It's Not My Fault

As I sat in my little confined space, I was reflecting back to the beginning. Why is it that something is always against me? It’s funny how you look back and see all the red flags. But to be honest, I really didn’t want to see the truth. Was it really me? I kept telling myself it’s not you, it's them. I didn’t want to accept the truth; at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

I paused as I saw a black rat run in between the bars. Why would even a rat want to be in jail? At least the rat was free; he could come and go as he pleased, unlike me. These bars held me captive, but it really doesn’t matter anymore. As I stood up and looked at the scratched-up glass, I was calling a mirror. Not that my looks mattered; what's the point? My home was this confined space.

Today I was getting ready to go and talk to the reporter; he was doing a story on me. Me of all people, I finally did something worthy to be talked about, to be interviewed. Well, I did do something that gave me a kind of new fame, in a way. So, I was trying to make myself look as best as I could so pictures might be taken. The reporter was my only connection to the outside; he came to hear my story. I know he wasn’t coming to see me, just to hear my story. At least he was coming to see me, in a way. When you are locked up, any visitors make your day. I had no family and no real friends. So, when this guy contacted me about writing my story, I thought, ‘Sure, why not?’

And this is where my story begins—me sitting behind bars. Telling some guy about how messed up my life was and how society helped to put me behind bars. The guy was nice-looking, not that it mattered to me. But he was nice to look at, but I had given up on love and romance a long time ago. That’s like trying to fit into society; not going to happen. People like me are left out of a lot of things; you get used to it.  

‘Anger management’ is what the judge called it: “You need some anger management classes.” I really didn’t need anger management; I was angry enough. Still, I tried to explain to the judge that people didn’t help; they made me angry. If it wasn’t for people, I wouldn’t get angry. Well, that didn’t go well with the judge. “Hey, Jones, you’ve got a visitor.” I looked over toward the bars; looking at me was the female guard on duty. Her voice was hard; she had a buzz cut and a big frame; she looked more like a linebacker. She could easily be a dude, but I guess it helps working in a place like this. Who needs to be all girly? You’d probably get jumped every time you let someone out, like me.

I went toward the door, then stepped back a few feet, waiting for it to open. As I walked down the hall, I walked with pride. I was somebody; I had a visitor. The other girls looked on with envy. I held my head up high. I really enjoyed these moments; I was truly somebody.

Upon arriving, I quickly saw my visitor. So, I sat down quickly; these moments go so quickly. Looking out, the thick partition of the glass separated us. I could still see his eyes; his eyes spoke of a kind and gentle man. He was in his mid-30s or maybe even 35, weighing around 165 or even 175 pounds. He was very well put together, in a physical sense, not too tall or short. It looked like he might work out during his days off. His sandy blonde hair was cut short, and the air conditioning blowing was creating waves throughout his hair. Staring at his hair made me think of the beach. When was the last time I went to the beach?

How the mind wonders when you have nothing but time on your hands. Focusing on his deep, piercing blue eyes as he just sat looking at me. I tried to smooth down my hair; the flyways were crazy. I didn’t have time to pack my hair products. I tried to smooth out the wrinkles of my jumpsuit, but it was no use. 

His piercing blue eyes looking at me made me think of the sky. He wore a blue button-down dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His shirt was the same beautiful color as his eyes. With his sleeves rolled up, you could see the sun had tanned him a beautiful bronze color. And those tortoiseshell horn-rimmed glasses brought out the bronze color of his skin. I wondered if he wore those glasses so he could look smart. Anyway, my issue wasn’t some guy, as good as he did look. My issue was how society always tries to pull you down.

He smiled at me as he noticed I was still staring at him, then he took out his notebook. He also took out a small recorder and aimed it at me. I took the clue that I could start now.

“I just wanted to be recognized, to be accepted, you know. Like everything I did wasn’t a mistake, I was not at fault. You see, people often dismiss me for where I came from, my past. I was put into the orphanage at a very early age; I don’t know why my mom did it.  So, I’ve been kind of on my own for a long time. I stayed in the system until I was old enough to go on my own. Most foster parents didn’t really know if they wanted to keep me or not. I must admit, I was a bit of a handful. Like a lot of teens? 

I really just wanted to be accepted for who I am, not because of where I came from. Then in high school, you get overlooked or picked on. You know what I’m talking about; you have to fit in with the cliques. Either with the popular crowd, the smart crowd, the athletic, or even the nerds.  But what happens when you don’t fit in with either crowd? You get stepped on, pushed aside, or else bullied. I learned very early, so I did the bullying, pushing, and shoving. So, what I branded a bully, what’s a girl to do?” I said that with a big smile. I was proud that no one pushed me around. And no one ever will!

“So, I left school; there was no one who made me go anyway. And then I was kicked out of the system, and so began my life. I had enough of people telling me what I could and couldn't. do.  So, I searched for a job and had some bad run-ins with people. Someone is always against me; it’s not my fault.” I paused as he began writing down notes. ‘What was he writing? I wondered. Then he spoke up, “Do you truly believe that people are out to get you? That the world is against you?” He had such a deep voice, which went along with the whole package. I smiled as I contemplated how to answer him, but decided to speak my mind. “Sure, I feel that way. It’s not my fault I was put up for adoption or that no one could handle me. It’s always someone else’s fault. Where is the kindness, the patience, and the understanding? Where, Where, Where?”

He put his head down and started writing some more. I patiently waited for him to stop before I finished my story.

“I continued on looking for a job until I saw an ad that had my complete attention. It stated in big letters, ‘ARE YOU TIRED OF TRYING TO FIT IN? Has society turned you away because you don’t fit into their mold? When you look back over your life, do you only see failures and regret? How can you truly move ahead while society tries to hold you down? Well, come work for us here at the Darling Detective Agency. We will train you, and you can excel where others missed. We will teach you how to interrogate people and how to be a force that no one can stop. People will fear you, and you can control your surroundings. Just sign the dotted line and become part of a team that holds your future in their hands.’

“I couldn’t wait to get there and sign up. Finally, a place where I could feel accepted. As a matter of fact, they told me having a criminal record was good. Something about the government giving back for hiring ex-cons." He looks up at me with this curious look on his face, then he writes a few notes. "My only crime was having a bad attitude—no theft or arson. Sure, at one time I did threaten to beat up the lady from H/R, but only because she wouldn’t hire me. Other than that, I was a model citizen. Anyway, I signed up, and then I saw some of the girls I had been in jail with. I thought to myself, I guess they were going to get a lot of money for hiring all of us.  

Now that I think about it, it was only us girls—me and those girls who were in for the same thing, assault.” Once again, he stopped writing and looked at me. I think he must think I was a bit naive for not seeing the red flags, and maybe he was right. But we all make mistakes, especially when we want something so bad. He was just looking at me. ‘Was he feeling sorry for me? I held his stare, but for a moment I was no longer in jail. I was staring at this cute guy. Moments like those are for those who society isn’t out to get; my chances died the day I was caught. He spoke up, “And you didn’t think it was strange? That the only people were you and some other girls, all who had been in jail?” I just shook my head up and down in agreement. I saw those beautiful blue eyes, hidden behind those horn-rimmed glasses. I didn’t have the time to get lost in some guy's eyes, as beautiful as they might have been. I sat back, and the hard, cold plastic chair was a constant reminder of where I was, and time was growing short.

“I guess they had us all pegged from the jump—a bunch of girls who were looking to make some quick cash. But I did think back to the fact that they were holding the interview in an old abandoned house. Then there was no paperwork, and we were told we would be paid under the table to keep Uncle Sam from taking all our profits. All that sounded good to me; Uncle Sam never did me any favors.”.

“I was beginning to piece together some things. You know as much office equipment as we took out of the building. We should have been getting paid way more. And why would a detective be taking out office equipment and loading it on U-Haul trucks? But we asked no questions; we just did what we were told. We probably would still be doing it if the real security officers hadn’t spotted us. Then we all got caught and sent to jail, even the people who had hired crooks.”

“Five more minutes,” said a new lady. I looked back behind me to see which one it was now.  This female guard was more feminine, more girly. She had a soft voice; she always smelled like lilacs or gardenias. She had a way about herself; I wonder how she held on to her feminine side working in a place like this. As I turned back to face the reporter guy, he was looking at the female guard. She was pretty, even wearing a uniform; her curves were not hidden at all. I guess he appreciates a woman looking like a woman. Then he starts to gather up his stuff. He picks up his recorder and turns it off. Gather up his notes and pens to put them in a brown leather backpack; it looked expensive. As he continued to gather up his stuff, I just sat and watched him.

“I believe I have all I need, so I won’t be coming back. But I do thank you for letting me hear your story. Thank you so much for your time.” I just sat there looking at him. ‘He thanked me for my time. It’s not like I had somewhere to be, but I still watched him get ready to leave. He went out the door, then, I was tapped on the shoulder by the guard. “Let’s go; your time is up.”

About a month later I got an envelope; I never cared about mail. Who’s going to send me anything? But I did get a letter; it was from him; I know because he worked for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution inside it was a copy of his story. He mentions crime and how the changes in society can either make or break people. How do a lot of people feel overlooked in the system?

It wasn’t that I was a bad person, just a little angry because of a lot of bad breaks I had gotten.  It’s never too late to turn your life around if you truly want to. And if one person believes in you, then anything is possible. I felt good, I had a new lease on life, and for the first time, I felt encouraged, inspired, and renewed hope. My destiny was not based on what happened in the past, but on which way I’m going in the future. It was time for a change, and I had nothing but time to work on it. Maybe being locked up is just what I needed; I have time to start again.

Then a few days later I was locked up in 'the hole'. Some new girl came in and tried to sit at my table, where I always sit. I took my metal tray and knocked her off that stool, and then I continued to beat her until the guards pulled me off of her. Law of the jungle: either become a victim or be the victor. I was still at the top of my game. And no one comes up against me or sits in my spot without paying the price.

A new female guard said that the girl I assaulted died, and so now I may go to the gas chamber or prison for life. Someone is always against me, even when I try to make a change. It's not my fault, someone is always making me do something. It's not my fault.