest minutes in Morgan's life, she danced like a fish on a hook as each simulated impact of the whip hit her tender body. Her body continued to swing around at random, some of the strikes so painful that it bent her in half. She caught glimpses of herself, a stone-faced Officer Timothy, her stepmother, and stepbrother in the window as the world twisted and turned and hurt.

At the time, she worried so much for herself trussed up in that humiliating position that it pained her as much as the whip. Later when thinking back on the scene, Morgan admitted there was something compelling in the ugliness of what happened to her. The cliché of a car crash didn't even come close to describing her mental image of her fragile naked form as it contorted in agony, like a museum exhibit of a mummy in an ornate golden sarcophagus.

Her stepmother looked gleeful at first, but her mood quickly turned to boredom and then relief when the program finally ended.

Her stepbrother was another story entirely. Initially, it seemed like he didn't want to watch, but by the end, he seemed uncomfortably engaged.

Morgan didn't know if she ever wanted to look at them again, let alone be in the same house as them for even a few more days.

Somewhere in the confused aftermath, Morgan heard Officer Timothy declare the execution successful over her own strangled sobs.

-

Officer Timothy left right after the program ended, shift change, and he was replaced by a large butch female officer who never said a word to Morgan while she undid the restraints. Morgan was surprised that she was still able to stand and walk on her own back to the holding cell, distantly aware that she was sopping wet and cold with sweat.

Morgan put the orange and white uniform back on and allowed herself to be cuffed and led down endless corridors and staircases in a daze. The lady officer uncuffed her before pushing her through one final door, a waiting room where her clothes and personal items were sitting on a chair in plastic Walmart shopping bags.

She dressed in silence and sat with her purse and parka on her lap, unsure if she was finally free or if this was a dream or a memory or something worse. She knew she was still crying, and since there wasn't any tissue to be found, her favorite Stanford hoodie came away from Morgan's encounter with justice sporting two dirty sleeves.

Her dad came in while she was lost in thought. When Morgan finally noticed he was sitting there next to her, holding her hand, she saw that he had been crying but was dry eyed and smiling.

"Hey, daddy."

"Hey, Captain."

"Can we go home?"

"Yeah, kiddo, let's go home."

-

Hey Prof, haven't seen you on Slack for a while, what's up?

HUGE NEWS! Officer Timothy quit and gave a depo to my lawyer. I still haven't found out who the judge and prosecutor were, and he didn't know their names either. All my FIOA requests have been ignored (big surprise) but I've been collecting stories from women from all over the States and this is even bigger than either of us thought.

I've also been shopping my story around. No one will even touch it. I thought MSNBC might bite, TRMS or Wagner or Reid, but I guess my head has gotten a little big. I've thought of a few unorthodox places where I could post my story. If I don't hear from you soon, I'm going to blast it on social media and put backups on a bunch of weird places.

I'm worried. Call or text me please?

M

The End