YangeL Did It

The beeping annoys the shit out of me. Every button pressed on every single keypad, at every locked door, at every division, each and every spot where this hellhole is split into sections is marked with more locked doors and their mothereffing keypads that beep incessantly. Beep beep beep.

Initially, I thought the lack of privacy would be the worst. I didnʼt realize that the lights never shut off here. I thought the loss of all my pretty clothes and makeup and roller skates would be hard. No cell phone. I never realized how boring doing nothing is. Until the day I counted 683 beeps. I quit counting beeps at 4:10 in the afternoon, and began slamming my head into the cold tile floor instead. Four good slams bought me a bloody gash on my forehead, a raging headache, and 48 hours in solitary. Since then, while prison relentlessly sucks my will to live, the incessant beeping from the million keypads around here make me angry enough to punch a baby. Which I havenʼt done either, but apparently putting fucked up thoughts in writing is equally as terrible as acting out those fucked up thoughts. ’Murica. So whatever. Add baby-punching to my list of crimes, I donʼt even care anymore.

Itʼs been 3 years since I was convicted and sentenced to die. The prosecution used every twisted word I ever typed on The Prose as proof that the death of my husband was premeditated and calculated. Which I guess I can see how the warped pieces I've published here seem to be written by a different woman than who I actually am. YangeL is a bad bitch. She will fuck you stupid or cut your throat or maybe both, possibly out of boredom or because sheʼs having a bad fucking day and your stupid jugular happens to be in her sight when the fucking beeping won't fucking stop. Or maybe she'll do it just for fun, for shits and giggles. YangeL is a cold hearted, take-no-shit, psycho bitch from hell who plotted and planned and schemed her husband dead six ways from Sunday.

But what my idiot lawyer failed to convey, what I also failed to make the jury understand is that I am not YangeL. She is me times one million, she is me at mach speed, she is me on more steroids than all the MLB players who joined the 500-home-run club in the late 90ʼs combined. She voices the words that get trapped in my mouth, she throws the punches that my body is used to receiving, she is brave and strong and tired of being used and abused and shit on. Yes, YangeL fantasized about the goriest, most deranged bloody end for her husband. But when the time came, it wasnʼt YangeL there in the bathroom with him, it was me. Just me.

Iʼd come home from practice late. Weʼd been looking at the latest pictures published in the tiny townʼs craptastic version of a newspaper. It was the 3rd time my picture had been published and I knew that putting myself out there where I was so visible was basically daring him to come and get me. My way of dealing with this was to ignore it, unlike YangeL who would say “Bring it, motherfucker!"

In the bathroom, sliding out of my sweaty roller derby clothes, pulling my hair out of its pigtails, reaching down to grab my brush off the floor where Iʼd dropped it earlier. But itʼs gone…and I stand up straight, confused, my hand is sliding open the drawer which had been shut earlier and my eyes are taking in the differences on the counter but my brain isnʼt quite comprehending just yet. Then it does, a quick intake of breath as I realize the makeup brushes are all neatly gathered in their cup, my toothbrush and toothpaste are in their cup, the Q-tip cup is full (not a stray in sight!) and all three cups are perfectly lined up, facing forward, evenly spaced on the pristine counter that had been covered in bobby pins and eyeliner shavings 3 hours before.

And even as Iʼm gasping, the shower curtain is sliding open, and Iʼm frozen in a nightmare as my husband climbs out of the tub and grabs me by my hair. My stupid feet which were flying on skates an hour earlier are trapped in quicksand, his voice is deadly quiet as heʼs berating me, which is bad, oh my god, it's bad. See, yelling means that his temperʼs gotten the best of him, but this quiet fury is far more dangerous. Iʼm standing in my panties, his sour breath is hot on my neck and then his hand is cruelly pinching my nipple. Then Iʼm being forced to my knees and, oh my god, the horror at what he wants has my jaws locked as tight as these doors here in prison, at least until he backhands me.

"Don't even think about biting," he orders as he forces his way into my mouth and Iʼm gagging, even though heʼs only semi-erect. "Go on now. Suck it, you worthless twat.” And the tears are flowing and my shame is as palpable as my revulsion. Iʼm balling my hands into fists, until a sharp bite on my palm wakes my brain up. I'd grabbed my razor knife out of the drawer when I opened it!

I donʼt know where the bravery came from, maybe YangeL did show up for a minute. Because it didnʼt seem like my left hand that filleted open his right testicle. Or my mouth, that took advantage of his momentary shock and bit his half limp dick clean off. Or my right hand that grabbed the Be-Good-Stick and cracked his ugly head open like a pumpkin.

But the prosecution said it was me, and a jury of my peers agreed. They painted a story twisting things Iʼd written here to claim that I lured him to my home, where I enticed him with sex and then bit his dick off because, well, that is just what all ex-wives want to do. Their proof was a pile of his clothing, folded neatly on the dresser, my lack of new bruises, and the fact that there were no visible signs of forced entry. Their proof was jack shit, but I was convicted and sentenced to die, and every appeal has since been denied. Men all seem to have a real issue with the whole I bit his dick off thing. Which I think is the real reason Iʼm rotting away here on Death Row and why the Battered Womenʼs groups and morning show bimbos and even Nancy Fucking Grace couldnʼt get me off. I doubt even Oprah could get me off at this point. But holy hell, Oprah, if you ever do read my story, can you just do something about this infernal, relentless beeping? Itʼs enough to drive a girl right back into her murderous alter ego.