Prison Diaries #5 - "Don't Leave Until I Sing To You"
"Don't Leave Until I Sing To You, Ok?"
A girl, sitting in a glass box, singing quietly so no one but me can hear her. "Wait, don't go yet, do you have to go? Can't you stay another 15 minutes, I want to sing you some of my songs." A little girls voice, acapella, perfect pitch, singing homages to treatment centres and prison cells. Song lilting up to the concrete ceiling in a cell built to mute things like songs and cheerful sounds. Did you know you're not allowed to whistle in jail, because it sounds like bird song and birds are free, so prisoners don't do it or let each other do it? But she's not whistling, she's singing and there's no one in this room but me to know it. A guard, standing outside, raps on the glass behind her, saying, "You gotta finish up, we need that room." She doesn't flinch, doesn't turn around at the pounding on the glass, doesn't even acknowledge he's there. Her song just trails off as she looks down and closes her book full of lyrics with bright yellow sunflowers on the cover. "Ok, I'll sing for you when you come back next week. What time will you be here? See me first, ok?"
"There's Something In The Walls, Do You Think I'll Get Out?"
A girl, jumping from thought to thought, disconnected: "Do you think I'll get out on Friday? I think I could get out on Friday, do you think they'll give me time served? My lawyer's coming, I'll only talk to you and my lawyer, people in here, they tell things to the government, I know how it works. But I'm not crazy, I'm fine, I know I'm fine. Did I tell you it's my brothers first communion next week? I'm so happy for him. No, seriously, do you think I'll get out on Friday? They make the walls creak in here on purpose to mess with our heads and make us think we're crazy but I know I'm fine, do you like my new socks? They have bears on them, so that's ok, and I'm not crazy, I was talking to myself but I'm going to stop because maybe they'll tell things to the government, the courts and keep me here even longer because they try to say I'm a headcase. Can they do that? I'm not crazy, I know I'm normal, I just talked to myself because they lock me up with no one to talk to and you can't say anything in here without getting sent to the hole anyway. Can they do that, keep me here longer? That's what I wanted to ask you, is can they do that? 'Cause I'm not crazy, I don't answer myself. Do I look fat to you? I think I'll get out, do you think they'll let me out? Time served, I could get time served, right? How much is two thirds? Did I tell you my lawyer's coming?"
"God Doesn't Give Us Things We Can't Handle"
A girl, crying, just got a test back. "I'm 15, I don't want to have a baby, I had everything set up to get my life on track when I get out. But my family says God doesn't give us things we can't handle so I can't have an abortion, they'd kill me, they'd never speak to me again. But I know they won't let me come home once they find out I'm pregnant. I was supposed to be starting my new life, and I really thought maybe I could make it this time, how can I have a baby? Where will I live? No one will help me, but "god doesn't give you things you can't handle", right? I really don't feel like I can handle this. I can't even take care of myself." [And I, the world's most devout atheist, say words I never thought would come out of my mouth, "I won't pretend to be religious, but I wonder if maybe that saying means God doesn't give us choices we can't handle." Fuckin' inspired - I don't even know where that came from.]
"Yeah, It's Time To Go. Maybe I Should Take Some Of Them With Me."
A girl going mad before my eyes. Curled up on the linoleum, sobbing, then laughing hysterically, then raging and punching and prowling the room like a caged tiger. One voice, then another, her face changing as different personalities speak using her mouth. Witnessing the complete disintegration of a person, madness, heading into violence, and suddenly I realize she has brought weapons into the room with her when she threatens to turn them on herself, and when she looks through me in fury it's like she doesn't know who I am. Me, feeling a moment of fear for only the second time in 8 years, but then it passes as I tell her to stop and she does. She describes her plan to kill herself later, starts to say goodbye, thank you for everything, you've done a lot for me. Hours later I don't know if she's still alive, according to the plan she should have done it by now, but I've heard nothing. Perhaps I won't, perhaps I'll read it in the paper with everyone else or maybe I'll get a phone call. Maybe I'll just never hear from her again.
A girl, sitting in a glass box, singing quietly so no one but me can hear her. "Wait, don't go yet, do you have to go? Can't you stay another 15 minutes, I want to sing you some of my songs." A little girls voice, acapella, perfect pitch, singing homages to treatment centres and prison cells. Song lilting up to the concrete ceiling in a cell built to mute things like songs and cheerful sounds. Did you know you're not allowed to whistle in jail, because it sounds like bird song and birds are free, so prisoners don't do it or let each other do it? But she's not whistling, she's singing and there's no one in this room but me to know it. A guard, standing outside, raps on the glass behind her, saying, "You gotta finish up, we need that room." She doesn't flinch, doesn't turn around at the pounding on the glass, doesn't even acknowledge he's there. Her song just trails off as she looks down and closes her book full of lyrics with bright yellow sunflowers on the cover. "Ok, I'll sing for you when you come back next week. What time will you be here? See me first, ok?"
"There's Something In The Walls, Do You Think I'll Get Out?"
A girl, jumping from thought to thought, disconnected: "Do you think I'll get out on Friday? I think I could get out on Friday, do you think they'll give me time served? My lawyer's coming, I'll only talk to you and my lawyer, people in here, they tell things to the government, I know how it works. But I'm not crazy, I'm fine, I know I'm fine. Did I tell you it's my brothers first communion next week? I'm so happy for him. No, seriously, do you think I'll get out on Friday? They make the walls creak in here on purpose to mess with our heads and make us think we're crazy but I know I'm fine, do you like my new socks? They have bears on them, so that's ok, and I'm not crazy, I was talking to myself but I'm going to stop because maybe they'll tell things to the government, the courts and keep me here even longer because they try to say I'm a headcase. Can they do that? I'm not crazy, I know I'm normal, I just talked to myself because they lock me up with no one to talk to and you can't say anything in here without getting sent to the hole anyway. Can they do that, keep me here longer? That's what I wanted to ask you, is can they do that? 'Cause I'm not crazy, I don't answer myself. Do I look fat to you? I think I'll get out, do you think they'll let me out? Time served, I could get time served, right? How much is two thirds? Did I tell you my lawyer's coming?"
"God Doesn't Give Us Things We Can't Handle"
A girl, crying, just got a test back. "I'm 15, I don't want to have a baby, I had everything set up to get my life on track when I get out. But my family says God doesn't give us things we can't handle so I can't have an abortion, they'd kill me, they'd never speak to me again. But I know they won't let me come home once they find out I'm pregnant. I was supposed to be starting my new life, and I really thought maybe I could make it this time, how can I have a baby? Where will I live? No one will help me, but "god doesn't give you things you can't handle", right? I really don't feel like I can handle this. I can't even take care of myself." [And I, the world's most devout atheist, say words I never thought would come out of my mouth, "I won't pretend to be religious, but I wonder if maybe that saying means God doesn't give us choices we can't handle." Fuckin' inspired - I don't even know where that came from.]
"Yeah, It's Time To Go. Maybe I Should Take Some Of Them With Me."
A girl going mad before my eyes. Curled up on the linoleum, sobbing, then laughing hysterically, then raging and punching and prowling the room like a caged tiger. One voice, then another, her face changing as different personalities speak using her mouth. Witnessing the complete disintegration of a person, madness, heading into violence, and suddenly I realize she has brought weapons into the room with her when she threatens to turn them on herself, and when she looks through me in fury it's like she doesn't know who I am. Me, feeling a moment of fear for only the second time in 8 years, but then it passes as I tell her to stop and she does. She describes her plan to kill herself later, starts to say goodbye, thank you for everything, you've done a lot for me. Hours later I don't know if she's still alive, according to the plan she should have done it by now, but I've heard nothing. Perhaps I won't, perhaps I'll read it in the paper with everyone else or maybe I'll get a phone call. Maybe I'll just never hear from her again.
posted by Crowbar at 11:21 a.m.
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