Read Online September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series by A.R. Rivera - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: A.R. Rivera
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new strangers
what happened won’t help anything. It never made a difference
before and nothing with me or my case has changed so, I don’t see
what’s so unique about right now. But this is how it goes for me: I
have to do what they tell me.
My lawyer showed up at Canyon View a
couple months ago, trying to tell me that I had to appear in front
of this review board, even though it’s only been a few months since
the previous appeal was denied. Obviously, it’s to review my
case—like that’s never been done before. But he swears there’s a
good reason for it and that it’s in my best interest to play
along.
I don’t know why the state
wastes its’ time or money on this shit. No matter what I tell them,
no matter how much truth I give them, it can’t make a difference. I
am convicted; have been for the past six years. But I still have to
talk to them because it’s all about the routine. Making sure every
T is crossed so they can pat themselves on the back and say, “We done good.”
Everything in these places is routine.
You wake up every day at the same time and go to bed at the same
time. Your meals are all planned out and served up at the same time
on the same day of a different week. You wear the same clothes,
sleep in the same bed. And if you’re not in your cell when the need
strikes, you have to ask to go to the bathroom. They usually make
me hold it.
This routine review comes
up every year. It starts with phone calls between doctors and the
lawyers. Then, a couple people request my presence at one place or
another. They tell me to revisit the places and people I’m dying to
forget, but never will. They want to know all about my relationship
with Avery—which is stupid because I don’t have one. Then, my
lawyer calls again or visits, and he’s always wearing a stupid
jacket. Even in August. Then, after a little more time passes, I
get a lengthy letter explaining why I don’t matter. They take three
pages to say what could easily be summed up in four words: you’re full of shit .
If the case reviewers do not come to
me, I have to go to them. That means waiting for the transfer order
to go through, before I get carted off to stand before the next set
of judges. Though, there are no robes or gavels in these hearings,
there is always judgment and a hefty price for reliving those
days.
This is how it is for me: I am
confined by their rules.
I hate seeing it. Not that I don’t,
because I do. Constantly. Vividly. My memories have never stayed
shut up in that box. They constantly flail around me, like small
birds caught up in a heavy gust of wind. Or dust particles from the
musty air vents.
Every day is the same as the one
before, except now, I have to take everything I have internalized
and spew about how and why I came to be the monster. A number on a
shirt. A problem on a sheet of paper. It’s because my life is
fucked beyond belief, because nobody I knew ever really gave a
shit, except the people I destroyed, and the ones that destroyed
me. Why do they want me to clarify the difference between what was
and is when no matter what I say, they tell me it doesn’t
matter?
I meditate on the question, slowly
drifting into oblivion.
+ + +
9
— Avery
My right hand glides along the smooth
wall of my cell as I pace. It’s already late. The day has
completely disappeared. Not that it matters. Every day blends into
the next when you’ve got nothing to do. Every moment plays out like
the one before. No appointments, no one to talk to, nothing to do
or look forward to. Nothing to distinguish Monday from Friday, just
a ghostly nothing, no matter the time of day or night.
Its five long strides from one corner
of my box to the other. On the last step, I pivot, snapping back
around to walk toward the opposite corner, my left hand now
scraping along the dull wall.
As my body moves back and forth along
the wall, I force my mind roll back to another time, another
place—a moment when the possibility of
what happened won’t help anything. It never made a difference
before and nothing with me or my case has changed so, I don’t see
what’s so unique about right now. But this is how it goes for me: I
have to do what they tell me.
My lawyer showed up at Canyon View a
couple months ago, trying to tell me that I had to appear in front
of this review board, even though it’s only been a few months since
the previous appeal was denied. Obviously, it’s to review my
case—like that’s never been done before. But he swears there’s a
good reason for it and that it’s in my best interest to play
along.
I don’t know why the state
wastes its’ time or money on this shit. No matter what I tell them,
no matter how much truth I give them, it can’t make a difference. I
am convicted; have been for the past six years. But I still have to
talk to them because it’s all about the routine. Making sure every
T is crossed so they can pat themselves on the back and say, “We done good.”
Everything in these places is routine.
You wake up every day at the same time and go to bed at the same
time. Your meals are all planned out and served up at the same time
on the same day of a different week. You wear the same clothes,
sleep in the same bed. And if you’re not in your cell when the need
strikes, you have to ask to go to the bathroom. They usually make
me hold it.
This routine review comes
up every year. It starts with phone calls between doctors and the
lawyers. Then, a couple people request my presence at one place or
another. They tell me to revisit the places and people I’m dying to
forget, but never will. They want to know all about my relationship
with Avery—which is stupid because I don’t have one. Then, my
lawyer calls again or visits, and he’s always wearing a stupid
jacket. Even in August. Then, after a little more time passes, I
get a lengthy letter explaining why I don’t matter. They take three
pages to say what could easily be summed up in four words: you’re full of shit .
If the case reviewers do not come to
me, I have to go to them. That means waiting for the transfer order
to go through, before I get carted off to stand before the next set
of judges. Though, there are no robes or gavels in these hearings,
there is always judgment and a hefty price for reliving those
days.
This is how it is for me: I am
confined by their rules.
I hate seeing it. Not that I don’t,
because I do. Constantly. Vividly. My memories have never stayed
shut up in that box. They constantly flail around me, like small
birds caught up in a heavy gust of wind. Or dust particles from the
musty air vents.
Every day is the same as the one
before, except now, I have to take everything I have internalized
and spew about how and why I came to be the monster. A number on a
shirt. A problem on a sheet of paper. It’s because my life is
fucked beyond belief, because nobody I knew ever really gave a
shit, except the people I destroyed, and the ones that destroyed
me. Why do they want me to clarify the difference between what was
and is when no matter what I say, they tell me it doesn’t
matter?
I meditate on the question, slowly
drifting into oblivion.
+ + +
9
— Avery
My right hand glides along the smooth
wall of my cell as I pace. It’s already late. The day has
completely disappeared. Not that it matters. Every day blends into
the next when you’ve got nothing to do. Every moment plays out like
the one before. No appointments, no one to talk to, nothing to do
or look forward to. Nothing to distinguish Monday from Friday, just
a ghostly nothing, no matter the time of day or night.
Its five long strides from one corner
of my box to the other. On the last step, I pivot, snapping back
around to walk toward the opposite corner, my left hand now
scraping along the dull wall.
As my body moves back and forth along
the wall, I force my mind roll back to another time, another
place—a moment when the possibility of
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