Greetings from the Outside

The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. She watched, sombre in black, as I was taken away from the court. The room had been deathly silent as we left; the guards to the side, front and back, staring into middle distance. I took on their expression as we marched the corridors and as disassociated themselves with me, I joined them in their vacancy.

I had mastered the look over time; devoid of emotion in order to survive. They called me ‘the ghost’ but never to my face, on the inside only the trusted had the right to own their nickname. A ghost I was, even in the mirror, a palid, shadow of the person I had been. I drifted from my cell to my duties and seeming to appear in a room without entering it I was known to frighten the more superstitious inmates, crossing themselves and glancing at the walls. They joked, why stay in here if you can walk through walls?

I stayed because I had to; there was no magic in that. Now I was being released, back into the sunlight, to become solid and tangible all over again.

I had not been effective out in the world, did not understand the rules I was expected to follow. Inside I had learnt to be a chameleon and I hoped this would provide the shielding I needed to function in the world. I could float in and out of the shadows as I pleased, blend into the walls and fade into the distance. This was what prison had taught me.

As they prepared my belongings I stood calmly, rocking on my heels. They had arranged for a place to stay for a couple of nights, an address scribbled on the back of my paperwork. I would make my way there, used to sleeping in discomfort I had no real needs. I had no plans for the future and my chameleon skin was the only change in me. I hoped to be more successful, that was all.

There was no bright sunlight to blind me as I stepped out into the open, but there was a figure arms folded, leaning against the walls of the block. As I walked past, the figure pushed off and began to keep pace behind me. Staring straight ahead, keeping my stride steady I walked on, but I could hear the footsteps behind, tapping out my rhythm, saying ‘I know you’ with every beat.

Marching round a corner I collided with a young man, who scowled, muttered and carried on. The footsteps behind had stopped with mine and I could see the figure, without turning, I could see its arms unfolding, hands resting on its hips. I imagined the shape of its body, rounded and stern, legs spread in reprimand.

It no longer mattered that I was a chameleon, the intangible ghost; nothing could compel me to move forward. Softly I turned and ran, as a child with a grazed knee would, directly into the waiting arms of my mother.