A Story I Once Wrote

Hello there. I often feel like a writer without a pen, so feel honoured that I am displaying to you the only veiled sense of achievement I have ever had in any writing I have done. I wrote this two years ago for my GCSE English Language coursework and it truly is the only veiled success I have ever had in this field; largely because I managed to complete it and ultimately achieve what I aimed to.

It's a short story, it won't take long. But I realise nobody reads this blog and thus expect even fewer than nobody to spare the time to read it. I'm not really sure how to introduce it, but if anybody does spare the time to read it then I would be grateful for any thoughts, even though they may be two years too late. To be honest I'd just be delighted you'd spared the time.

Thanks.

Tainted Justice

My name is Benjamin James and I’ve been stuck in this hellhole for 2 years now, but it feels like an eternity already. My story is not a happy one, nor is it sad, as feelings are no more than words to me now. I don’t expect you to pity me, or understand me, but this is my story, and it has been left untold and ignored for too long now.

On the 5th October 2005 I was sentenced to 5 years in jail; I may have got less had I been able to afford a lawyer. To say that that my world collapsed on that day is an understatement- it disappeared entirely. That past life of mine is gone now, and I desperately try to grasp any reminder of the happiness that deserted me, but the remorseless punch line I face is that I can barely see that world anymore. I had a family- a wife and two daughters, but their faces evade me. In dreams I chase them, but they are always too far away. This sullen cell is my cage of self-pity and sorrow, and hope is but a jest at me, enticing me to believe in the impossible. I will get out of here one day, but that day means nothing as these bars are in my mind more so than they trap my body. Angela, my wife will never forgive me, and that is my sentence.

I worked as a cleaner and the pay wasn’t great but it was enough. Angela would stay at home and look after Louise and Emily, my daughters. They were 4 years old and 2 years old when I last saw them. The girls that I remember don’t even exist anymore, they’re just figures in my mind, lost in amongst my sadness and regrets. We were happy once, but that all changed. They both looked just like their mother, blond hair and eyes as blue as a summer’s sky. I remember so little of them, and I know that I haven’t been here that long, but my soul has been tainted by this bitter air I breathe, and my mind corrupted by these blinding walls, holding me in this cell with sadness as my company, treading alongside me like an unwanted shadow, bitter from the taste of the mocking sunlight.

I remember that sometimes I would get frustrated that I could give them all so little, when I loved them so much. Angela would always calm me, she used to say that I was enough, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t afford much for Louise and Emily, but I remember I gave them a bunny rabbit before I left. I don’t know what happened to that rabbit, I hope that it is a happy reminder, rather than a dragging curse of a past memory that Angela portrays me as. She loved me once, but now I am as much of a torment to her as this place is to me.

I am so scared. Before the trial I remember how nervous I was, frightened of how everything could change. I thought of everything I would miss and leave behind, and I realised how much weighed on one decision, so complex. I was alone then, like now. My family didn’t want me as a burden after what I’d done. That night still haunts me. At the time what I did didn’t seem like a decision, or a straightforward choice- it was an impulse of love as opposed to revenge.

I am limping forwards across the road. All I hear is the thumping of rain against the ground and my own deep breathing. Whilst everything seems so surreal, I struggle to keep my eyes open, but to my right I see my wife lying on the ground next to a battered blue car with a pool of blood around her, the taunting red not perturbed by the water rushing off the ground. The pace of my own rushing heart beat is hypnotic as I struggle forwards further, not knowing where my daughters are, or whether my wife is still alive, but assured by my mind that I know where I’m going, my impulses dragging me like a wounded soldier from battle, unknowing of the intentions or purpose to where I am going, but certain it is the correct way. My left leg is in agony, but I can’t draw the effort to scream or cry, the pain like knives stabbing at me as I force myself onwards. I don’t remember much of what happened, only the screeching of the car and a huge force crashing against me. It is then that I look forwards, my eyes struggling to focus, before I see him in front of me. He is holding one of my daughters, though I can’t tell which, as my eyes feel so weary. Mockingly he looks at her, she is not awake, but there is a wound from her arm bleeding onto his hands. Suddenly overcome with what is not anger, but an understanding that something is needed, an overwhelming lust for justice, I move faster towards him, the pain irrelevant. He looks up towards me, noticing the piercing glare in my eyes, but he still holds onto her. His eyes wander through fear before I reach him. Like a man possessed I hit him repeatedly, with no remorse or break. Everything is distorted; I can’t tell what is going on. The scene fades as my eyes close, before I hear the taunting of sirens, the wailing getting closer and closer.

That night a lawyer called John Boyd drove a car into my family and me. He was driven by hatred and revenge; his distorted perceptions inspired him to madness. Three months beforehand his wife had thrown herself in front of my car, in an attempt of suicide. She died that day. There was nothing that I could have done. It was on the freeway and there was nothing I could have changed. She had come from nowhere and had nothing on her mind but death. He had always blamed me and I don’t think he had ever dealt with his loss. I could only assume this was a twisted attempt of retribution, weighing up the scales of justice in his own sick mind. Ever since her death he sent me threatening letters and sometimes I caught him following me home from work. After he had drove the car into my family I had struggled up and hit him repeatedly. The court sentenced me with grievous bodily harm for 5 years imprisonment. I can’t remember what happened to him, maybe I’ve blocked it out, my mind has collapsed in here, but I don’t want to remember. That man is at fault for all this pain that I feel, and I blame him entirely.

I am standing in the courtroom. Everything looks grim and dull but I am not fazed, such is my trust in justice. In truth I enjoy the unimaginative nature of the room, I feel more alive in the straightforward manner of everything here. It is all so definite and precise, from the insipid brown of the bench to the verdict I face; only two words will I hear, but the implications are so severe on such a simple decision between words.

As I look down I see my perfectly aligned tie, a bleak black suit against the naïve white of my shirt. My arms are still, positioned at my sides, and my attire is so splendorous in its sombre appearance, smart against my composed upright figure. I find myself standing in an imposing manner, as if I am self-assured in my own recognition of my importance. As I turn I see a similarly smart man, dressed in another harsh black suit, and a resolute expression, calm and collected in such a nonchalant manner, returning my stare with no emotion to his face. Behind him is no one. The seats are vacated, but they only look as glum as myself. My family aren’t here, but I feel no more unconfident or dismayed, as I am at ease with the justice that I expect to prevail, like the first dawn of day against an eternity of darkness. To my left, on the other side of the court is a man, more scruffy, and his eyes painting the picture of worry and anguish he portrays. His suit is worn and grey, and he is sat in his seat alone fumbling with his hands, no doubt shaking through anxiety and fear.

I remember no more of that day. My family weren’t there to support me, and I was sent here. I broke down after that. I don’t deserve this; I have always been a good person. And now I am just a body with the life sucked out of me. I go on, but with no purpose or meaning, each day I contemplate my motive to breathe. Everything seems so dark here. There is no colour anymore, everything is so grim, and my mind only feels sorrow. Everything seems so bright outside that door, but I can’t leave. My story may be short and incomplete, but it is my story and I just need to tell it. Sometimes people listen to me, when I leave this cell for my diabetes jabs sometimes my voice gets heard. But not for long, I return here to my sadness each day and nothing changes.

I am sitting on the bed in my cell. The walls seem too bright for me; I prefer grim colours, colours that are definite and straightforward. A man is approaching the door. I can see his face through the tiny window. He is old, and wearing glasses. He looks into my cell but not at me. It’s as if he stares right through me. I can see his mouth moving- he is talking to someone, but I can’t hear him. He opens the door and he speaks to me. Everything seems so unfamiliar now, I am so used to being alone, only my thoughts understand me. But still he speaks.

“Mr. Boyd,” he says, stern enough to command my attention but soft enough to seem as if he cares.

I look up at him, as if to examine him, to see if he is trustworthy, but say nothing.

“Mr. Boyd, the doctor wants to see you,” he reiterates, before opening the door wider and staring at me, as if to encourage me to go with him.

“Is it for my diabetes jab?” I question the man, I have never seen him before and I don’t know whether or not to trust him, though I see no reason not to and there are no consequences that I could suffer.

He looks at me strangely, raising an eyebrow as if I had just said something silly, he doesn’t reply, but continues standing holding the door.

I follow the man out of my cell; he is wearing a white coat with a strange badge on the front. I cannot read it. He is holding a clipboard of papers but is clutching them to his chest. Another man steps out behind me, wearing green uniform, much younger and even sterner looking. I follow the older man down the narrow corridor, passing other doors as I go by, much similar to my own. We come to a door at the end of the corridor, the same as all the others- white to match the walls. The man puts his clipboard beneath his left arm and pushes a series of numbers on some kind of mechanism on the door. He pushes the door and it opens. I continue to follow him, the room is larger than my own, and it is squarer, with no bed but a table with two chairs in the middle. The younger man stops behind me, and stands in front of the door, as if to guard it. The older man sits down on the chair furthest away and gestures with his arm for me to sit down on the other chair. I am confused, I don’t know what is going on here, I have never seen this man before and yet he clearly wants something from me. I cautiously sit down on the chair, my hands held together on my lap and my back upright. The man leans closer, over the table and looks at me, not menacingly nor friendly, and he speaks to me once more.

“Mr. Boyd,” he states, slowly and calmly in an almost inquisitive fashion, but with no question asked.

“My name is Benjamin James,” I reply, correcting his mistake. Why would he call me that? He has never met me before so maybe he has got confused.

“No, your name is John Boyd,” he assures me, almost patronisingly, “And I would like to talk with you.”

“My name isn’t John Boyd”, I restate, my voice more stern and loud than before, though I still haven’t moved. “And I don’t know who you are. Who are you?”

“My name is Dr. Brown, we’ve been through this before.”

We hadn’t been through this before and I did not know this man. My eyes begin to wander around the room. The younger man is still standing by the door, but he doesn’t return my look. I look down at my lap, and see my hands. Suddenly they look so old and withered. I see wrinkles and they look so weak. I begin to breathe heavily, still in my seat, trying to maintain my collection.

“What have you done to me?” I say even more sternly, but as if I am just holding myself back from shouting.

“Mr. Boyd, I don’t know what you’re talking about. We haven’t done anything. I think it’s time for your jabs.”

“I don’t need my jabs, I need to know what you have done to me.”

“We haven’t done anything,” he replies, assuring in his tone but still seeming patronising. “Bill, bring the syringe,” he says more hastily, standing up and looking over to the younger man by the door. He responds and brings over a black Velcro bag. He opens it and reveals a wide range of syringes. I get up, in shock, standing petrified. In the bag I see a small mirror, I reach over the table and grab it, before staring at my own face, so old. I look at least 60, but I’m not, my name is Benjamin James and I’ve been in this hellhole for 2 years now.

It is now that I see it all. I don’t know whether it is shock or realisation, but suddenly everything makes sense. I am John Boyd. I am 60 years old and I have been in this mental institution for 30 years now. Every day I tell myself that I am Benjamin James, but I am not. I drove that car into him and his family, his wife stepped out to grab his daughters but she died in the process. He was holding his daughter when I attacked him again, more relentless in my lust for justice. He had taken her away from me, I didn’t deserve that pain, and I needed justice. Not revenge, but justice. I took them away from him like he had taken her away from me. I remember so little about that family because I did not know them. I followed him and sometimes I saw him with them. He did not earn that happiness. That happiness should have been mine. That man standing behind me in the courtroom was my lawyer, he had pleaded insanity and sent me here. I was a lawyer also, I served justice but I received none. I was young and intelligent, fair and good and I fought for justice. In this world there are two possibilities. There is black and white, right and wrong. Everything is straightforward and yet I was punished for maintaining the good and equality in this world.

“Mr. Boyd,” the older man is right in front of me. “It’s time for your injections.”

I sit down on the chair again as the man prepares the syringe.

“Are you ready, Mr. Boyd?”

“I was ready 30 years ago.”

“Excellent. Now this won’t hurt a bit.”

I feel the syringe dig into my arm, but I don’t scowl or flinch. I sit here once more and feel nothing.

My name is Benjamin James and I’ve been stuck in this hellhole for 2 years now, but it feels like an eternity already. My story is not a happy one, nor is it sad, as feelings are no more than words to me now. I don’t expect you to pity me, or understand me, but this is my story, and it has been left untold and ignored for too long now.