It smells like stale rolled cigarettes and bitter cold air in here. The knuckles of my hands turning white as I try and warm them, which is kind of impossible. I'll have to wait for a breath of warm air, hopefully the court house cells are warmer then last time. I'll know we've arrived when the light goes dark, and the wagon is covered by the shadow of the underground parking garage. I'll hear the raising of barred doors and the slamming of metal doors. I'll hear the cops say their friendly hello's to so and so, and roll my eyes. I'll sit patiently and wait for the sound of keys. I can't wait to get out of this tiny stifling box. I need to breathe. Stepping out of the wagon I may trip over my chains, and get the rough under arm grab to help steady me. He'll say something smart like, Haven't you gotten used to the cuffs yet?? harr..harr..asshole.The cop at the entrance way will recognize me as we pass through and into the holding area. Feels like I go to court every week, damn reprimands.
Last time I was here, I spent a total of 9 hours sitting in the cells. Alone. I'm not complaining, I know I deserve to be here, but it sucks. It sucks because it's so effing cold down here. The kind of cold you just can't get rid of. It sticks in your bones, making you ache and shiver. I hate it. I imagine all the other people upstairs. The people out on bail, sitting in the cafeteria, eating salad and egg sandwiches. Jealous. I picture them smoking outside with a coffee. Knowing, it's likely they will be going home today regardless. I won't be. I'll be going right back into the damn awful paddy wagon. Back to the dorm. To the women. To the community shower and strip searches.
The best part of being at the court house, is the sandwiches. Wow. Ain't that sad? The highlight of my day is a cheese sandwich. Butter and cheese. Amazing, I'll have to write home about this. Oh, wait, I don't HAVE one. I flash back to one year ago, flipping through memories.I'm here. I'm wearing a beige dress coat and a white colored shirt. I wore my glasses today, and the prosecuting lawyer will say I did it to look innocent, and call my bluff. Dick. I've been escorted from upstairs, to down here in the cells. I wasn't expecting it. I'll be waiting here for a few hours. The court house is like the hospital, in the sense that you'll be seen whenever somebody feels like it. As in, hey, sit here forever while I make you a non priority. Obviously, I'm a criminal. I've been sent down here for a very particular reason. DNA. They want mine.
The man who will do this for me is shocked when he sees me. Taking a long minute to stare into my face, and proceed to tell me I'm the first women he's seen in eight years. He'll tell me I'm beautiful and don't belong here, he'll go so far as to tell me he's very sorry when he pricks my finger for a blood sample. He seems almost shaken at this, and I begin to feel again. I'm reminded of my circumstances, but the tears won't come. I've learned to keep it simple, and keep it locked. I've learned that tears and feelings don't do you a damn good in a place like this. I've learned that, just because someone doesn't believe you should be here, you are. I've accepted, that I SHOULD be here. Take my blood, take my hair. Let me go. I don't care anymore. I really do not f**king care anymore. About anything. About me, about my life, about the people who claim to love me. I'm gone. Let me disappear. The only difference between this day, and the day I started this blog off with, is one thing. I became hard, callous. Built some damn thick concrete walls around this heart. Became anchored in my rage. Rooted in my numbness. It will take me years to destroy those ever raising walls. Most of them uniting to be healed by the words I publish in this blog. By sharing with you, by letting the secrets out. Giving them space to run around and find a place for themselves in this world. That I don't have to carry this anymore, but I can hand it out to each one of you, to do with it as you please. Thank you for accepting my patchy, fervent memoirs...
Another court date crossed of the list of many more to come, and the chains are back. Hi, chains. I hate you. It's hard not to feel like gutter trash when your feet and hands are tied together by clanging metal. As the cop places his hand over your pulled back hair, to help guide you back into that small suffocating, cold box. Where your ass freezes through the green track pants and you shove your aching hands in between your thighs in a pathetic attempt to keep warm. You hear the engine rev, and feel the tires begin to turn you towards your ever waking nightmare. Your body weaving back and forth. The sketchy self proclaimed graffiti on the inner walls of the wagon. Your toes freezing in the navy blue vans that you were assigned the day you arrived at the Concrete Motel...trendy. Another day knocked off the never ending calender of jail time.....
I really hope the man in black sentences me soon...I need an end.
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