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 10 years of age. But I guess 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 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”
“Hello”.

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 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, smile for the past that all of us had. 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-you’s , 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.
It’s true we all are deluded, how good things are, bad or what a tragedy could do to us. You never know. Never know what you’ll do to live, here on this miserable planet.
It’s true 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.

 

 ©flyingonemptythoughts


 

In response to yeah write #200 weekly writing challenge

In response to Writing Challenge: Flash Fiction

 

 

 

 


 

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5 Comments Add yours

  1. Stacie says:

    Now I want to know who he shot and why.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. S says:

      😉

      Like

  2. Wow.. nice piece,

    Liked by 1 person

    1. S says:

      Thanks Fatima! 🙂

      Like

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