©takamme2012
I drove my car down the highway. “Well, this is it” I muttered to myself as I turned into the parking lot, and pulled my little blue Honda up front.
The only good thing about this trip so far is that I got a great parking spot.
I walked into the facility, and approached a middle aged woman at the desk. “Jack Peterson, please” I informed her, as I took a good look at her.
She had blonde-gray hair, and worry lines tattooed on her face. “Name, age, relation?” she asked.
“Miranda Elise Peterson, 19, Daughter” I replied instinctively. You get to know the system pretty well when you’ve made these visits for the past 7 years.
“Right this way” she said, as she walked down the long grey hallway.
I really hated the Orange County jail or “Orange County Correctional Facility” as they preferred for us to call it. Correctional Facility, Prison, Jail, all the same to me.
I sat down at the booth, picked up the phone, and waited for my father. “Remember, you only have 15 minutes” she said as I heard her little black heels click as she walked away.
“Hey sweetie!” I heard my dad say. It’s funny how 7 years in jail really can change a person. He was 44, but he looked at least 60.
“Hello father. Happy birthday.” I said in a monotone voice. I only visited him twice a year, out of general respect. I saw him on his birthday, and mine, and that was it, and that was only because my mommy raised me to be polite.
I knew I’d have to do this every year, for the rest of his life, as he has to serve out his life sentence here.
I wonder if he realized how much that would screw his life up when he did it. Not only did it basically end all of his freedoms, but ruined me and my mom’s life’s as well.
Whenever I had a boyfriend, if I really liked him, I told him about my father. They always looked at me like I was a psychotic bitch, and ran off.
I guess that is a pretty instinctive reaction when you hear a girl tell you her father is a homicidal maniac.
As my father started to tell me about how much he missed me, how life was, and all the normal things your dad would tell you if he was in prison, I started to look at the other people next to me.
On my right, I had a woman who was bawling, I assumed her husband was the man sitting across from her.
And on my left I had a man who looked just about my age. He was gorgeous, with deep brown eyes, and cinnamon colored brown hair. He looked angry to see the man in front of him.
As I left the facility, it had become dark outside. I walked out to the parking lot, and attempted to start my car. Damnit, broken again. I looked outside the parking lot to see if I recognized anyone.
I saw the boy from earlier, and figured I’d push my luck.
So I screamed: HEY!
