At no point did she advise when she was leaving and to where. At no time did she put me out of misery and say she’d fallen in love with Justin.
And I was too gutless to ask.
The subject of her vanishing one day slowly buried beneath all the other topics we didn’t discuss.
It fucking killed me to think that the past had repeated itself and Justin had claimed the love of my life, but if it meant she was happy, I would hide my pain forever.
All I could hope for was that every week, she’d turn up. And every week, she’d still be there.
As my friend.
As my family.
Their visits got me through the first few months of claustrophobia. The only bright speck in cell time, yard exercise, and prison monotony. I returned to sketching to keep boredom at bay, sending fortnightly letters to Olive, enclosed with drawings and renders of things created from memory, from my previous freedom.
Justin visited too.
His upbeat convo and antidotes of Olive helped keep me a little sane. He tactfully avoided the subject of O and their home life, and out of respect—to show him I meant what I’d said on the phone—I kept my questions silent.
By the time routine set in, and I accepted my new temporary home, minutes no longer made me suffer such long days. I agreed to lead a painting class for fellow inmates, using broken down easels and painted over canvases. The stock of paints ranged from dry oils to old acrylics, but I never complained.
They were colour.
They were small tubes of freedom into my craft.
I returned to painting normal canvases and not O’s perfect skin.
I didn’t care that some of the inmates would rather flick paint at fellow cellmates than follow my instruction. I didn’t mind that the results of the class were worse than any kindergarten finger painting. It was nice to have a task and a relief to create.
It was also rewarding to conjure a scene that others might see outside of these walls and gave me purpose again when the warden said they’d hold an auction and use the proceeds to buy more supplies for my newly established painting school.
I painted a canvas for Olive, full of owls and ballerinas.
I painted a canvas for O, drawing her tattoo from memory.
Inmates took note of the skill it took to turn lines and shadow into recognisable things and my class attendance switched from taking the piss to dedicated.
I became a teacher.
I thought about Jane Tallup, our daughter, and O.
And through the medium that had always helped calm my thoughts, I somehow helped others too. Fellow prisoners relaxed around me. The stress in their eyes faded while focusing on pigment rather than regrets. I gained more freedom within the new world I inhabited, and I unofficially became someone they could talk to.
I didn’t know how it happened, but the prisoners who took my painting classes seemed more centred and not nearly as violent.
The warden noticed.
He gave us more supplies.
Gave us more opportunities to use our passion for paint in other areas.
When a renovation budget was announced, we put up our hands to help refresh the jail. We painted it from top to bottom—grey walls and white windowsills.
Along with painting, I continued to volunteer for odd jobs and handyman tasks. The yards were redesigned. The gym equipment upgraded. The kitchen supplied with better facilities.
I had every intention of learning new skills, so when I was freed, I could be a reliable father to Olive. I had no idea if my Master of Trickery business would resurrect. I couldn’t check my website or emails. I’d filed for bankruptcy and had nothing left apart from my wonderful daughter.
When I got out, I had no intention of being a failure to society. I planned on finding work straight away because I had no intention of making Olive feel anything but pride.
I wasn’t a convict who had accepted his uselessness.
I was a man who’d paid the price of his mistakes and now was free to move on.
I was the person I always wanted to be.
* * * * *
One day, eighteen months into my term, the warden called me into his office.
I’d had my monthly meeting with the in-house shrink, and my results were glowingly positive. The monthly conclusion was always the same: I wasn’t likely to offend again.
My murderous tendencies were not a repeating occurrence.
I wasn’t a danger to society.
The warden read my file with a frown etched deep into his forehead. He told me the prison was at full capacity, and he’d been instructed to select inmates he felt were rehabilitated enough to be released on good behaviour.
I would be monitored if released early. I would be expected to fulfil my community service.
But there was a chance...a small, small chance, I could go home.
I daren’t let my hope explode.
I nodded calmly and agreed to yet more interviews and assessments.
After a week of talking to people in suits, I was advised they’d be in touch.
I didn’t tell O or Justin about the possibility of being released early. I didn’t want to promise Olive something that I couldn’t guarantee.
A month later, when I was called to see the warden, I refused to be hopeful. The chances of being told that serving nineteen months of a five-year sentence was enough to be freed were slim.
However, fate once again treated me kindly.
Within a week, I’d signed the paperwork, been advised of my parole officer and community service liaison, and given a date.
O and Olive were due to visit me three days after my freedom was reinstated.
I had the choice of telling them the good news.
I mulled over the options of sharing the celebration now—when I was penniless, unsure of my future, and homeless...or wait.
To keep one last secret so I could get back on my feet and prove to them that my past was behind me. I didn’t know how O would take it. Would she be mad that I kept silent and didn’t ask for help, or proud that I hadn’t given up?
It was Olive who made the choice for me.
I called the night I was due to leave and asked how school was going. How things with Justin and O were. She’d said things were good, but she missed me and couldn’t wait until we lived together again.
I’d promised it would happen sooner than we figured. The news of my parole itched to be said, but if I told her, I would break a promise because she couldn’t live with me if I didn’t have anywhere to keep her safe.
A halfway house for reformed felons was not ideal.
And so, I kept quiet.
One last time.
I told her I was coming down with something and to avoid me for a week because I didn’t want her to get sick. I slept one last night in prison, traded my uniform for civilian clothes, and stepped from the gates far sooner than I’d hoped.
The guard signing me out asked if I had family to call or a pick-up arranged.
I just shook my head and strolled from the jail, destitute and in the same clothes I’d faced court in. I’d asked for too many favours of too many people. I would stand on my own feet from now on.
Otherwise, I really didn’t deserve my daughter.
As I’d slinked back into society, I used the change in my pockets to rent a computer in a downtown Wi-Fi café and checked my business accounts.
My emails had dried up.
No commissions had waited nineteen months for a reply.
But at least my Facebook page was still up.
The visibility was obsolete and content buried with no traffic, but the photos and videos were still there. Emblems of my past. Reminders of a talent I once had.