The People vs. Scott
Trudging home, back to the stuffy little dorm. My backpack feels like a lead weight, doing all it can to drive me into the mud below. But I pull one boot out at a time, trying to ignore the hostile weather. Moving on as if the wind weren’t constantly driving me back. Lunch. The only solace and respite in my dreary, meaningless day. The crowd pushes me forward, then back, then around, until I get a bite, a mouthful of what I did not want. But don’t dare ask for more or less. No. One takes what one gets and moves on. Circles. Everyone’s back is to me as I wander around the room looking for a place . . . any place, to sit, to fit. Instead I turn away, ignoring the backs. I deposit my tray with all the other filthy, food-smeared platters and turn, with my morsel, back toward the dorm.
Ominous. The huge clouds hulking over the massive, uniform, stucco buildings look angrily down on the humming campus. Little ants that scurry from class to class, not ready—or refusing—to ask “why.” I tear my mind from the thought and the scene. I move up the big, hollow staircase and grip the doorknob, throwing my weight against the door—locked. Struggling with my key, the door swings open suddenly, my own weight lunging me into the darkened room. Cold. So cold. SHHH! Hisses a roommate as I close the door behind me . . . another sleeps on her bead, looking as though in a coma after her long night of studying. Pushing papers and clothing from my little corner, I climb onto the bed and open my one piece of mail. “Superior Court of California,” it read. “RE: PEOPLE vs. SCOTT, MARY ELIZABETH."
Trudging home, back to the stuffy little dorm. My backpack feels like a lead weight, doing all it can to drive me into the mud below. But I pull one boot out at a time, trying to ignore the hostile weather. Moving on as if the wind weren’t constantly driving me back. Lunch. The only solace and respite in my dreary, meaningless day. The crowd pushes me forward, then back, then around, until I get a bite, a mouthful of what I did not want. But don’t dare ask for more or less. No. One takes what one gets and moves on. Circles. Everyone’s back is to me as I wander around the room looking for a place . . . any place, to sit, to fit. Instead I turn away, ignoring the backs. I deposit my tray with all the other filthy, food-smeared platters and turn, with my morsel, back toward the dorm.
Ominous. The huge clouds hulking over the massive, uniform, stucco buildings look angrily down on the humming campus. Little ants that scurry from class to class, not ready—or refusing—to ask “why.” I tear my mind from the thought and the scene. I move up the big, hollow staircase and grip the doorknob, throwing my weight against the door—locked. Struggling with my key, the door swings open suddenly, my own weight lunging me into the darkened room. Cold. So cold. SHHH! Hisses a roommate as I close the door behind me . . . another sleeps on her bead, looking as though in a coma after her long night of studying. Pushing papers and clothing from my little corner, I climb onto the bed and open my one piece of mail. “Superior Court of California,” it read. “RE: PEOPLE vs. SCOTT, MARY ELIZABETH."
