1
This is how I came to be in court, at the trial where I did not speak, where the judgement was passed, and I was allowed to leave.
5
That’s how I came to be having my picture taken in a booth, so that I could prove who I’m supposed to be, the vetting, filling out the form, more forms, being interviewed, not knowing the answers, giving the answers, forgetting what I had said, in all innocence.
3
That’s how I came to be at the police station, on the steps, threshold trepidation, standing in the lobby, expecting to be arrested, to be cuffed and bundled away, looking straight at the security cameras so there would be no doubt, so they would recognise me surely, wanted for murder, no-one approached me, no-one spoke, people came in and went out, I could not speak, I went home.
7
That’s how I came to be a prison visitor, on the wrong side, shown in, ushered out, an impostor, in all innocence.
2
This is how I felt when I saw my picture, what, my face, that’s me, on the website, wanted for murder, the dread, the loss, the exclusion from humanity, sense of absolute violence suffered or dispensed in the past and in the future, anticipated and revisited.
8
That’s how I came to be apologising to the prisoner, how had this happened, how did he feel about it, what could I do, I asked him to show me his hands, his hands so like mine, gesturing the act dispassionately, my hands so like his, trembling at the re-enactment, the understanding, the fulfilment. The release.
4
That’s how I came to be witnessing the witnesses, who seemed to be pointing at me, who did not notice me, in the gallery, afraid to blink.
6
That’s how I came to be standing in the dock, the bare courtroom, other members of the group, shown round, new volunteers, honest people, and the guard giving me a minute to understand what it feels like, for I had been sentenced but was at liberty, they did not know that.
9
That’s how I came to be in this room, that’s why I’m sat with the picture and the mirror both, the same size, on the table, the picture of the prisoner, next to the mirror, staring at both, one to the other, back again, while they wait, the doctor, the nurse, without comment, without judgement, there is no semblance, no resemblance, between these two faces, these two facts, they say I can go home now, someone will take me home, there is nothing more to be told.
About the Author
Kevin Armor Harris lives in England and writes short fiction and prose poems. His work is beginning to appear in sources such as Thin Skin, Dream Catcher, Short Fiction, Streetcake, Metaworker and Flash Fiction North.
