Hey guys! So I heard the song 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon' - it's a beautiful song - and was inspired to write this. It's my very first short story, so please enjoy! It's dedicated all the ex-convicts out there who's trying to redeem themselves~!
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"Sorry. We do not need you in our management." The curt statement by the human resource manager crushed my hopes. Again. I nodded miserably at the impassive lady dressed in a neatly-tailored jet-black executive suit. Collecting my files, I sighed softly in despair as the woman sat there primly, face carefully controlled. "Thank you, Miss," I mumbled, hunching my shoulders wretchedly as I trudged out of the clinic-like office, what with the pure white walls and meagre furniture. The hired staff snickered and whispered among themselves, mocking me. "Yet another failure? Useless!" The loud, pointed whisper attracted my attention. My head turned swiftly to the Whisperer. The Whisperer was a man with sharp features - spiky, gelled raven hair, chiselled features and angular cheekbones. A ripple of laughter passed through the room, followed my murmurs of scornful agreement. Trying to rein in my explosive temper, my cold, piercing green eyes met his contemptuous blue eyes. No use. Before I could control myself, my mouth opened of its own accord, having a mind of its own, and snapped out, "Yeah? Well, at least I have enough discipline not to tease people about failures unlike you!" At once, a deathly hush fell settled in the workroom.
Silence.
Then the rest of the staff laughed scornfully at the Whisperer who stared at me in absolute shock. Cheeks flushing, I bowed my head and scurried out, hurrying away to the scoffs directed at the Whisperer.
"A latte, please," I ordered despondently at the counter of Starbucks. The young barista there nodded, smiling, as she whizzed about behind the counter. Finally, she placed the steaming, frothy latte in front of me. "Here you go," she chirped merrily as I pawed around in my scruffy wallet and handed over the money. Bringing my latte to a vacant table, I flipped through my files with a heavy heart, stopping at only two pages. The first was a Harvard Masters Degree certificate. I'd been so proud then... The second page... A tear, full of remorse, guilt and misery slipped down my cheek, leaving a glittering trail of regrets.
A prison record.
All I'd done had been to shoplift - though one involving an expensive item, a voice at the back of my head pointed out nastily, which I promptly shoved away. Just a measly shoplift, and I'd been fined $5000, and had to serve a jail term of 3 years! Closing my eyes helplessly, I stuffed the detested piece of paper into my files, draining the steamy latte. Time to head home to get a rest, no matter how little, to face the next tough day.
This went on for days and weeks. Always the same, cold answer; "We do not need you in our management. Sorry," and yet it was not sorry at all. After countless interviews, both walk-in ones and dress-up ones, I felt down in the dumps, lower than an ant. I wanted - needed - to lighten the financial load on my family, but there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel which I was plodding through. I could bet that even major organisations meant to help ex-convicts like me, such as SCORE, HIRE Network and more, couldn't ease my burden. Not to mention that although my wife had accepted me back with tears of joy and warm, affectionate hugs, she was earning a paltry sum called an income! I had to help! Had to!
Then the fateful day arrived.
I was strolling along the pavement, mind on many other things, when a woman, a pleasantly plump, glowing-with-health lady bumped into me - spilling a cup of water all over me, as my files scattered on the ground. "Oh dear! I'm so sorry!" The lady, clad in a grey business executive suit, cried in dismay, staring at my soaked T-shirt, wincing as if anticipating - and fearing - the oncoming storm. However, when she peered at me again, all she saw was a random person - me - picking up his files and the cupp of spilt water rather apologetically. "I - I'm sorry, Madame, I - I didn't mean to..." I stuttered, cheeks flaming as I held the cup out as though it was a token. "No, anyway, there isn't any use crying over spilt milk - though in this case, it's spilt water... Now, do let me help - Wait, is that a Harvard Masters Degree I see in that file?!" she gasped as she spied the thick, creamy certificate peeking out of the clear folder. "Yes," I replied meekly, all the while wringing out my soppy clothes. "Meet me at..." The lady prattled away like a machine gun, pressing a scalloped business card and after gasping for breath, swept away in a flurry of grey silks and ebony hair, leaving behind a very befuddled and confused me.
