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Mark sat next to his lawyer in the court room, resplendent in his bottle-green remand centre tracksuit and feeling like he hadn’t slept in years, though it had only been a few months. The magistrate judge had only looked at him twice since the session had started, and Mark wondered why he bothered sitting in here at all if the judge was going to treat him like such a non entity.
The Prosecutor and Mark’s lawyer spoke in turns for what seemed like hours, but none of it made sense to Mark, and all he heard through his tired ears were blurred sounds. It was if he were stuck in the middle of an impossible nightmare, and he wanted to wake up and go home. He tried hard to tune in to what was going on around him but just couldn’t, no matter how hard he concentrated. Only when his lawyer tapped him on the shoulder to stand as the judge left the court did he finally respond to anything that was going on. His lawyer rolled his eyes at Mark’s dazed countenance, and practically pushed him out of the court into the holding room.
“Christ, Mark, did you listen to anything in there?”
“Oh come on! I haven’t slept for ages, and you blokes just rave on in that legal guff of yours, how am I supposed to know what’s going on?”
“That’s your life we’re discussing in there, Mark. You can at least try to understand what’s going on.”
“I was trying, believe me, but I just …” Mark slumped against the wall, exhausted and confused. He just wanted to sleep for as long as it took until all this was over and he could be home again.
“I’ll tell you then. The judge has accepted your guilty plea, of course, but isn’t keen on sending you to hospital to see out your sentence. He’s not a big fan of psychiatry reports, this judge, but it was worth a try. You’ll still get therapy in prison but …”
“Prison … I’m going to prison …” Mark said softly.
“Yes, Mark, you are. You’ll be sentenced in two weeks, during which time you’ll stay at the remand centre again, and then you will probably be transferred to …”
“Oh god …” Mark whimpered. He broke down crying, sagging to his knees. His lawyer just stood and watched him, all too familiar with this response and somewhat
desensitized to it. He let Mark get it out, knowing that the true reality wouldn’t hit him until he was actually in a real prison, far away from home, housed with prisoners who took little mercy on others.
“Look, Mark, if it’s any consolation, you won’t have a really long sentence I’m sure. First offence, you’ll probably respond to therapy, you’ll probably be able to go for parole in …”
“Oh god, what’s the point? I’ll never get parole, I’ll never get out, this is it, I’m going to die in there …”
“Come on, Mark, don’t be so melodramatic. I know the success rate for rehabilitation in this country isn’t fantastic but if you do your bit and try, it could work for you and …”
But Mark kept sobbing and eventually had to be carried away crying by two court officers and placed in the wagon to go back to the remand centre. By the time he got there he was exhausted in every way, and again had to be carried back to his cell. He lay on his bed in silence, staring at nothing but unable to close his eyes. He knew if he slept, he would dream, and if he dreamt, he would have nightmares about the night that got him here in the first place. His life was enough of a nightmare right now, he didn’t need those dreams. But, exhausted, his eyes closed anyway and the only thing he could do then was wish, by some miracle, that tomorrow would be better.
© Cynthia M. Piromalli
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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