The Orange Suit

Damn, it was too bright in here. Isn’t this place supposed to be dark and weary as in those movies and books, am so fond of? It seems obvious enough to a kid like me, all of 13 years of age. But I guess the reality is another thing altogether.

I can’t believe I was sent here alone, feels like I am in here for something too.
Too many  uniforms around here. Wonder what all of these people came here for. Maybe the same as my old man. Murder. What a shame. The most repulsive and cowardly act, that ever existed.

I heard there were talks that my old man was due for an appeal of some sort. I never really understood the process. All of them say he was wrongly convicted. My Ma, my Gramps, all of them.

They say he would never lay a finger on anyone.
He was a kind man who led a decent life, they say. I think people with such strong beliefs need to be admired. I admire that sense of  conviction.  See what I did there. Conviction. I sure do crack myself up sometimes.
My dad’s there seated, he seems relieved to see me. And a bit confused, I guess he is wondering why Ma’s not here.

“Hi son”

We sit quietly. Looking at each other. He seems a bit older. Same but a bit older. And a bit pale. Guess prison doesn’t suit him well after all.

“Where’s your mother, kid?”

“Working, overtime, since you’re here”
We continue the staring match. He smiles .

“They are trying to get me out, son”.

“Yeah I heard something like that.”
“I miss home; this place is bad, bad even for the criminals in here”
I notice how he doesn’t count himself in it. He’s innocent. He has to be right? Otherwise, why to bother, why would everyone believe him. Even if all the evidence pointed directly to him. He was innocent, innocent as innocence goes.
I look at him and smile, we had history. Smile for my lost innocence, my childhood, my misguided ideas and beliefs. This was him, sitting in front of me. We are of the same blood.

This is not how it’s supposed to work out, is it? We talk regular things, the how-are-yous’, the bad prison food, my school, Gramps, Ma. It doesn’t matter, does it? Everything’s changed.

He says he believes he’ll be out, he was innocent. He says we need to stay strong and get through this.

I admire him for how deluded he is. We say our goodbyes and promise to meet soon. As if we were in a coffee shop and this was a regular hang out.
We all are indeed deluded. You never know. Never know what you’ll do to live, here on this miserable planet.
Indeed, he never laid a finger on anyone. Never .

But he sure did lay a finger on that trigger that day. I was there. And no one knows.

No one will.


In response to yeah write #200 weekly writing challenge

In response to Writing Challenge: Flash Fiction

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