They told me the job was called “assets protection.” It consisted of protecting certain things, things that could, if given the chance, find their way from their dank, cold, lives into the light of the day- the light of the innocent. It meant food on my table, a place to live, and a burning desire to change the world around me. I took the job, certain that I, a woman who had never failed in her will, or her strength, could face these assets with ease.

I had never been more wrong. As I took my first, few steps down that hallway, hearing my heels echo through the concrete, feeling the stale air on my sweating face, I was accosted by the heavy scent of death. Not death like the sight of a crime scene investigation, nor that of a freeway accident. This was the scent of man rotting away, slowly, agonizingly, his flesh melting from his bones a day at a time. This was the scent of murderers, rapists, thieves, men who had all done their worst in a society they could no longer face, given to me to watch over. I felt they were, in a sense, my children. And as I took a deep breath, inhaling that stench, I looked over the faces peering from between their bars, eyes haunted, faces haggard, bodies defeated. They were mine. My children.

They called, foul words flung from the lips of these demons like free candy in a parade. They rained about me, searching for a reaction, seeking to find the disdain that they knew was impossible to hide. They had known it from the days of their childhood, felt it rumbling around them during their trials, listened to it broadcast across the world from the gaping mouths of reporters who clutched their mikes and bathed in self-superiority. They believed I held that disdain, like all the world, and I knew that I could not tell them otherwise. I had to show them.

There were four blocks, A, B, C, and D. Each held twenty cells, each cell had two men. That meant I had 160 specimens of the world's worst scum under my care. 160 to teach, to help, to dream with. These 160 would learn that I was not there to judge them, but rather, to give them hope in a world that had cast them off.

The catcalls soon stopped, and as I reached the end of block A, a guard saluted me, his rifle armed and ready on his shoulder, his gloved hand reaching up to give me his respect. I nodded to him and continued on to the next block.

It took me three hours to meet the men that I would learn to hate. Three hours to tour the squalor that they lived in, constantly assaulted by that same pungent odor, listening to their attempts to drag me down with them. I was tired when I came to the finish of D, and as the guard there, a carbon copy of those in A, B, and C, reached up like his brothers to show his loyalty, I nodded him down. I knew how he was.

My room was almost a cell in itself. It contained no bars, but it had three locks, and a fireproof door, meant to secure me in case of a breakout. It had a bed, a desk, a dresser, and one lone lamp hanging baldly from the ceiling. The man I was with dropped my luggage at the end of the bed and saluted. Already I was tiring of that damned gesture, its formality and call of assurance to the men. He left, closing the door firmly behind him, and I dropped to my bed, kicking off the heels, unzipping my skirt from behind.

The silence in my room was almost deafening, and as I lay on the bed, staring up at my empty ceiling, I began to plan. This prison was for the worst of the worst, maximum security, and as such, it had little to do. Funding went toward guards and guns, not activities and enrichment. So I planned, marking out a budget and goals, giving things to my new inmates, letting them live a little at a time. I fell asleep with the light on and all that night dreamed of crying, broken children, cast into the bright light of interrogation, confessing their sins beneath the judgment of that lamp. I felt myself crying with them, and when I awoke that morning, I felt the trails of tears gone cold on my cheeks.

I called together the men of my new home, watched them assemble beneath me as I perched on a platform, surrounded by a dozen guards. They were of all ages, some grayed and old, others barely past that awkward acne-ridden stages of their lives- whatever they were, though, they all looked up at me with the same eyes- filled with loathing and contempt.

I called them all together and spoke to them, feeling wary upon my platform, wishing I wasn't so far away from their lost souls. I wanted to save these men, these individuals who stared up at me with uncomprehending eyes and jealously guarded minds. As I spoke, I climbed down from my perch, ignoring the guards who tried to hold me, allowing myself to walk free among my men.

Some reached out to touch me, to pull at my skirt, to try and grab a handful of my breast before the guards who so closely followed me elbowed them away. I looked into the eyes of each man I passed, pleading with them, hoping to show them a way out of their darkness. I was met with confusion in some places, anger in most. These men had never reasoned, never been logical. They had killed, for Christ's sake, and I felt almost foolish as I talked with them, wondering if the man I spoke with had raped my friends, killed my family, stolen the things I had worked to hard to earn.

They did not want to listen, and after I finished, they left, grumbling about wasted time, eager to make their way to the kitchen for breakfast. I felt disheartened, but promised myself I wouldn't give up- these men needed a dream, and I knew I could give them one.

I talked to them every morning for the next three weeks, but still no one listened. My budget was thrown out by the state board, and my plans for change began to die. I kept at it, hoping that with each new day something would happen, some spark would be created, and at last I could begin to do what I had set out for.

Months passed, and I began to give my talks every other morning. No one even pretended to pay attention anymore, as they talked among themselves, and a few even felt brave enough to challenge me, threaten me for taking away their time. They were quickly put down by my guards, and my heart began to grow cold toward these men, these killers, these molesters, these wrongdoers. Scum of society, they were, and I began to hate them for it.

After a year, I gave up on my talks. I quit reorganizing the budget, and allowed the board to place six new guards in the blocks, on hearsay that a breakout would soon occur. I no longer walked through the lines, instead choosing to spend most of my time in my room, my cell, buried in books and dreams of other times, other men, other dreams. I hated myself for it.

I had been there a year and four months when Dante showed up. He was in for arson, and as his six foot, two hundred pound frame lumbered into C block, I wondered how he had come to love flames more than his freedom. His blond hair was dirty, too long, and unbrushed. His pale blue eyes were fiery, fitting for his crime, and he grunted in return to the shouts of his fellow inmates. A lone tattoo showed on his left arm, peeking out from beneath his orange jumpsuit, the image of a devil inked forever into his skin. I met him at his new cell, introducing myself, and the way he eyed me made me blush, his gaze sure and possessive, his smirk fearless. His gaze reached my eyes, and I felt the redness in my cheeks. He noticed, a grin spreading across his face before he spoke.

“So you're the warden?”

“I am.”

“They sent a woman?”

“They did.”

“Christ.”

I felt my brow draw together, and the warm blush replaced by anger. Insolent bastard.

“Get in your cell.” I snapped, turning and stalking away, smoldering at his words, at the way he had made me feel, at that awful smirk upon his face.

I went back to my room and lost myself again in a book, wasting hours before finally putting it down and pondering the man that was Dante. I rose, going to my office, sitting myself behind my desk before buzzing in a guard. He came in, his hand coming up to a half-salute before he remembered that I hated the move, and instead stood at attention in front of me.

“Tell our newest inmate that I would like to speak to him,” I informed the guard, dismissing him before he could protest. He left the room, and I was alone with my thoughts.

Dante arrived a few minutes later, a for a moment I wondered why I had called him. He dwarfed the guard beside him, and the sneer on his face had grown, leaving it twisted in its abhorrence. I excused the guard, leaving myself and Dante, and invited him to sit. He remained standing, and I sighed, looking up at him.

The silence between us grew as I stared at him and he stared back. I began to notice things about him, his slightly crooked nose, which I assumed had been broken, and the streak of gold that went through his blue eyes. These things were unusual, and I was about to ask him where he had gotten the scar on his lip when he cleared his throat.

“Is there a reason you called me?” his voice was low, gruff, and carried with it a note of impatience. I began to freeze up, a bead of sweat dripping down my forehead as I looked at him. Why did I ask him to come?

“Umm,” I started to panic a little, before urging myself to stay calm. I shuffled through the papers on my desk, searching for an excuse, “it says here that you are here for arson. Would you care to explain that to me?”

“It's simple,” he said, his voice still impatient, “I set things on fire. It says so right there in my file.”

“Would you like to tell me why?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. What happened to my confidence? Had it drained away in the year that I had been here?

“What, are you some sort of shrink now or something? I don't have to explain shit to you.”

“No, you don't, but I'd like to know if-”

“If what, if you can fix me up? You think I can't see what you're trying to do here? You think that you're some sort of super bitch, here to help save us soulless prisoners from Hell? Let me tell you something, we don't need your help. We don't want it. So how about you stay up here in your own little cell, primp your feathers, and leave us the fuck alone.”

My mouth dropped open. He had been here less than a day, and already he knew what I wanted. He knew about my plans to help, and he didn't want them. I was speechless.

The silence stretched again, though this time my thoughts were scattered and his grin held the knowledge of his truth.

“Can I go now?”

“No.” It was quiet, very quiet, as I regathered my thoughts. He may have been right, but I was still the warden, and he the prisoner. “Why do you set things on fire?”

“Fuck you.”

“Why?”

“I don't need your self-help, bitch.”

I stood, placing my hands on the desk, reassuring myself of my position. “Why?”

“You won't understand.”

“Listen to me, mister. You'll tell me why or I swear I'll put your ass in solitude so long you won't even understand what sunlight is. You got that?” I was playing hard-ass, but so was he, and I knew I couldn't let him win. He was still my child, and I had to know.

“Flames are beauty.” his voice was quiet, its cadence changing as he began talking about his obsession, “They are truth. They are the harbingers of light, God's gift to mankind. Fire cleanses the soul, burns sin, brings love. It takes all that is wrong and makes it right. It grasps a man, willing him to use the power, to clean the world, to cast it all in a never ending, beautiful light. The light of love, shining brightly so that we all can rejoice. I bring flames to life, give them food, nourish them like they are my own, because they give me all this, and it is all I can do to thank them,” his head dropped, and I realized I was holding my breath.

It was then that I fell in love with Dante.

He gripped my heart with a casual hand, nonchalant, careless in his ease. He knew, and I knew, that he held control. I called him in each night to talk to him, feeling the power that I had seeping away as I fell more and more under his spell. He spoke often of the beauty of his flames, and I listened, enraptured by the sheer adoration in his voice. To...care about something so much- that you would give your life for it...it gave me hope, even if the love was wrong. He could feel me falling for him inch by inch, and he used that for himself. Used it as he used those flames, wild, with abandon, and I went with it, every step of the way.

We never touched. He was a prisoner, and I was a warden. I had a job to do, and I did it, working my best around Dante, though everyone could see my problem. He was allowed out whenever, ate more than the others, and when anyone tried to say anything about it, he beat them senseless. I suppose it was through him that I began to realize my dreams. My morning talks resumed, and they listened, in silence, in fear. They did as I asked- and the state, seeing the upturn in my prison, afforded me money for a rec yard outside. It was good, as I stood there, on our newly built balcony, watching over my children, Dante at my right shoulder, guards at attention below. It was good.

More months had passed, and I thought I could no longer bear keeping away from Dante. I sat behind my desk as he let himself in and I watched him. He had grown stronger, using the prison's new weight system, and his white shirt showed off the muscles rippling beneath. His eyes held more fire than usual, and he glowed with his own power. He still refused to sit, though these days he usually wandered about, touching things, feeling them- and as he often told me, imagined them burning.

“Good evening Dante,”

“Hey,” he grunted, ignoring me as he felt along my bookcases.

“How was your day?”

“It was all right. Worked out, ate, slept. You know, the usual.”

“Any trouble?”

“Yeah,” he turned to look at me “some asshole two doors down from me keeps banging the walls. Tell him to shut up or I'll beat the shit out of him.”

“I'll look into it,”

“So, what did you want to hear about tonight?”

“Tell me the one about the family.”

“Which family?”

“The one that survived.”

“That one's boring.”

“You pick, then.”

“I'll tell you the one about my ex girlfriend. That's a good one.”

“I don't want to hear it, Dante.”

“It's that or nothing.”

I sighed- he knew, and I knew, that he held control. “Ok.”

“Well, this bitch and I had broken up about a month ago, and I was real mad, so I started planning. I wanted to burn her up, cleanse her of her sins- she cheated on me, you know- and teach her a lesson about real love. I went to her house-”

As he spoke, I watched him, the way he moved, the way his walk jumped with every step, the way he shrugged his shoulders every time he swore. I loved him, with every beat of my heart, and I ached that I couldn't have him.

“-and then, right as I set her on fire- starting with the head, you know, so I had more time, I began to fuck her. The house burned down all around us, and I just went at it, teaching her about passion, listening to her scream, watching the beauty of the flames as they engulfed her-”

“What?” I couldn't hold back the shock.

“They were beautiful-”

“No. you- you had sex with her?”

“Yeah.”

“While she was on fire?”

“Yeah. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life.”

I felt sick. Dante was a sick man, a twisted man, and yet, as I looked up at him, I could feel myself getting aroused. He noticed. It was as if he had some sort of sense, and he turned to look at me, his eyes flashing, a grin sweeping across his face as he looked me up and down.

“You like that?”

“No.”

“Want me to set you on fire?”

“That's disgusting, Dante.” he came over, walking slowly, swaggering confidently.

“Want me to fuck you in a burning house?”

“You're getting awfully close, Dante.” he reached down and spread his palms over the desk, meeting me eye for eye.

“You want it?” his voice got quieter, and I felt chills running down my back. I wanted to say yes, I wanted it badly, but I couldn't. I was the warden.

“No.”

“Liar.” he reached for me, and in one split second, I decided. I gave in. His lips met mine, crushing them as his hand reached up and pushed my head to him. He groaned, and so did I, as he picked me up and pulled me over the desk, smashing my whole body into his. A part of me wanted to stop, but I couldn't and the next thing I knew we were having sex, desperate sex, on my desk, and I cried out- with passion, love, pure adoration- and I knew I would die for him.

Not a soul missed what was happening, not a one, but no one said a thing. Dante still slept in his cell, and I in mine, but no one asked when he would go missing for several hours. They knew. I walked with a newfound happiness, and everywhere I went, my eyes searched for him, seeking him amongst those other, dull men, finding his radiance shining between them all.

It was in my room one night that I learned my lesson. I played with fire, it was true, and I got burned. He and I were on my bed, kissing, and I was nearing again the state of pure ecstasy I felt whenever I was around him. His body was strong against mine, and it moved with such purpose, such ease, that I followed helplessly.

I suppose it was because he knew he had power that he even dared try what he did. I suppose it was the power I gave him that enabled him. I suppose the guards must have thought I gave approval for the lighter and gasoline that he requested. I suppose it was my fault for letting him rule my heart.

He brought that lighter and gasoline with him that night. I noticed the bulge the can made in his pockets, but I didn't stop to wonder what it was, as he tackled me and pushed me down to the bed with such assurance that I could not resist. I noticed, too, the wetness as it dribbled out between our fierce bodies, but I ignored it, caught up in my passion. But it was only when he- Dante- took my hands and held then above me, as he had so many times before, and reached into his pocket that I saw, with my own eyes, my imminent destruction. I had allowed this, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

The gasoline was warm from being in his pocket, and as he dribbled it down my shirt it felt almost as if he were pissing on me. I suppose that's what he was doing, really. Pissing away my idiocy and leaving me to burn. His eyes glowed with a fervor I had never seen, and soon the bottle was empty. That same glow reflected in the flame as he clicked his lighter, bringing it to life.

“Dante-” I choked, barely breathing his name before my throat closed in fear. It felt as if had just tried to swallow one of those pills- the ones they give you for infections and things- dry. It hurt.

“Shut up.” his voice was wild, strong, confident, all the things that I had loved about him. He placed the lighter at my foot- where the gasoline was lightest. I figure it was so it'd take longer to burn. I felt the heat as he held it there, and screamed as my sock caught fire. He laughed, and leaned down to kiss me, pushing his mouth against mine with the savagery of a beast. “How do you like that?” he asked, whispering in my ear like lover's words. His hands moved up my waist, catching on my pants, reaching to unfasten the button.

I could not stop screaming. I could smell my own flesh burning as the flames licked their way up my leg, hopping first from one to the other. It seemed to excite Dante, and I wondered why he wasn't crying too- he had lain on top of me, and flames tasted his legs as hungrily as they did mine. His grin was feral, and he ripped off my pants easily, quickly, moving as he had so many times before.

And then, he fucked me. He took my body as I lay writhing, and all I could think of, as I felt myself pushed into the bed, as I felt the flames climbing their way up, was our love. My love. The love I thought he had shared.

He finished quickly, and I remembered that he had said it took longer to burn from the top, not the bottom. I was nothing more than a quickie, a godforsaken moment of lust, a prisoner to the heat that ate at my body.

He stood, stamping out the flames on his legs, and took one last look- one long appraising look at the woman that he had killed, like so many others- before laughing and turning away. He opened my door with an expert hand and left, his laugh echoing in my burning ears.

I managed to roll off my bed, which too had caught fire, and twisted on the floor, trying desperately to quench the flame. It did not work. He had done his job correctly, and I burned, my cries now gone, my lungs gasping for oxygen.

They caught him three days later. He was on the road to Mexico, of all places, and had stopped at a convenience store- attempting to hold them up and run. How cliché. They tripped a silent alarm and the police came, took one glance at him, and arrested him. He was back in my jail on day four.

I...lived... through my experience. I could not talk, I could not move, but I lived. A maintenance man had come in as I lay in my dying throws and extinguished the flames with his bucket of mop water.

I was in the hospital for six months recovering. Somehow I had managed to retain my sight, and my doctors said I was lucky. I don't think lucky was the word to describe me. There was not an inch on my body that wasn't covered with scars, and I did not dare look in the mirror. They released me and told me to stay off work for another six months, to go home and rest, recuperate, catch up with my family. The prison was my home. Its inhabitants my family. So I went home, and lay on my newly restored bed, in my neatly renovated room, longing to be dead as I wheeled myself up the ramp that they had built especially for me.

There were no catcalls as I patrolled the grounds, giving up my manual chair for an electric one, so that I could get around more quickly. I never went to C block. I avoided it as I wished I could have avoided those flames. I vowed never to see Dante again, and the guards watched over it for me, taking care never to speak of it.

It was another three months when I got the papers for Dante's death warrant. Apparently his lighting me on fire had kicked his execution up, sparking it like the light of that little Bic on that terrible night. I looked at it, clutched it with shaking hands, and willed myself to be glad. I tried to smile, grimacing at the paper like some parody of his feral grin, feeling no joy in seeing justice due. I tried not to love him, tried as hard as I could, but somehow when I thought of him, I thought not of the screams I had given for him, but the way he felt so strong against me.

The guards gave him the papers, armed with my signature, and I am told he laughed, and asked how I was.

His date was set for two weeks later, electric chair style- no use of needles or painless death. The government wanted him dead, and they wanted it done right, to avenge their broken agent. I counted the days as a child counts down Christmas, and every morning when I awoke I told myself I was happy. It almost worked, until that last, final day. Dante's last, final day. It was my job to see him off, a part of the duties I maintained, and my stomach twisted pathetically as I thought of facing him again. Would he love my burned body as he had not loved me or would he turn away in repulsion, unable to watch the failed results of his actions?

I heard my own cries bouncing through the walls, haunting me as I made my way to the execution chamber. I was flanked by two men, my most loyal, one of them the man who had saved my life. He, too, now carried a gun, and he held it proudly, mimicking the actions of his mate.

The room smelled like vinegar and death The wooden chair that sat in the center held deep claw marks, where dying men had made their last plea- almost as if they would be forgiven if they managed to drag themselves away from their dying scene. The helmet sat atop the bucket on the floor, both well used and perched quietly, both insisting on their innocence in the matter. There were three men in the witness stands, inmates, and I wondered where his family was before remembering that his file said he had burned them too. He truly was a madman, and I wondered how I could have ever fallen for him.

That didn't quell my fears, though, and I held my breath, waiting for the moment they would escort him in, the first moment I would see him since that night, the last moment I would ever see him alive.

He walked in backwards, talking, addressing someone outside the room. His broad back wore the same white wife beater- his trademark, and he had grown his hair out long again. The tattoo was in full view, and it smiled maniacally, daring justice to pound its gavel.

And then, he turned. I saw him- his same pale blue eyes, his crooked smile that morphed so easily into that feral grin. His glance caught mine, and I was riveted as his eyes widened, taking in all the consequences of his actions. They slowly traveled down my body, pausing to linger at the wheelchair, before moving back up and meeting mine again. And his sneer, his goddamn sneer, grew on his face, reaching to take it over before with one, deliberate move, he licked his lips.

I felt an anger growing in me, one I never knew was possible, and disgust filled my heart. I nodded to the man who accompanied him, giving my express permission to kill him, and do it quickly. Our eyes never left each other as his head was shaved and the man placed the wet sponges inside the helmet. He stared at me, his gaze possessive, smiling that smile I knew so well. I could never forget it. It was burned into my memory, the image of his face hovering above mine as I screamed in pain.

I kept staring, even as they placed the helmet on his head and left the room- kept staring as the countdown came on over the loudspeaker- kept staring as it ended and my lover's death began.

His smile never left. It was burned on his face like a scar, like my scars, and only his hands showed his pain, clawing at the wood like so many others before.

His eyes remained open, staring into mine, and they softened, almost imperceptibly.

Dante loved me.