Mar 17
Allyson_Perry's picture

Weekends are for Living

      I sat there on the cold, metal chair not moving, excluding the ever so slight roaming of my eyes, as I surveyed my surroundings. The room was fairly similar to the interrogation rooms you see on television. The entirety of the space was various shades of gray, including me. Well, with the exception of my bright red nail polish. I felt suddenly compelled to examine my finger nails. The aforementioned nail polish was no longer in the perfect fresh manicure condition it had been when I applied it the previous morning. It had begun to peel at the edges and huge chunks had flaked away as a result of my most recent activities. The fire engine red had been dulled, with dirt, to more of a brick or rust hue.

It was then that I noticed the almost silent state of the place. The only audible noises were the hum of the florescent lights and my steady breathing. My heart rate and breathing were a surprisingly even tempo for my current predicament. If you had asked me a week ago what I would do if I found myself in the police station, I would not have predicted my uncharacteristic sense of togetherness.

    Just then the metal door flew open with a loud clang. It was followed by the entrance of a middle aged police officer. Her uniform was slightly wrinkled, but her graying hair was arranged in an immaculate bun that lay in the dead center of the back of her head. She stood just inside the doorway for a minute, simply staring at me. I tried my best not to appear uncomfortable under her penetrating gaze. After what felt like an eternity, she moved to the opposing side of the table, slid back her metal chair which was identical to mine, and seated herself with a loud sigh. Now she was approximately two feet in front of me. The only thing separating us was an ugly table, which held an equally atrocious folder. The police officer, Sergeant Milestone, I learned after reading the silver name tag affixed to her right chest pocket, removed a sheet of paper from the top of the file. Her piercing green eyes scanned the page with distinct disinterest. When she reached the bottom of the page a flicker of amusement seemed to crinkle the corners of her eyes into crows feet, but the expression was fleeting and I am not sure if I imagined it or not. Once she was presumably pleased  with her grasp on the content of her reading, she place the sheet face up on the table and cracked her knuckles one by one. She started with the middle finger and made her way out. This struck me as a peculiar order, as most started from the thumb or pinky.

    “So, you decided to rebel.” She said, her words so loud they seemed to break the sound barrier. I sat silently playing with a new hole in my gray jeans under the table.

    “Well?” She questioned.

    I thought about the inquiry for a second then licked my lips and replied pointedly, “I don’t think rebel is the correct term.” She leaned back in her chair, clearly not impressed by my response.

    “What term would you use then?”

    “I think, I think I finally decided to live. Living is something discouraged by this government, so on second thought maybe I was rebelling.”

    “You decided to live?”

    “Yes exactly. All my life, during the week, I am the poster child for school. I follow every rule, perform exceedingly well academically, and even participate in almost every extracurricular offered. I go home on Friday nights, after whatever activity took place that afternoon, and I do my homework. Then, I spend the weekend merely existing. Existing is not living. My life has been like this for as long as I can remember. This, being the last weekend before I graduate high school, I was set on changing the pattern. I wanted to shake up the dynamic. I decided that weekends are for living. This weekend, tonight, I lived.” The air hung heavy with my words. There was a long pause where the Sergeant stared at me noticeably intrigued. She was trying to figure me out. She wanted to understand me. I think she was having problems trying to turn me into a delinquent. She just wanted to punish me.

    “To you, living is creating a rap sheet?” She finally uttered, seeming unsure of her next move,  “Someone as smart as you must have known what you did was illegal. How do you justify your actions?”    I beamed a smile that was lit with the fire of a thousand suns and said “I thought: I know it's illegal, but it's the weekend!”
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