Sara Lunsford - Sweet Hell on Fire: A Memoir of the Prison I Worked In and the Prison I Lived In

Work seemed unnaturally quiet, and while I was sure something big was brewing, I admitted it could be just another day.

Nothing happened. Everyone went home safe. That made it a good day above everything else.

But there was no rest for the wicked.

My husband and I had separated almost a year ago, and I lived with my parents. That hadnt been an ideal situation at seventeen, let alone at thirty. I loved my parents, but we had different ideas about how I should live my life and how I should raise my children. I appreciated their input, theyre fantastic to my kids, but ultimately, I didnt want their advice unsolicited.

My mother had been so angry when I took The Job. Id had another job offer from an airline the same time the offer from the prison came, but my car had a catastrophic blowout and I had to accept the job at the prison. I could get rides in town, but all the way to the airport was another matter entirely. She told me shed spent twenty years worrying if my father was going to come home every night working at the federal prison, and now she had to worry about me at the state prison and it was a shitty thing for me to do to her.

My dad acted differently. He asked me if I had all the equipment I needed to start. He told me I would see people carrying these huge Maglite flashlights so they could use them like billy clubs, but that I shouldnt take anything behind the walls I wasnt prepared to eat, meaning nothing I wouldnt want used against me or stuffed in any various orifices.

When my estranged husband caught me trying to fit my flashlight into my mouth, he asked me if I was planning on trying to promote early by showing off that I could, in fact, fit it inside.

Anyway, when I got home that night, my mother was screamingit was a high-pitched sound, horrible and shrill, like something being torn out of her.

She was in the bedroom where she spent most of her time in those days, and all she could do was howl. The kids were spending the night with their dad and my father was at work. The dog came to me, crawling on her belly and whining, obviously afraid. This had been going on for some time.

I went into the bedroom and my mother was crying, holding her belly with vomit in the trashcan and burning cigarettes in the ashtray. She had a window open; it was summer. But she had the electric blanket wrapped around her and she was shaking.

I didnt know what to do. These attacks had been coming more often, and due to her other illnesses, she hadnt been able to leave the house so she could go see a doctor.

Help me, she begged.

Oh, God. How? I didnt know what was wrong with her, so how could I help her?

Help me, she cried again, louder.

I sat down on the bed next to her and tried to rub her back, to soothe her as shed done to me when I was sick. It didnt help. Nothing did.

Her cries for help got louder until she was screaming again and I was at a loss. She screamed and screamed at me to help her and when her voice cracked, shed whimper. All she could tell me was that it was a pain in her belly.

I called my dad and asked him to come home. He told me he would and to call an ambulance.

She screamed until they arrived, begging me the whole time to help her. To make it stop. EMS shot her up with painkillers and took her to the ER.

She spent twelve hours in the ER only to be sent home with a referral to an ob-gyn.

Still in pain and with no answers.

She begged me to stay home with her.

But I didnt.

I couldnt.

Not only because I had no idea how to help her, but because I was still on probation at work. I could be fired for absolutely anything in the first year. If I called in sick during this time, I could lose my job. There was literally nowhere else in town I could get a job where I could get insurance and still support myself. The pay was horrible, barely a living, but the benefits were good.

My starting pay was around $12 an hour; I made approximately $24,000 a year. The poverty level guidelines for my state and a family of three sit at $27,000 a year. Incidentally, the federal average for corrections officers was $53,000 a year in 2009. I made less than half of the national average and under the poverty level.

As a kid, Id quit so many jobs because I didnt like them, or just didnt want to do them. Like I thought they grew on trees. Id never had a problem getting hired until I was a stay-at-home mom for eight years suddenly thrust back into the job force.

Although my husband and I were separated, and wed had some really awful fights, he was never mean about money. He was happy to provide for his children and even gave me the money to get my own apartment.

But I couldnt keep relying on him.

The worst part was I didnt want to stay home with her even if I could. Honestly, I had enough shit on my plate to deal with without my mother screaming and sobbing all day long and demanding I stay in the bedroom with her while she did it.

I know, thats horrible. Shes my mom. She was afraid and hurting, and she needed me. I wasnt there for her.

We didnt always have a good relationship and she was sick a lot when I was growing up. Her illnesses were due to nervous conditions. I didnt have much patience for her through those times, and I guess I thought this was the same thing. I dont know what else to say without sounding like Im badmouthing her and making excuses. So Ill just own it. My reasons were my own, but I didnt want to do it. So I didnt.

Instead, I went to work.

I left an hour early so I had time to drive around, to ditch all my baggage at the door before I went behind the walls.

Any shit I would have carried in with me would have been twice as heavy while I was there, and I would have been distracted and maybe even a danger to my fellow officers. The inmates see those things, know to look for them.

If an officer didnt shine their boots, if their normally clean and crisp uniform was rumpled, if the way a person carried themselves was differenttheyd use it to slide in. To bond. It would start out simple enough with something like: Whats wrong, Sarge? You dont look like yourself.

Do they give a shit? No. Theyre trying to get over on someone, have some officer cull themselves from the herd and spill their guts all over the place, telling personal business. Then suddenly hes the one who understands you, who cares about you, convinces you hes the only one

Yeah, puke.

So I drove around with the windows down and Panteras Vulgar Display of Power album as loud as it would go.

The lyrics to Walk have always spiked my adrenaline and amped me up, ready to go, fight or flight. In this instance, it helped me get to that constant state of alert where all corrections officers have to be to get the job done.

I dropped my baggage at the door to do my eight, then the gate, as they say.

My Friday.

I think it was a Tuesday in the outside world, but for me, it was Friday. Last day of the workweek. Two days ahead with more bullshit, but at least it was a different flavor and Id see my kids.

I also went out on my Friday nights. Just a couple of beers, maybe some dancing and a few games of pool. Something to decompress, to not have to be anywhere or be anything. I wasnt even going to go home and change. Id brought my clothes with me.