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goodlookingforagirl · 4 years

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Oc-tober Day 14: Cornered

Today’s prompt is takes places in my main storyline, but it’s a conversation that’s only ever referred to. I decided to actually write it out for today! This takes place in 1980, right after Randy is released from prison. I did as much research as possible on the legal process so I hope everything I mention is accurate. No specific trigger warnings, just that there are some heavy things mentioned. Thanks to @oc-growth-and-development for making this list!

Day 14: Cornered

Mom dropped me off at the church’s back door and waited until I went inside to drive away. The door led to a short flight of stairs down to the basement, where the only light came from a few hallway fluorescents, spaced far apart. It reminded me of an empty elementary school, except that instead of crayon drawings on the walls, there were solemn religious portraits. One of the fluorescents started buzzing, and I quickly walked down the hallway, searching for the door that read “Associate Pastor”.

I finally found it — the last door on the left — and knocked. There was faint shuffling from inside, and I wished I could run back to the car and make Mom take me home. After all I’d been through, it was stupid to be afraid of one old pastor, but I was. He would probably tell me what a bad person I was, and how I needed to “get right with God” without offering any real help, like all the chaplain’s used to do.

The door opened to reveal a well-dressed man, barely middle-aged and smiling broadly. “Good afternoon,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Reverend Burke.”

“Randy Nicholson.” I shook his hand and tried to smile back, but it came out as a grimace.

“Please, come in.” He stepped back and gestured to a red leather chair in front of his desk. “Can I offer you anything to drink? I’m afraid all we have is water and tea — we cleaned out the coffee on Wednesday night.”

“No, thank you,” I automatically answered, then immediately wished I hadn’t. I really could use some water. My mouth already felt like sandpaper, and we haven’t even started our meeting.

He sat down in his desk chair, so I sat in the leather chair. He folded his hands, so I folded my hands. Finally, he spoke.

“Your mother called me last month. She said you were in need of reintegration counseling.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’ve worked with many ex-convicts before. Usually, the first meeting is for us to get to know each other. In subsequent meetings, we’ll focus on goal setting and progress.”

“Okay,” I answered, having nothing else to say.

He looked at me expectantly. “So, what should I know?”

“I — I don’t know. What do you need to know?”

He chuckled. “Well, I need to know your story. Your crimes, your arrest, your incarceration, and anything other pertinent information.”

Pertinent information. What did that mean to him? Did he want my whole life’s story? He must have noticed my confusion, so he said, “How about we start with the arrest?”

I leaned back and tried to detach myself from my words as much as possible. “I was walking downtown late one night — or, really early one morning — making a delivery for my dealer.”

“What kind of dealer?”

I cocked my head. Could he really be so stupid? “A drug dealer.”

“I guessed that, but what kind of drugs?”

“Oh. Well, he dealt a few different ones, but that night it was heroin.”

“Were you using heroin at the time?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, and I continued.

“So, I was carrying the heroin and a stolen gun. I didn’t steal it myself, but still, it was stolen. And then I ran into some guy, probably a bum, and got in a fight. Then the police rolled up.”

“Why did you start fighting him?”

“I don’t remember. I was high at the time, and he probably was, too. The police coming was just a coincidence. We weren’t going at it long enough for someone to have called.”

“So you were arrested for fighting?”

“Yeah, and it didn’t take long for them to go through my pockets, check the gun’s registration, all that. They charged me with unlawful possession of a firearm, unlawful possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell, and aggravated assault.” I winced at those words. “I mean, the other guy got charged with assault, too. We both hit each other pretty hard. But that doesn’t matter — it’s still on my record.”

Reverend Burke nodded and wrote something down on a legal pad. “How did you plead?”

“Guilty.”

“On all charges?”

“Yeah.”

“Did they offer you a deal?”

“They said they’d drop the firearm charge if I told them where I got it from, but I didn’t. I pleaded guilty because I didn’t want to lie. And I mean, they caught me in the act.”

“And this was all how long ago?”

“Five and a half years ago.” I still couldn’t believe it. All that time spent in a cell because the cops happened to drive by right at that moment. No, because I decided to break the law and I was rightfully caught. Okay, fine, maybe because of both reasons. And for what? So I could get a little extra smack for being a runner?

“How did you cope in prison?” Reverend Burke asked so casually, like it was an everyday question.

“I read a lot of the library books. Some religious ones, too. Those helped me a lot.”

“Did you make friends?”

“I was considerate, but I kept to myself. That’s the only way to stay safe, really, unless you get involved with all the prison politics, which I didn’t.”

“A lot of the men I counsel tell me that,” he commented. “Did you keep in contact with family and friends on the outside? Did they visit you?”

I subconsciously gripped the armrests of the chair, my knuckles turning white. We were getting close to the subject that I really didn’t want to talk about. My least favorite subject in the world.

“My family in Texas wrote to me sometimes. That’s my mom, my grandparents, and aunts and uncles.”

“Your father?”

“I’ve never met him.”

Reverend Burke looked sympathetic but not surprised. “Did he pass?”

“Almost ten years ago, but I didn’t know him before he passed, either. He and my mom — it’s complicated. The last time they saw each other was when she was pregnant with me.”

“I see,” he nodded. “Did your family ever visit you?”

“Sometimes,” I said, my throat getting tight. “My brother did.”

Reverend Burke raised his eyebrows. “You have a brother?”

“Had a brother,” I corrected him. “He died three years ago.”

His face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You were still incarcerated then?”

“Yeah.” I stared at the floor and tried to ignore the pain that was rushing in. “He visited when he was still alive. Everyone else wrote, and I called them sometimes, too.”

“I see,” he muttered, writing something else down. “So, you made it through prison without any major issues, it seems like. Relatively speaking, of course.”

“I didn’t join a gang, if that’s what you mean.”

He chuckled. “I guess that is what I mean. When were you released?”

“My mom picked me up on Wednesday. You’re the first person I’ve talked to since, besides her.”

“She’s the only one who came up?”

“Well...yeah.” What did he expect, my extended family holding up banners, welcoming me home with open arms?

“Are there any people in the area you could reconnect with? Old friends, co-workers, classmates?”

I half-shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t think of anyone right now.”

Reverend Burke tapped his pen on his legal pad a couple of times, then stood up. “I have some reading that might help you.” He grabbed three books off of his shelf. “I need to run by the copy room and Xerox some pages for you. Forgive me, but I learned long ago not to loan my books out. They have a habit of never coming back.”

“No offense taken,” I replied with an awkward laugh. He excused himself and left me alone in the office, tense and nervous and itching for a cigarette, the only habit I hadn’t kicked yet. I resisted, smart enough to know that I shouldn’t smoke in a church. But I craved any kind of relief — anything to stop me from feeling like a frightened animal, cornered by my own past.

People to reconnect with. There weren’t any. I didn’t have friends in high school — not real friends that would remember me. Most of my “friends” were other addicts, and I didn’t want to see them again. My family was in Texas, and I didn’t want to move there. And Roland — Roland was gone. The one person I actually wanted to reconnect with, and I couldn’t.

Reverend Burke came back in and handed me a small stack of warm paper. “Fresh out of the copier,” he grinned.

I flipped through the pages and read the headers: Finding God in Grief; Convict Turned Convert; The Road to Recovery. I didn’t even have to read them to know that I hated them. Life’s darkest chapters reduced to cute, alliterative phrases. Reverend Burke didn’t know what it was like. He had no clue what it felt like to be cornered by your past, every day of your life, only for someone to write a pat little paragraph about how easy it is to overcome. And I wasn’t mad at him for it — I was jealous. I wished it were that easy for me.

#oc-tober #oc-growth-and-development #randy #s

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