in pain and close to dying. His cell mate stands at the bars, smoking a cigarette, indifferent. It’s a depiction of something that really happened, something I actually witnessed.
There’s another sketch in my book, done in oil pastels. It’s of an inmate shooting up. The soft, muted colors contrast so perfectly with the vulgarity of the subject matter. It’s more than just a picture of a man jamming a needle into his vein. I saw scenes like that every day, so with this sketch I took artistic liberties.
The cell walls around this chemically blissed-out inmate are peeling back, revealing five beautiful angels with halos and harps. But the angels are naked, their poses pornographic. And the caption, scrolled on a cloud, reads: simply heaven .
I fully expected Father Maridale to throw the sketchbook in my face and condemn me to hell. Rescind his job offer, for sure.
But he did none of those things. Instead, he told me I had a gift from God. He said art was subjective, so he’d not offer an opinion on the subject matter. But he did say he’d prefer to see me use my talent to do things like touch up the Holy Trinity fresco in the church, and maybe paint a nice mural over in the school.
“But nothing like that,” he joked, nodding to the sketchbook as he handed it back.
“Of course not, Father,” I replied, appalled he’d even joke about such a thing.
He asked me again if I wanted the job, and this time I said, “Yes, absolutely. I promise you I’ll give it my best shot.”
I then thanked him for giving me a chance.
“Don’t disappoint me,” he warned when he stood to leave.
“I won’t.”
They say you can’t go home again, but here I am. Back where I started. Oh, and the farmhouse, you may ask. It’s still antique white. The shutters? Still country twilight blue. When I first walked up the wide porch steps, four years of my life gone forever, it took everything I had to hold it together. Never again , I thought. Now that I’m out—devouring every day and feasting on freedom—I can never go back. I would die first. And that’s why keeping my life on track is so fucking important.
The rain picks up as I round a bend, the truck swings out. I slow it down a bit. All this reminiscing has me pressing my foot to the gas, harder than necessary.
The stone bell tower and the wooden cross atop the slate steeple of the church come into view. I’ve almost reached my destination.
As I turn the wipers up a notch, my heart rate increases, in tandem with the blades. Swish, swish. Beat, beat. Along with my in-synch heart rate, images from last night start to flip through my head, like grainy cells of film.
Missy’s hand migrating to my thigh… flip …
Missy slowly turning toward me, smiling like the proverbial fox in a henhouse… flip …
And then I see why.
Missy, the devil in disguise, tilts her open purse my way… flip …
I see what she wants to me to see. How can I miss it? A little plastic packet nestled in the bottom, half-filled with white powder… fucking flip …
“Want some?” Missy asked, nodding to the cocaine in her bag.
That shit still calls to me—and last night was no exception—even though I haven’t touched it in years. But if I do it once it will only lead to more. There is nothing to stop me. I don’t know if any of my new reasons for being are strong enough to quell the demon that lurks just underneath, waiting. I can’t let that monster loose, not ever again.
I scrubbed my hand down my face. Get it together, Chase , I said to myself.
To Missy, I said, “It’s probably not a good idea.”
“Suit yourself,” she replied with a shrug, snapping her bag shut and wiping at her nose.
Missy leaned in close. She slid her hand up my thigh, and whispered, “A bad boy like you…” She squeezed and trailed higher. “I thought you’d be more fun.”
I chuckled a little and lifted my beer. “Sorry to disappoint,” I muttered into the neck of the bottle.
With one
There’s another sketch in my book, done in oil pastels. It’s of an inmate shooting up. The soft, muted colors contrast so perfectly with the vulgarity of the subject matter. It’s more than just a picture of a man jamming a needle into his vein. I saw scenes like that every day, so with this sketch I took artistic liberties.
The cell walls around this chemically blissed-out inmate are peeling back, revealing five beautiful angels with halos and harps. But the angels are naked, their poses pornographic. And the caption, scrolled on a cloud, reads: simply heaven .
I fully expected Father Maridale to throw the sketchbook in my face and condemn me to hell. Rescind his job offer, for sure.
But he did none of those things. Instead, he told me I had a gift from God. He said art was subjective, so he’d not offer an opinion on the subject matter. But he did say he’d prefer to see me use my talent to do things like touch up the Holy Trinity fresco in the church, and maybe paint a nice mural over in the school.
“But nothing like that,” he joked, nodding to the sketchbook as he handed it back.
“Of course not, Father,” I replied, appalled he’d even joke about such a thing.
He asked me again if I wanted the job, and this time I said, “Yes, absolutely. I promise you I’ll give it my best shot.”
I then thanked him for giving me a chance.
“Don’t disappoint me,” he warned when he stood to leave.
“I won’t.”
They say you can’t go home again, but here I am. Back where I started. Oh, and the farmhouse, you may ask. It’s still antique white. The shutters? Still country twilight blue. When I first walked up the wide porch steps, four years of my life gone forever, it took everything I had to hold it together. Never again , I thought. Now that I’m out—devouring every day and feasting on freedom—I can never go back. I would die first. And that’s why keeping my life on track is so fucking important.
The rain picks up as I round a bend, the truck swings out. I slow it down a bit. All this reminiscing has me pressing my foot to the gas, harder than necessary.
The stone bell tower and the wooden cross atop the slate steeple of the church come into view. I’ve almost reached my destination.
As I turn the wipers up a notch, my heart rate increases, in tandem with the blades. Swish, swish. Beat, beat. Along with my in-synch heart rate, images from last night start to flip through my head, like grainy cells of film.
Missy’s hand migrating to my thigh… flip …
Missy slowly turning toward me, smiling like the proverbial fox in a henhouse… flip …
And then I see why.
Missy, the devil in disguise, tilts her open purse my way… flip …
I see what she wants to me to see. How can I miss it? A little plastic packet nestled in the bottom, half-filled with white powder… fucking flip …
“Want some?” Missy asked, nodding to the cocaine in her bag.
That shit still calls to me—and last night was no exception—even though I haven’t touched it in years. But if I do it once it will only lead to more. There is nothing to stop me. I don’t know if any of my new reasons for being are strong enough to quell the demon that lurks just underneath, waiting. I can’t let that monster loose, not ever again.
I scrubbed my hand down my face. Get it together, Chase , I said to myself.
To Missy, I said, “It’s probably not a good idea.”
“Suit yourself,” she replied with a shrug, snapping her bag shut and wiping at her nose.
Missy leaned in close. She slid her hand up my thigh, and whispered, “A bad boy like you…” She squeezed and trailed higher. “I thought you’d be more fun.”
I chuckled a little and lifted my beer. “Sorry to disappoint,” I muttered into the neck of the bottle.
With one
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