Georgia Bound: – 3 – Incarcaration

The door was of a heavy metal construction. It had a single one-foot square window with a small metal door on its exterior, so that the captor could not peer out. I knocked. I knocked harder. No one came, so I kicked at the door. My meager training in martial arts did not require that I wore shoes to deliver a powerful kick. The door, violently vibrating, resounded throughout my cell and echoed from the outside. Someone would certainly hear me now!

Four uniformed officers appeared outside of my tiny window. I asked for a phone call. The spokesman of the group replied in a deep southern drawl that I could not understand. I asked him to repeat himself. I still could not decipher the lingo. To say that I was not in the best of moods, is a grave understatement. Addressing the other officers, I yelled through the thick glass, “Could someone please translate!”

I would not receive a phone call. Not now, anyway. I was pissed!

Lying on the floor, I noticed hairs. They were of different colors and lengths. No telling how many people had been in here since a broom had touched my concrete bed! My accommodations were not very clean.

The door opened and someone quickly set a Styrofoam container inside. Slamming the door behind them, they were gone just as fast. I opened the box. It was breakfast: four pancakes and four sausages. I began kicking at the door again. The quartet, once again, stood outside my door. “I’m vegan!” I hollered.

“Well, don’t eat the meat!” I understood him this time. To no avail, I attempted to explain that pancakes could very well contain milk and eggs. They didn’t care. They left. Except for a handful of green beans, I would not eat for four days.

Lying on the floor, I tried to remember the previous night. Flashes came back to me. I remembered being distraught at not being with my wife and holding a knife to my jugular. Then there were handcuffs and the lights of a patrol car. That was it! I still can remember nothing more till this day.

They had left the window open so that I could see into the hall. One of the officers passed by and I knocked on the window. I had learned my lesson and was ready to go home. “When can I get out of here?” I asked the gentleman.

“You have to see the doctor first,” he replied. “Let me see what I can do.”

After seeing the doc, I was brought back to my humble dwelling. I assumed it would take a little time to process my release. The same kind guard retrieved me from my padded cell. I was given my daily medication and told the nurse that I would be going home soon. The guard was obviously regretful at having to inform me, “No. You’re not.”

I was shocked! “What? Why?”

“I’ll explain in a little while.” His words were kind. I would endure the wait.

The suspense tore at me as I suffered the ordeal of being fingerprinted and photographed. Returning to my cell, I asked him again. “You said you would tell me why I’m not going home.”

“You’ve been charged with crimes under the Family Violence Act.” He slammed the door!

My knees buckled beneath me. This was too much to handle! It would be one month before I discovered how grossly exaggerated the charges were. It would be more than thirty days before I had any peace of mind. But for now, I was in the dark. Once again lying on the floor, my entire body shook. Panic gripped me! Overcome by guilt, adrenalin coursed through my veins. With my fingernails, I began to repeatedly claw at my wrist. Before I could expose the blue line, I passed out.

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