That Was Then - This is Now Pt. 01

"You're not in any trouble...?"

"No, Mom. Maybe you should phone Erica's mom and find out. It really hurts too much to talk about it, even after a couple of months."

"What are you talking about? Are you having problems with Erica? That, I can't believe. You two are like peas in the proverbial pod."

"Were, Mom, were. We WERE like two peas in the pod."

Dead silence on the other end, then quietly, "Oh Evan, I'm sorry. I didn't know. You must be hurting so bad..."

"Yeah Mom, I think part of me has died. I wouldn't be much fun to be around, so I think I'll just stay here and work. There's a Christmas dinner held here for kids who can't get home, so it won't be just me."

We chatted about nothing in particular for a few more minutes, then ended with a promise that I would at least think about coming home, even for a few days. I was so miserable, so hurt, felt so betrayed that the thought of going home and being "normal" made me break out in a cold sweat.

I'd been mentally kicking around an idea for a few weeks; now I made a decision to act on it. I knew exactly what I will do. My mind played out various scenarios over the next few days as my plan formed. The hurt would go away, permanently.

I didn't know it at the time but I had fallen into a deep depression. I knew something was wrong, very wrong. The problem was, I didn't know how to get help, and felt that I had no one to ask. All the extra work I'd been doing, the hard work doing assignments, even the extra tutoring had only dulled the pain, pushing it into a corner of my mind for short periods of time. Gradually I sank into the black hole, seeing no way out.

One of the dorm-rats had acquired an over-under 12 gauge shotgun. There were really strict rules about firearms in the dorms, but somehow this guy had not only managed to smuggle it in, but kept it in the back of his closet. His dorm room was right below mine, and laid out exactly the same. I knew I would have no problem breaking into the room. The locks were a joke. During our first orientation, the standing joke was that if you didn't want anything stolen, leave your door open. A locked door was an invitation to a break in.

Anyway, I knew I could get my hands on it if it was still there. First I had to say some goodbyes and write my final letter. The letter would be hard. My family would be crushed for awhile, and even some of my friends would be hurt. They would gradually get over their hurt. Mine would be ended forever, and that thought kept me functioning.

Writing the letter was harder than I thought. The first few drafts were just the ramblings of a lost person. They really made no sense, though at the time they were written they seemed like masterpieces. Many hours, and many revisions later, I had finished it. What I had written would have to do. Now the rest of the plan was set in motion. It was just over a week until Christmas. Almost everyone who was leaving for the break had gone leaving the few of us that hadn't planned on going home hanging around.

To my surprise I found that my roommate was staying since his girlfriend lived here in town. He'd be spending most of the holidays with her and her family. He assured me that he'd check in every once in awhile to make sure I wasn't getting into trouble. Fat chance of that; of course I didn't tell him of my plans. Another surprise was that Brad was staying as well. I found out that his grades weren't too good (I had flatly told him to find another tutor, but never told him why). He wasn't able to find someone so here he was cramming during the festive season. Too bad, so sad.

The next day was totally winter. Wind howled through the trees and the buildings. No-one stayed outside any longer than absolutely necessary. Snow was blowing almost horizontally, drifting into deep piles against any vertical surface it could find. A totally miserable day that mirrored my totally miserable feelings. The dorms were deserted. Everyone had hurried off to where ever they were going. I wouldn't be interrupted.

I went down one floor and easily broke into the dorm room where I knew the gun had been kept. A cursory search may not have found it, but I did. And I even found some ammunition for it. I'd only need one, but decided to load both barrels.

I took my time and went back to my room. The Christmas carols playing on the stereo did nothing to lighten my mood. In fact, I think they made it worse. They sounded plastic and phoney. Peace on Earth? Give me a fucking break. Tell that to the men and women in Afghanistan or Iraq. Even my favourite R&B station had gotten into it. I turned the stereo off and lay down on my bed. I must have dozed off. It was after noon when I awoke. The storm outside showed signs of abating. Whatever. I wouldn't be caring about the weather for much longer.

I got the letter I had written and opened it up to re-read, just to make sure I'd said everything I wanted, in the way I wanted.

My letter:

Dear friends and family.

By now, since you're reading this, you'll know that I am dead by my own hand.

I know that some of you will be terribly hurt by this, and wonder if there was something you could have done to prevent it. Please, don't waste your time on self-blame. It won't bring me back, a fact which I am thankful for, and will solve nothing. Grieve if you must, but get on with your lives.

To my family. This is the hard part. Will you ever understand what drove me to this point? What caused me, a relatively normal human being, to take such a drastic step? Could you have done anything? I really can't give you an answer to that, but I can explain why.

When I caught Erica with Brad, my whole world ended. I have tried, tried so hard over the past couple of months to come to terms with what happened and move on. Unfortunately, my sense of loss, sense of hurt, sense of betrayal got worse with time, not better.

I have not talked to Erica since that terrible day. There's nothing she could have said that would have taken away the pain, and no explanation would have eased the hurt and betrayal. Yet, even though she wounded me so terribly, I still love her. I absolutely loath what she did, and don't know why she did it. I am afraid that if I confronted her, I would lose it and hurt her the way she hurt me, and I can't do that.

Will she feel guilty? Maybe, but at this point I don't much care. I hope she and Brad are happy; they deserve each other.

To my brother and sisters. I know this will hurt you, just as it will Mom and Dad. I only wish that I had been a better big brother. You deserve much better than I could give, especially these last few months. Just remember the few good times we had together. Grow up and be the responsible citizens I know you can be. Remember, I do love you, and will be watching over you.

To my parents. I know and understand that this will shock and hurt you terribly. Nothing I can write will alleviate that. You have supported me and helped me more than you know, and more than I ever gave you credit for, and for that I'll be eternally grateful.

But right now, I can't see my way out of all of this. All I can see is this total darkness all around me and no way out of it. In fact, it gets worse each day, and I can't live with that anymore. At this point, all I want is the pain to go away. No one, least of all you, need to be burdened with my problems. I feel that this way is better for all of us, and you shouldn't have this dark cloud hanging over your head. Yes, you will hurt. Hurt badly. But please look at it from my point of view. I feel that I have nothing left to live for. I do love you. I think this way is best for all of us.

I signed the bottom, folded it carefully and placed it in the envelope on the table, addressed to "The Person Who Finds Me"

It was time. I lay down on my bed again, took the shotgun and placed the barrel under my chin. With some difficulty I managed to get my thumbs on both triggers. It was time to go...

Chapter 3

The door opened and Ed stuck his head in. His cheerful call of "Merry Christmas" died as he saw me on my bed. He ran over to the bed and after a brief struggle wrestled the gun away from me before I could pull the triggers.

"Dude, what the fuck's with that? You fuckin' crazy, man?" he ranted on for a few seconds, not really giving me a chance to answer. I realized then that I had failed and buried my head in my pillow and totally lost it. Ed called 911 and explained the situation, letting them know that there was still a loaded gun in the room. Help was on the way.

I heard a commotion at the door and looked up to see a few of the students who were staying behind for the holidays crowding the door. One of them was Brad. They were all shouting together trying to get from either Ed or me what was going on. At that point, I don't really know what came over me, but I managed to reach for the still loaded gun. I yelled at Brad, "You son of a bitch! You asshole! You caused it, you and that whore!"

The others scattered as he stood in the door with a totally shocked look on his face when I pointed the gun toward him. "Jesus, no! Don't, don't..." I pulled both triggers and saw him stagger backward and slump to the floor of the hallway. Time seemed to stop. In a sort of fog, I carefully opened the gun, ejected the spent shells then placed it on the bed. The police would see that it was no threat to them. Ed stood in shock, his face white as a ghost, ears ringing from the twin blasts of the gun. He just stood there, looking first at Brad lying in the hallway, and then at me, almost as if he couldn't comprehend what had just happened.

Sirens got louder, then stopped and we heard loud footsteps as the first responders ran up the stairs. I saw one officer, weapon drawn bend down to check on Brad. His partner cautiously looked into the room, saw no immediate threat and ordered Ed and me face down on the floor. The two of us secure, he quickly checked the shotgun, then advised his partner that the place was secure.

After a few minutes, with discussion from several of the students who had seen what was going on, Ed was released. I was advised of my rights and placed under arrest. The officer escorted me down to the police car and placed me in the back, still handcuffed. I didn't know if Brad was dead or alive, as a matter of fact, my brain had just sort of shut down. It was sort of like I was watching a scene from a movie. So far, except to acknowledge my rights, I hadn't spoken a word. That's pretty much the way it would be until my trial except when I talked to my lawyer.

The police advised me that Brad was badly injured, and probably wouldn't survive. I don't remember if I ever acknowledged that statement. I was taken to the cells, processed, and fingerprinted. They took away everything I had except my socks and boxers and gave me a set of coveralls to wear. I just did as they said without replying or saying anything, and I ultimately found myself in a cell, alone.

They had asked me if I wanted to say anything. I shook my head "no". Then they asked if I wanted a lawyer. I just shrugged my shoulders. At this time, they would have saved everyone a lot of trouble and expense if they just shot me and had done with it but that wasn't their job. I found out later that they had phoned my parents who arranged for the duty lawyer to act for me, and the slow wheels of the legal system began to turn. I learned the next day that Brad had died from his wounds. For some reason I felt nothing, no shame, no elation. I was still numb.

Against my lawyers' advice, I intended to plead guilty during my first appearance. We had discussed my case at some length after our first meeting, and he felt that I had a case for diminished capacity. I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn't want a long drawn out trial, and that yes, I had killed a man, and there was no diminished capacity.

Without going into all the details, it ended up that the letter I had written, as well as statements from several witnesses, indicated that I had intended to end my own life, and had no intention of killing Brad. I ended up getting seven years for manslaughter, with the first year to be served in a mental institution because of my depressed state. Throughout the ordeal, my parents had been behind me. Upon sentence my mother broke down, as mothers would. My dad stoically sat beside her, a look of deep sadness on his face. I had only spoken to them a couple of times. Most of what they knew came from the trial, and their lengthy discussions with Mr. Purdy, my lawyer. I also noticed that Erica's mother was sitting next to Mom. She looked as hurt as I felt.

I was led away, and my new life began. The mental institution was an eye opener, but also a blessing in disguise. Up to that time, depression had been just a vague concept attributed to weak people who couldn't or wouldn't help themselves. Over the next year I found out more, a lot more. Looking back, I was I classic case and if I had recognized the symptoms, there was lots of help available. I hadn't known.

After the year in hospital I was transferred to prison. In the mental hospital, because of my circumstances, I was closely monitored and had little freedom of movement. Everywhere I went, I had an escort, though most of the time I wasn't handcuffed or shackled. They came to realize that I was no threat, and that I would do exactly what I was told. I still had my escort everywhere, and when I was transferred to prison he actually shook my hand and gave me a brief hug, and wished me good luck.

My cellmate turned out to be a huge black guy. I was 5"10" and maybe 180 pounds soaking wet. Jim was at least 6'4" and probably outweighed me by a hundred pounds. Maybe the stories I'd heard about being "Bubba's lady" were true. Although my depression was at least sort of controlled, I still didn't much care whether I lived or nor, so the cell arrangements didn't really matter to me.

Jim, my cellmate, had earned the privilege of a computer, something I wouldn't do for at least 6 months. Other than nodding his head when the guards brought me to the cell, he had totally ignored me. I watched as he struggled to work the machine. I didn't know, at the time, what he was trying to do, but I could see it wasn't going well.

"What are you doin' man?"

"What's it to you, white boy?"

"Just thought I might be able to help."

"Yeah, right. What do you think I am, just some dumb fuckin' nigger that can't operate a simple computer?"

"Nope, what I see is a guy who has never been taught how to use it. There's a whole lotta difference. If you want to learn, I can teach. I was a computer science major in college. I may not know shit about being a prisoner, but I know about computers."

"Yeah, well, we'll see." And with that a friendship was born. Over the next few months, using his computer because I hadn't yet earned the privilege, I taught him the ins and outs of the hardware, what each component did and how they ultimately all worked together to end up doing whatever on the screen. I found Jim to be an insightful student, absorbing the knowledge like a sponge. The only thing he couldn't get a hold on was programming. I explained to him that you sort of had to be wired that way. Not all was lost, because there's lots more to computers than programming. If he had a good solid knowledge of the hardware, and a background in networking he could get work almost anywhere.

We bonded over the next few years. At the start, some of the members of various gangs had marked me for whatever purpose. Jim had let it be known in no uncertain terms that they would have to deal with him if anything happened to me. I wasn't his "lady", I was his teacher, and to them I was inviolate. My job to start with had been in the laundry, the worst of the worst as far as jobs available in prison. I came to see just how bad some of the men in here were, though I was pretty much left alone. The threat of having to deal with Jim saw to that.

After about two years I was called into the wardens' office. Word had gotten out that I was able to teach about computers. He wanted to know if I could teach computer classes to interested inmates who had earned the privilege. He had my file open on his desk so I knew that he was aware of my background. Apparently some of the guards had seen what I was doing with Jim, and the word had gotten back to the warden. The powers that be were impressed that I seemed to know my stuff, and wanted to get a trial program up and running.

The warden and I discussed this at some length, and finally he told me to get a list of things I would need to teach a class of 10 students. It would be an experiment at first, to see how well it was received, and also how well I could teach. I got the list together, gave it to one of the guards, and pretty much let the whole thing slip from my mind. I was happy to just be teaching Jim, and I had "graduated" from the laundry to doing work outside in the yard, picking up litter, sweeping, and menial jobs. I loved it; well, as much as I could under the circumstances.

During this time, Jim introduced me to weight lifting. He told me that he had always lifted, and kept it up in prison while he could. He showed the correct ways and coached me as I slowly began to develop a toned physique. I was no longer the out of shape geek, but a toned and in shape geek. I had also learned that Jim would be getting out of prison around the same time as me if neither of us were granted any early parole. I applied of course, but was turned down. I hadn't really expected any other outcome. I never did apply for it again.

About six months after my talk with the warden, I was again called into his office. I wasn't sure what trouble I was in, because you don't get called to his office for nothing. I had totally forgotten about the proposed computer program.

The prison would get a fully equipped computer lab with an instructors' station and stations for ten students. At first the program would concentrate on basic repair and maintenance, and operating system support. Gradually it would evolve into networking. There would be no internet access from the lab. I was to develop a curriculum for approval, and they hoped to have the whole thing up and running in about a month or so.

"Evan," the warden told me just as I was leaving his office, "this is a real opportunity for you and the other inmates. You've done well here so far, and we're pleased with your progress. Don't blow it."

"Warden, I totally fucked up my life once. I don't plan on letting that happen again. You won't be sorry for this, sir."

I floated back to my cell to give Jim the good news, then set to work developing a course for a bunch of people I didn't know, about a subject they probably know little if anything about. If I had been on the outside, it would have been heaven. As it was, it was probably as good as it could be.

Finally the big day came. The computers had been delivered, along with all the teaching material I had requested. I spent a week setting up the lab, and had tried to get Jim assigned as my assistant. They would wait and see. Only the best behaved that showed an interest would be allowed to attend. Classes would be an hour in the morning and again one hour in the afternoon. Homework could be assigned at my discretion. At best, it could only be reading. After hours, the lab was locked down and no one had access to it.

After I had transferred into prison I began to study and work towards my degree through the universities' distance learning program. When I had left, I only had about and year and a half to go to graduate. Here, I had at least six years in which to do that, and I still had over three years to go when the experimental program began. As far as prison went, this was as good as it could get. I was back on track for my degree, and I had something positive to contribute. I learned that with good behaviour, more privileges were granted, and if they weren't abused, and if you didn't get "written up" for breaking the rules, life behind bars would at least be tolerable. Of course, I had killed a man and would have to do my time, but it didn't need to be hard time.