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Deranged From Birth (Chapter Two)
So that’s me. Free at long last. Back in mainstream society where I belong. Not stuck on a wing doing porridge for Her Majesty. Those days are gone. Been there, done that. Never again.
I was going to stop writing these daily memoirs once I left prison, but I’ve had a pure mental day and need to tell somebody about it. I actually only started writing to pass the time, six years to be exact, and to get me through my sentence. I mean, what’s life without one little enjoyment? I know guys in the jail who would kill themselves every day if they could. Not me though. I put my darkest thoughts on paper. Got me through. Now here I am. Free. Although, these are private notes so if you’re reading them it means I’ve either recklessly misplaced them like government documents on the train, I’m somehow back in prison, or worse still, I’m dead. So why am I still writing if nobody is going to read this? Force of habit I guess. Routine. Well that and the fact I am now officially a loner. A one man band. Me against the world. Plus I need at least one person to talk to. Like they say, if you can’t talk to yourself who can you talk to? Anyway I have to do it. For my own sanity. At least that’s what they told me during therapy sessions. Rehabilitation classes. Not that I needed them. After all, how do you rehabilitate an innocent man?
Back to my day anyway. Like I said it was pure mental. I barely got any sleep at all last night. Same as any other night really. Only last night my brain was working in overdrive, so I started the day mentally exhausted as well as physically tired. Never a good combination. Even the shit prison coffee that would rejuvenate a tranquilized elephant had little effect. I was literally running on empty. I suppose a sleepless night will do that to you. The worst part is it wasn’t for not trying. I just spent the entire night tossing and turning, picturing all these different scenarios about life back in the outside world. All the different possibilities and the paths I needed to take. Some good, some not so. The wrongs I have to right. The people I have to somehow reconnect with. The scores I have to settle.
Back to this morning, and even though I felt like shit, I actually felt quite positive. I had a little buzz about myself and at one point I even found myself humming a little tune. I suppose that was the excitement of leaving the prison, that suffocating cell, and my abnormally large cell mate, Hamish. Although I would quite miss him. Many nights we’d spent blethering about our lives, and the paths we’d taken to end up where we were. Hamish wasn’t a bad man. His was a crime of passion. He’d told me that one night he came home from working on the oil rigs up Shetland way, and that he’d seen a text message on his girlfriend’s phone from another man. Too friendly. Without enquiring about it first he snapped. He put two and two together, made five, and then hunted the bloke down before beating him half to death with a cricket bat. Jealousy can do that to a man. Especially if you’re working away for weeks at a time. The worst part about the story of Hamish is that his girlfriend was completely devoted to him, and the man he’d battered was just an over friendly work colleague. Gay in fact. No malice. So it was the insecurities of Hamish himself that had cost him his freedom, and like me, his family. However that didn’t stop the media turning his story into a homophobic hate crime, but that was never the case. At least according to Hamish anyway.
So yeah, I would miss that big guy. Nobody else though. The rest were monsters. Well apart from John. John McAllister. He was my pal in the jail too before he’d been released a year ago. He never told me what he was in for, and I never asked. He was just a nice bloke. Lived down the road from me in Dunfermline, so that’s how we clicked. You look after your own in the jail. Me and John did anyway. I’ll probably see him on the outside if I find time. Make sure he’s alright. He’s a bit up and down you see. Bi-polar I think they call it. That or some other form of mental syndrome. I didn't really know the technicalities behind it but one week he was down in the dumps, the next he was bouncing around high as a kite. High on life. I liked that about him. He gave you life. Although his mood swings you could do without. I’ll have to go and see him. Check on him. Once I’m sorted.
Anyway this morning I had all my shit packed, excited to escape the confinement of HMP Perth, I’d said my goodbyes to Hamish, and wound up a few of the officers before I left. Banter and that. Cheeky bastards said they’ll see me in six months. We’ll see about that. Then that was it. I was out. Released. It all happened so fast. One minute I was in the jail, the next I was outside. The gates shutting behind me. I don’t remember much, just standing there holding my belongings in a plastic bag. Looking sorry for myself. Me against the world.
The first thing I noticed when the gates did close behind me was the wind. Well actually if truth be told it was the first thing after realising that nobody was stood outside waiting for me. Not that I expected any different really. Like I said, I’m now officially a loner. Now you might think me mentioning the wind as a memory is a bit weird, and I suppose it is, but unless you’ve been in my position you wouldn’t understand. In prison you get your daily exercise. Your taste of the outside. However it’s so brief that you spend the entire time sucking in as much fresh air as you can, so then you’re ready to face your lock up again. Wind as a free man tastes different. It’s everywhere. You can breathe as fast or as slow as you want, and there’s no lock up waiting for you on the other side. Just more and more wind. How life should be. How mine always was.
The first thing I had to do on my quest as a free man was get out of Perth and get myself back to Dunfermline. Home. Even if I didn’t have one to call my own. I made my way towards the train station, and whilst sat on the platform I devised a plan of action. The first thing to do was find a place to sleep. I couldn’t go home to my wife. Definitely not. Having a door slammed shut in my face wasn’t high on my list of priorities. Neither could I walk the streets. I’m better than that. I did consider a hostel, but they’re all full of junkies and jaikies aren’t they? That’s not my scene. Plus I’ve just left one prison. I don’t particularly fancy walking straight into another. The only other option I could find was the parents. That was an instant no go though for two reasons. The first was the fact they lived down in Dumfries, and I didn’t have the means to get there, and secondly they’d washed their hands of me too. So I boarded the train to Dunfermline with the depressing knowledge that I was now a street sleeper. Homeless. Rock bottom.
Whilst watching the fields of Fife roll by, heading towards Inverkeithing to switch trains for a Dunfermline bound one, another idea popped into my head. John. I’d pay him a visit. Sooner than I’d like to, obviously, but he did say that if I was ever stuck he was only a knock on a door away. It’d be nice to see him, I thought, make sure he’s okay. If he happens to let me kip on the couch for a night, I’d be forever grateful. Luckily I’d written his address down in one of these earlier memoirs. You never know when you might need such random bits of information. So, armed with the details of John’s place of residence, and a new found sense of hopeful positivity, I sat back and relaxed for the rest of my journey. Every second passed a second closer to home.
Douglas Campbell. On the road to recovery. Ex con. Free man.
© Ashley (urb4npo3t)
I was going to stop writing these daily memoirs once I left prison, but I’ve had a pure mental day and need to tell somebody about it. I actually only started writing to pass the time, six years to be exact, and to get me through my sentence. I mean, what’s life without one little enjoyment? I know guys in the jail who would kill themselves every day if they could. Not me though. I put my darkest thoughts on paper. Got me through. Now here I am. Free. Although, these are private notes so if you’re reading them it means I’ve either recklessly misplaced them like government documents on the train, I’m somehow back in prison, or worse still, I’m dead. So why am I still writing if nobody is going to read this? Force of habit I guess. Routine. Well that and the fact I am now officially a loner. A one man band. Me against the world. Plus I need at least one person to talk to. Like they say, if you can’t talk to yourself who can you talk to? Anyway I have to do it. For my own sanity. At least that’s what they told me during therapy sessions. Rehabilitation classes. Not that I needed them. After all, how do you rehabilitate an innocent man?
Back to my day anyway. Like I said it was pure mental. I barely got any sleep at all last night. Same as any other night really. Only last night my brain was working in overdrive, so I started the day mentally exhausted as well as physically tired. Never a good combination. Even the shit prison coffee that would rejuvenate a tranquilized elephant had little effect. I was literally running on empty. I suppose a sleepless night will do that to you. The worst part is it wasn’t for not trying. I just spent the entire night tossing and turning, picturing all these different scenarios about life back in the outside world. All the different possibilities and the paths I needed to take. Some good, some not so. The wrongs I have to right. The people I have to somehow reconnect with. The scores I have to settle.
Back to this morning, and even though I felt like shit, I actually felt quite positive. I had a little buzz about myself and at one point I even found myself humming a little tune. I suppose that was the excitement of leaving the prison, that suffocating cell, and my abnormally large cell mate, Hamish. Although I would quite miss him. Many nights we’d spent blethering about our lives, and the paths we’d taken to end up where we were. Hamish wasn’t a bad man. His was a crime of passion. He’d told me that one night he came home from working on the oil rigs up Shetland way, and that he’d seen a text message on his girlfriend’s phone from another man. Too friendly. Without enquiring about it first he snapped. He put two and two together, made five, and then hunted the bloke down before beating him half to death with a cricket bat. Jealousy can do that to a man. Especially if you’re working away for weeks at a time. The worst part about the story of Hamish is that his girlfriend was completely devoted to him, and the man he’d battered was just an over friendly work colleague. Gay in fact. No malice. So it was the insecurities of Hamish himself that had cost him his freedom, and like me, his family. However that didn’t stop the media turning his story into a homophobic hate crime, but that was never the case. At least according to Hamish anyway.
So yeah, I would miss that big guy. Nobody else though. The rest were monsters. Well apart from John. John McAllister. He was my pal in the jail too before he’d been released a year ago. He never told me what he was in for, and I never asked. He was just a nice bloke. Lived down the road from me in Dunfermline, so that’s how we clicked. You look after your own in the jail. Me and John did anyway. I’ll probably see him on the outside if I find time. Make sure he’s alright. He’s a bit up and down you see. Bi-polar I think they call it. That or some other form of mental syndrome. I didn't really know the technicalities behind it but one week he was down in the dumps, the next he was bouncing around high as a kite. High on life. I liked that about him. He gave you life. Although his mood swings you could do without. I’ll have to go and see him. Check on him. Once I’m sorted.
Anyway this morning I had all my shit packed, excited to escape the confinement of HMP Perth, I’d said my goodbyes to Hamish, and wound up a few of the officers before I left. Banter and that. Cheeky bastards said they’ll see me in six months. We’ll see about that. Then that was it. I was out. Released. It all happened so fast. One minute I was in the jail, the next I was outside. The gates shutting behind me. I don’t remember much, just standing there holding my belongings in a plastic bag. Looking sorry for myself. Me against the world.
The first thing I noticed when the gates did close behind me was the wind. Well actually if truth be told it was the first thing after realising that nobody was stood outside waiting for me. Not that I expected any different really. Like I said, I’m now officially a loner. Now you might think me mentioning the wind as a memory is a bit weird, and I suppose it is, but unless you’ve been in my position you wouldn’t understand. In prison you get your daily exercise. Your taste of the outside. However it’s so brief that you spend the entire time sucking in as much fresh air as you can, so then you’re ready to face your lock up again. Wind as a free man tastes different. It’s everywhere. You can breathe as fast or as slow as you want, and there’s no lock up waiting for you on the other side. Just more and more wind. How life should be. How mine always was.
The first thing I had to do on my quest as a free man was get out of Perth and get myself back to Dunfermline. Home. Even if I didn’t have one to call my own. I made my way towards the train station, and whilst sat on the platform I devised a plan of action. The first thing to do was find a place to sleep. I couldn’t go home to my wife. Definitely not. Having a door slammed shut in my face wasn’t high on my list of priorities. Neither could I walk the streets. I’m better than that. I did consider a hostel, but they’re all full of junkies and jaikies aren’t they? That’s not my scene. Plus I’ve just left one prison. I don’t particularly fancy walking straight into another. The only other option I could find was the parents. That was an instant no go though for two reasons. The first was the fact they lived down in Dumfries, and I didn’t have the means to get there, and secondly they’d washed their hands of me too. So I boarded the train to Dunfermline with the depressing knowledge that I was now a street sleeper. Homeless. Rock bottom.
Whilst watching the fields of Fife roll by, heading towards Inverkeithing to switch trains for a Dunfermline bound one, another idea popped into my head. John. I’d pay him a visit. Sooner than I’d like to, obviously, but he did say that if I was ever stuck he was only a knock on a door away. It’d be nice to see him, I thought, make sure he’s okay. If he happens to let me kip on the couch for a night, I’d be forever grateful. Luckily I’d written his address down in one of these earlier memoirs. You never know when you might need such random bits of information. So, armed with the details of John’s place of residence, and a new found sense of hopeful positivity, I sat back and relaxed for the rest of my journey. Every second passed a second closer to home.
Douglas Campbell. On the road to recovery. Ex con. Free man.
© Ashley (urb4npo3t)
