Monsters

***Warnning***
This story contains information about pedophiles. It is concerned with spending a day in a therapuetic camp that juvinile sex offenders are sentenced to, and contains some descriptions, not detailed, of what these boys did to get sent there. If this will trigger you, please don't read this story!!!

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They were monsters, rapists, and pedophiles. They were vile, unspeakably vile and loathsome. They were only children, just boys, some as young as 11 years old. These boys certainly didn’t look like monsters. They looked young, and stiff with exaggerated bravado. The few who were sent here were lucky though, lucky not to be in prison. That camp was their last chance. Most of them had been convicted of felony sex offenses and had been given deferred sentences. If they could survive the program and the therapy in camp they could return to a life of freedom.

I was offered a job there, working face to face with those boys. Supervising their daily routines and listening to stories of the unthinkable acts they had committed: violations against brothers, sisters, cousins, and classmates. The job paid better than anything I was qualified to do, but I wasn’t sure I could face those boys, and hear their stories. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how children so young could do such terrible things.

When he offered me the job, the program administrator had said, “Well Karen, if you think you can handle it come back tomorrow and work a 12-hour shift. That way you can see for yourself what the job entails and get a feel for whether or not you can handle it.”

I wasn’t certain, but I needed the money and, although it disturbed me, I was curious to know if I could handle it. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot.”

When I pulled up in front of Cabin D the next morning, the boys were still sleeping and shift change was getting underway. I met the staff members I would be working with, a heavyset woman named Julie, Miss Julie to the boys, and a middle aged man named Tom, Mr. Tom to the boys.

When shift change was done, Miss Julie said, “Tom and I will wake up the boys. You read their charts. When you’re done come join us for breakfast at the fire pit out front.”
Each boy had a chart outlining his background. There were six boys in Cabin D. It took me half an hour to get through those charts. Every single one of those boys had come from an abusive home, some had been beaten, some raped over and over. One boy had been kept in a dog kennel and rented out for whatever torture any sicko who could meet the price felt like dishing out. The hell these boys had lived through was clearly reflected in their convictions. Most of them had been convicted of raping a sister or brother, one or two for raping other relatives, but the one that stood out the most was a boy who had molested a six-year-old girl in a public library.

When I walked out to the fire pit all six boys stared at me, the most intensely appraising stares I’d ever experienced. Every boy was given a buzz cut when he entered the program, and the military donated used boots and fatigues, so that’s what each boy wore. I looked into their faces and tried to see the monsters inside of them. All I saw were boys; any of them could have been one the boys who lived in my neighborhood.

Mr. Tom glared around the pit. “This is Miss Karen. She’ll be here all day. You all know the drill.”

The boys took turns telling me their names. Because the boys were all minors there were a lot of rules about confidentiality, for that reason I will simply refer to them by number. When everyone was finished eating, #5 collected all of the bowls and washed them, along with the pot that had been used to cook the oatmeal, in a large utility sink attached to the side of the cabin. The other boys were given cleanup assignments around the fire pit area while Mr. Tom took #2 inside to make beds and sweep the floor.

During all of this, Miss Julie pointed out the features of the camp. There was a shower house and laundry room on one side of the cabin, which she explained the boys were never allowed to use, unsupervised. On the other side of the cabin was the “latrine,” which was a rickety wooden outhouse. A roll of toilet paper hung from a stick on the side of the fire pit, and Miss Julie told me that the boys were timed while in the latrine. Two minutes was the longest they were permitted, and they were not allowed to take the roll in with them. They had to pull some paper off before going in.

“While a boy is in the latrine,” Miss Julie said, “a staff member must be in sight of the latrine and no other boy is allowed to approach it until the boy inside comes back out. The boys are only allowed to be outside of a staff member’s sight while they are showering or using the latrine. They change clothes in the shower stalls or the latrine.”

“Why only two minutes, and why aren’t they allowed to take the roll in with them?” I couldn’t imagine having only two minutes to use the restroom. That would be enough to make me too nervous to go at all.

“If they’re allowed too much time in the latrine, they masturbate in there. If they take the roll in, they use it to masturbate. As it is, we frequently find used toilet paper being passed around among the boys. It’s a TSOB. They get off on it.”

An image of two boys sniffing each other’s butt’s, like dogs meeting for the first time, formed in my mind. I coughed to suppress a morbid giggle. “What’s a TSOB?”

“Typical Sex Offender Behavior.”

Miss Julie introduced me to the camp dog, “This is Sandy. She’s been with us for a couple of years now.” She squatted down and ruffled the dog’s fur.

I reached forward to scratch her ear and she snapped at my hand and growled. “Isn’t it dangerous to keep a dog with that kind of temperament around? Don’t you worry about the boys getting bitten?”

“She’s actually a very friendly dog. You reached for her from behind. Like I said, she’s been with us for a couple of years now. She doesn’t like it when anyone comes up behind her, she just snaps and growls at anyone who tries.”

After morning cleanup, the boys were separated into two groups for work detail. Mr. Tom took his to work on digging a new hole for the latrine. When one got too full the boys were required to shovel dirt over the old hole and move the outhouse to the new hole. Miss Julie and I took our group to chop down mesquite bushes to clear an area for a ropes course, and each of our boys was issued an axe. I glanced at Miss Julie, acutely aware that she and I were outnumbered by axe-wielding boys, some as old as 17. I couldn’t imagine being alone with these boys, let alone arming them.

Before we set off, Miss Julie had the boys line up and “check intervals.” They had to be at least an arm length away from every other boy at all times. When they were carrying tools their interval extended to the tip of whatever tool they were carrying. We hiked about a mile and a half into the woods before we reached the site of the future ropes course, and the boys set to work hacking down mesquite bushes and digging up the roots. Once a bush was felled, it was dragged to a large pile of other bushes to be burned.

After about two hours of work, #4 and #6 began to argue. Evidently #4 had dragged a bush too close to #6 and jabbed him with a mesquite thorn. Miss Julie shouldered between the two boys and broke up the screaming. She inspected the offending jab, ruled that it wasn’t life threatening and told the two to move further apart and get back to work. As she was turning away, #6 charged #4, brandishing his axe high above his head. One of the other boys yelled a warning, before I could, and Miss Julie did the most amazing thing I’d ever seen anyone do. She stepped directly in front of the charging boy, then neatly side stepped him at the last second and swept his feet out from under him. As he went down, she grabbed the pickaxe and slung it to one side. When the boy hit the ground she immediately yanked both his hands behind his back and placed one knee just below where she was holding his wrists.

The boy kicked and screamed, “Get off me you fat fucking bitch. I’m going to kill that sister-fucker.”

Miss Julie said something firm, but too quiet for me to hear, and the boy stopped kicking, but continued to scream profanities and threats. I realized that none of the other boys were paying much attention to the action. They just continued to work. Even #4 returned to chopping away at a bush. I moved closer to Miss Julie so I could hear what she was saying to the boy she had pinned down.

“I’m not going to let you up as long as you’re screaming. When you stop screaming we can talk about letting you up. Do you understand me?” Her voice was rock steady and very calm. I didn’t think there was any way I could stay that calm while holding down a kicking screaming teenager.

When he calmed down some, Miss Julie said, “Okay, now I want you to take three deep breaths, in very slowly and out very slowly.” Her voice was even quieter now.

“Fuck you, bitch.”

“Alright, just let me know when you’re ready to be compliant and I can let you up.”

“Get off me. I’m fine. You weigh too much. I can’t breath. You ought to lay off the burgers you fat whore.” He kicked again and Miss Julie sat down on his back with her knees on either side of him. She pushed his wrists up higher on his back and held them with one hand. Then she reached back and, grabbing his ankles, crossed them and pulled them up so he couldn’t kick anymore. He looked hogtied. I was impressed and shocked all at once. It looked really painful for the boy. She was pushing his wrists up so high on his back that I was afraid she might break one of his arms.

The boy howled, “Ow. Fuck, you’re hurting me. You can’t do this. Get the fuck off me.”
“Like I said, as soon as you calm down and start following directives I’ll let you up. Just take three deep breaths.”

“How am I supposed to do that with your fat ass on me? I told you I can’t breath.”

“You’re breathing well enough to shout so I’m sure you’ll to find a way to take three deep breathes if you really want my fat ass off your back.” Miss Julie winked at me as she said that. I bit my tongue and held my breath to keep from laughing. I looked a little closer at exactly how Miss Julie was holding the boy and I realized that he wasn’t in any danger of being seriously hurt.

The boy finally settled down and she him let up, but had him sit next to her for almost half an hour before allowing him to return to work duty. I tried to picture myself restraining one of those boys and imagined how it would feel to know that I was capable of being that much in control.

At two o’clock we hiked back to camp for lunch. Mr. Tom and his group of boys had cooked hot dogs and pinto beans. While the boys sat around the fire pit eating, Miss Julie filled out an incident report, detailing the restraint of #6. When she was done she had me read it over. She used a lot of therapeutic language, just as she had during the restraint, words like non-compliant, assaultive, directive, and so on. The report was very detailed and explicit. It looked to me like the truth was somewhat exaggerated and stilted.

“We have to write one of these up for every restraint and every instance of acting-out behavior. The law requires that a boy only be restrained if he is a threat to himself or others, so our language has to make that really clear. These go in their files and copies are sent to the their PO’s Too many of these and their deferment gets revoked and they go to juvenile prison.”

“Is that why the other boys were so calm and ‘compliant’ during the restraint? Fear of prison?”

“Mostly. We don’t actually have too many restraints here. Overt aggression and violence aren’t TSOB’s. Most sex offenders are very manipulative and passive aggressive. Generally the boys only get that out of hand on birthdays, holidays, and after family visits. Sometimes a boy will test things out right after he gets here, tries to prove he can’t be restrained, especially with the female staff. I suspect today was just about showing off for you.”

When lunch was done, the boys got some free time. When a boy broke a program rule he was given “logs.” That meant that he had to split, however many logs he was assigned. Free time was when boys who had logs were able to work those off. The rest of the boys were free to write letters, or work on therapy assignments. #6 had been assigned 12 logs for attempting to assault #4, and he still had a few of logs to work off when free time was over.

After free time, Mr. Tom and I took the boys to the laundry room/showers in groups of two. #1 and #2 each started a load of laundry, then trooped into shower stalls and closed the curtains.

Mr. Tom shouted, “60 seconds.” He explained, “We give the boys ‘Navy Showers.’ They get 60 seconds to strip down, then 30 seconds of running water, then another 60 seconds to soap up, then 45 seconds to rinse, and another 60 seconds to get dressed. If they aren’t out on time they get a log for every 30 seconds it takes them to get out.” The whole thing seemed cruel. After the sweaty work those boys did during the day, a five-minute shower didn’t seem adequate.

“Turn the water back on. I still got soap in my hair Mr. Tom.” It sounded like it came from #2.

“You’ll just have to finish rinsing it out in the dish sink then won’t you?”

I was shocked. “Shouldn’t these boys at least get a decent shower?”

Mr. Tom sighed. “If they get too long in the shower they masturbate. Sometimes they even shit in there and the next boy in plays with it and masturbates. These aren’t your average teenagers. They can have all the long showers they want when they graduate and go home, but I can guarantee you that a prison shower would be a lot less fun than a shower here.”

Once all the boys had showered, #1 and #2 were brought back to move their clothes into the dryers. Mr. Tom explained to me that the next day another set of boys would wash their laundry. That way every boy got his laundry washed once every three days.

During showers, Miss Julie led an informal therapy group. I wasn’t welcome at therapy groups, until it was decided whether or not I would be working there. By the time all of that was done, dinner was ready and we all sat around the fire pit eating fish sticks, pinto beans, and dinner rolls. Then dishes were washed and the fire pit was swept and trash was emptied and removed to a burn-pit.

“Okay, it’s time for official introductions.” Miss Julie looked solemn. “This is the part that usually scares folks off. If you can get through this without having nightmares for the next two weeks you can handle this job. Brace yourself; most of the boys take great delight in trying to shock new staff. They like telling about what they’ve done. It’s a TSOB to relive their offenses by describing them elaborately. They’re going to take turns telling you their names, ages, where they’re from, and how many offenses they’ve committed and what each one was. It’s part of their therapy to self-disclose any offenses they committed but didn’t get caught for, so a lot of what you’re going to hear isn’t in the files you read this morning.” Then she raised her voice loud enough for the whole camp to hear and shouted, “Fire pit, time for introductions.”

The boys scurried to the fire pit. Most of them grinned at me. #1 stood and gave me all of his information. He listed several offenses, all concerning his younger sister. #2 listed one offense, fondling a five-year-old boy he had been babysitting. #3 said he had raped his younger brother, fondled a little girl who lived next door to him, and exposed himself to several children on a school bus. He looked me straight in the eyes and sounded cocky, like he was proud of what he’d done. #4 listed several offenses, all concerning his brother, who had been a toddler at the time. He stared at his feet the entire time and his voice shook slightly. #5 said he had forced his sister to perform oral sex on him.

By the time it was #5 sat down, I was having a such hard time breathing that I couldn’t be sure if the horror was showing on my face or not. Early on I had shoved my hands into my pockets and balled them tightly into fists. When #6 stood up he stared me straight in the eyes and said, “I’m 13 years old, and I’m from Dallas, Texas. I have committed 11 offenses. I raped my four-year-old sister three times, I fondled my mom once while she was sleeping, I forced the six-year-old boy who lived next door to me to perform oral sex on me, I forced a six-year-old girl at the library to perform oral sex on me, I raped a twelve-year-old girl at school, I fondled a three-year-old boy I was babysitting three times.”

I clenched my teeth and decided there was no way I could do this job. Then he said, “And I raped a cat.”

I sucked air in through my nose and bit my tongue so hard that I tasted blood.

Mr. Tom led the boys inside and started getting them into their bunks for the night. Miss Julie sat next to me and put her hand on my shoulder, which was shaking visibly by now.

“It’s okay Karen. Not many people can take this job. Like I said, introductions are what scares most people off. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I breathed out hard and sucked air back into my lungs in great gulps. Tears sprung up at the corners of my eyes and my whole body was shaking.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. You’ll go home, and after a few days the shock will wear off and you’ll feel normal again.”

A cartoon image of a boy attempting to violate a cat formed in my mind. The cat’s fur stood straight out on end, and its tail looked like a bottlebrush. Its feet were a blur of claws, and its teeth were three times the size they should have been. The cartoon boy was suddenly scratched and bitten from head to foot and shot straight up in the air to grab a hanging light fixture and hold on for dear life while the cat continued to claw at his ass. I rocked in my seat, gasped, and was finally able to sputter, “I think someone should tell that child that raping a cat isn’t what’s meant by ‘getting a little pussy.’”

Miss Julie stared at me silently for a moment. Then she cracked up too. Several minutes later we were both holding our sides, and fighting to regain our composure.

After 12 hours with them, those boys weren’t any less intimidating. I still wasn’t convinced that I could really handle the job, but I really needed the money, and I wanted to prove to myself that I was tough enough to do it.

The next day I started training. I was required to be CPR and lifeguard certified. I had to take restraint training, and a milieu therapy class. Restraint training was intimidating. The instructor was a man about twice my size, and I had to practice on him. The officially government approved restraint technique was PMAB, Prevention and Management of Aggressive Behavior. The milieu therapy was the interesting stuff. I learned a lot of therapeutic language and a lot about TSOB’s. After a month of training I started working with the boys.