Copyright © 2011 Kirsty Moseley
All rights reserved.
COPYRIGHT: This story, "Fighting to be free" including all chapters, prologues/epilogues and associated content (i.e fanfics, teasers and content within blogs, social networks and eReaders) is copyrighted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights are reserved by the owner and creator of this work (KE Moseley) and any unauthorised copying, broadcasting, manipulation, distribution or selling of this work constitutes as an infringement of copyright. Any infringement of this copyright is punishable by law.
I walked into the dull little office, "Have a seat," the guy barked not even looking up from his desk, I rolled my eyes and sat down on the old frayed chair. He was scribbling on a form, so I waited patiently looking around the little room. It was painted a dirty cream colour, it was boring, plain and the only furniture was filing cabinets and the desk, it was dank, dark and for some reason smelled like cat's piss. Surely this guy must be suffering from some sort of depression working in here all day! The room literally felt like it was sucking the life out of me.
Part of me couldn't wait to get out of this place, but to be honest in another way I didn't want to leave. I had been here for just over four years, most of the people that were in here cried themselves to sleep and wished they were anywhere but here, but I knew of a worse place. This place was actually the best place I had ever lived in my life. I had a small amount of freedom, a TV we could watch, a gym - yeah ok it was poorly stocked but hey still we had one - we had a few board games, plenty of time to hang out with my friends.
Yeah, there were down sides too, like trying to stay out of trouble, staying the hell away from the gangs and rapists, set time for lights out, the food was awful, but it could be worse, I could have still been in the place I used to call home. This place saved me and I was hoping that it had changed my life, had given me a fighting chance. I didn't want to go back to my life before all this happened, I couldn't live my life the way I used to, I was determined to change.
Finally he glanced up at me, looking bored, "Right so, Jamie Cole, four years two months, on kitchen duty at $1 a day means the state now owes you $1520," the guy said tapping on a calculator. Wow, ok $1520 is not going to very last long!
"Ok thanks." I nodded trying to be polite. I don't think he bought it though, I think he thought I was being sarcastic. His jaw tightened as he narrowed his eyes at me.
"Your accommodation has been arranged for you, it's a bed-sit block specifically built for rehabilitating cons, so you should fit in well there." He shrugged, turning his nose up.
Rude freaking asshole! I clamped my jaw tight not wanting to say anything that would get me in trouble. I was eager for my new life, starting a row with this balding little fucker wouldn't be an idea way to start going straight.
"Sounds awesome," I lied quietly. I wanted to ask him to just give me the money so I could leave, but I held my tongue.
"It's not. It costs $50 a week. It's not a nice place so if I were you I would look for a job and get the hell out of there as quickly as you can," he said, frowning slightly. Not a nice place? Ok great that is so not a good sign, but I guess I wasn't really expecting the Ritz! "I'm your parole officer, Stuart Mitchell. I need to see you once a week, every Thursday at five, at the address here on this card. You understand?" he asked, looking at me like I was stupid as he handed me a business card.
I nodded, "Yeah, I got it." Could this guy be any more condescending?
"Well good, because if you're late even once you'll be straight back inside. You're over 18 now so it won't be juvie like you're used to, it'll be with the big boys," he said, looking at me warningly. Yeah I got it, address on the card, Thursday five o'clock, don't be late, right! "I don't set up jobs you'll have to do that on your own and you're going to have your work cut out for you even getting an interview, people don't look too kindly on convicted murderers," he said a small smile playing on the edge of his lips. Yeah I freaking bet they didn't look too kindly on it, that's why I didn't plan on telling anyone.