A prison comes in many forms

"Clank"


No matter how many nights he heard the same sound, he would never get used to that sound. It was the cold, dark, depressing sound of freedom being denied. There really was no other way to describe it. You knew that no matter how much you might wish otherwise, you were NOT going anywhere.


"So this is what is meant by lock-up" he had thought the first night. Two years later, he just laughed at his innocence. The jaded person that he was now would have never been so gullible.


He had never been a bad person. His life was just one of bad circumstances. An old friend of his father's once told him that he had the worst luck. He always seemed to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. He never really did anything majorly wrong, but he always seemed to get into trouble. 


He didn't fit in here, that had become apparent the first day. He had fought for his life, and somehow manage to knock his attacker out. Of course, he broke the man's jaw, his nose and three of the his ribs in the process, thus guaranteeing himself an addition six months onto his sentence. But he knew it was kill or be killed in the jungles. He wasn't going to just lie down and play dead. 


This belief in self-righteousness and justice was exactly why he was here. He hadn't done anything wrong. He just happened to have had a narcotic on him when it happened. He smoked pot, it calmed him down, and allowed him to dissipate his energy. But he didn't feel that was wrong. The courts didn't feel that way. It was an illegal substance. 


For months, he just existed. Day in, day out. He had been given a job, cleaning the halls with other inmates, sweeping and moping for a few hours every day. It helped break up the monotony, and it gave him time to get to know other people.Everyone had their story to tell, they were all innocent. Some might even have been. But he believed none of them. They would all throw him under the bus to save themselves. The people he encountered seemed to belong here, while he never felt he did. 


He had gone to get some groceries, minding his own business. He drove the speed limit, wore his seat belt, had insurance, everything was in proper working condition. He was a good driver. Conscientious and courteous, using turn signals, and driving safe distances. He never saw the little girl. She went running after her ball, her mother not paying attention - trying to attend to a pair of younger children. The little girl never looked. He never saw her. 


The sickening thunk echoed in his dreams for the first year. He cried himself to sleep most nights. Sobbing softly into his pillow. He never meant to kill anyone. There was no way he could have seen her, avoided her, stopped. Nothing. He had played the scenario out over and over and over and over in his mind. Nothing ever presented itself. He hadn't even been high when it happened. He was going to wait until he got home. But he had it on him when it happened. 


The D.A. had had a field day with the case. It was an easy open and shut case. Vehicular manslaughter. He would be sentenced 3 to 5 years, with early release possible after 18 months. He had argued until he was blue in the face. His lawyer wouldn't listen. He told him that this was his best offer. This was the best he could expect. He had broken the law. He had done wrong. He just didn't understand how. 


Two years into his sentence, he still didn't have any idea how what had happened had been his fault. There was nothing he could have done. He was coming up for parole soon. He knew that he would probably be released. The prisons were getting crowded, and they were releasing people for good behavior. He would soon have his chance.


He looked at his hands, as he sat outside the parole board room. It was going to be now or never. His next time would come in another year, his sentence would be up then. No probation, done. Finished. A free man. With a mark on his record that would keep him from finding gainful employment. It would keep him from serving in the military. It would keep him from owning a gun. It made him a second class citizen. 


And why? Why had he suffered this injustice? These problems? For something that was no fault of his own? 




Because he had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. 




He looked at his hands. It was time to go.....