Creative Writing - Jonathan Holt

Creative Writing Jonathan Holt

I hold the photograph firmly in my hands. My kids mean the world to me, they are my everything, and to know that I’ll be with them in a matter of hours has helped to ease the pain of the last ten years. Prison life hasn’t served me well, I’m too nice, too kind … too gentle. Being locked behind bars for protecting your home, your family is total bullshit. The bastard got all he deserved.

BANG, BANG, BANG. John, someone’s in the house !

Did I do the right thing ? Could I have tackled the situation differently ? These questions constantly fill my head. I was, and still am SO confused.
Who
Am
I ?

It’s definitely my time to leave this shit hole. Same old, same old, day in, day out.
6:45 – get up
7:00 – breakfast
12:00 – lunch
6:00 – dinner
10:00 – bed

I’m here and my family are ten miles away. One zero miles. My heart races at the prospect of holding my kids in my arms. Not long now.

“John Brown. Collect your stuff. Your going home.” The dulcet tones of the prison officer entered my ears and sent shivers down my spine. I gathered up my non – existent wardrobe and exited my cell. Step
By
Step

The officer has a hold of me, via handcuffs, but this lack of personal space failed to phase me in the slightest, I was used to it. As I take my eyes up from the oh-so familiar prison floor, I see the big vault – like doors which are separating me from the “outside world”. As the doors open, a stream of light floods in and my eyes sting a little. Not used to the daylight. The officer hands me my “personal belongings” and I merrily left the hellhole.

Like a fish out of water, I stroll past the street signs

Park Grove St John’s Road Cottage Lane

and I feel rather defimiliarised. I fail to realise where I am but all of the doubts which fill my head seem somewhat irrelevant. I arrive at the local taxi rank and I sit on my “suitcase”. My eyes move
from left to right
I quickly realise that my peers are staring at me as they pass. As we exchange glances I notice that everyone looks so prim and proper with their “Guicci” and “Prada”, a far cry from what I was used to. These materialistic items are like a foreign object to me, I’d never heard of them ! I felt the weight of their judgement from their scornful stares but I just decided to ignore them.

“Taxi”. I lifted by belongings and threw them into the back seat of the taxi. “Where are you going mate?” I took a deep breath and sternly said, “Home”, but quickly corrected myself, “32 Grange Road.” My communication skills seemed to be poor but that was the last thing on my mind.

I was informed by the driver that the journey would take about an hour. Great. I knew I’d have to make small talk with the driver. I’ve had enough of that in the nick to last me a lifetime !
“How are you ?”
“Fine.”
“Wanna game of pool ?”
“Fine.”

It really pissed me off. Trying to dodge the shitty small talk and false smiles, I began to rummage in my bag and I retrieved my wallet. A photo fell onto my lap. It’s my kids. I felt the tears fill up in my eyes and they began to fall onto the photo drip
by
drip

As the taxi swerved around the corner I caught a glimpse of a newspaper stand :
BLAIR TO BECOME PRIME MINISTER
I looked at this stand with a confused glaze over my eyes. Who is this Blair ? Have I been locked away for so long that I don’t even know what’s going on in the world, my world ?

“We’ll only be another ten minutes mate.” My heart was beating so quickly that I began to feel faint. I had been waiting for this moment for ten long years, to be with my family again. I reached into my wallet to get out the money to pay the driver with. I only have fifty pounds, I hope that’ll be enough ! The taxi pulled up outside of the house and I gripped my belongings.
No
Going
Back

I place my hand on my chest and inhale deeply. “Thirty two pounds seventy five pence mate.” I hand over two twenty pound notes and tell the Geordie to keep the change, the value of money now baffles me.

I place my feet firmly onto the pavement and slowly, but surely walk up to my front door which reads number 32. I shakily raise my hand and push the door bell, waiting on the doorstep like a Christmas caroller. I hear footsteps and the door gradually opens. Two young boys stand before me, my kids. I gaze into their young, innocent eyes and realise that this is the moment that I’ve been dreaming of for ten years.
“Hey guys. It’s Daddy.”