This world, our world, the one with houses as crooked as the people in them. Broken people, broken by the way the world works. No jobs, no money; sell drugs, get money. That’s what this world is, that’s how it works.
I don’t want it to be like that for me. I don’t want to stay here.
And I don’t want Dre in here either. He has no one. His world is a lonely and miserable one.
After some time, when my cheeks feel stiff and the tears have dried up, I push myself out of the chair, not thinking as I walk up to the entrance and over to reception.
There’s a woman behind the desk, the same woman who signed me in earlier. She has deep-brown skin, red braids, and thick glasses, and sits behind a glass that separates us. I wipe my face and knock on the glass, which makes her look up sharply.
“Yes?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. She looks a little annoyed, like I interrupted something important.
“S-sorry, I… I wanted to know if I could find out about an inmate here? It’s m-my dad. I just wanted to know if he still acceptsvisitors? Whether I could see him today… or at some point this week or something,” I say, voice cracking. I feel tears well up again. I desperately try to push away the overwhelming need to cry, but it’s difficult.
She pauses, looking a bit more sympathetic now. “I’ll see what I can find, okay? What’s his name?”
I wipe my eyes. “Thank you. His name is Malcolm Richards,” I say, watching her write on a piece of paper.
“Could you write down some information here to help me find him quicker? His date of birth, the year he came in…” She slides the paper under the glass and I nod, even though I don’t know many details about him. He was practically a stranger to me. A stranger I’ve made into a father in my mind.
I feel bad going against what Ma said, wanting to see him anyway, but she lied to me and I don’t know how much time I have left to speak to him, to stop this. A part of me has always hoped that one day Pa would come back and be the person I always painted him as being, and they can’t take that away. I won’t let them.
I only know the year they put him in here, not the exact date, which isn’t so helpful, but at least I know his birthday. July 4, like mine.
“Here,” I say, passing the slip back.
She smiles and starts typing into the computer system. I focus on the sound of footsteps and doors slamming in the background.
The tapping stops; it’s replaced by her clicking and then complete silence for a few long moments.
“Were you visiting anyone today?” she asks, drumming her long nails on the desk and looking up at me.
There goes my focus.
I nod. “Yeah, a friend.”
“Good friend?” she asks.
The best, I think. “Yeah,” I say instead, chest tightening.
I hate small talk, especially this kind of small talk. I just want to know when I can see my pa again.
“I’m sure it means a lot to him that you came to visit. You’re a good kid,” she says.
I nod slowly, watching her computer impatiently.
“Sorry, did you find anything?” I ask.
She looks visibly uncomfortable. “Yes… the Malcolm Richards that matches our records—he passed away quite a while ago. I’m sorry,” she says.
Passed away?
“My pa is dead?” I ask, feeling numb when she nods. “When?” Not sure how asking this helps me.
She looks back at the screen. “About seven years ago; September 9.” She pauses and looks at me, as if trying to see what my reaction is before she continues.
That was the day I saw him. When I was ten years old. It was the last time I saw him.
I’m still, quiet. But my limbs feel like they could give out any moment now. My face feels hot and I feel like screaming, but I don’t. If I start, I won’t stop.
