Like Judas

Weeks of running, chasing the tail of crack and smack, the opposing demon siblings. Dodging police, each narrow miss another weight on him. Paranoia, like a fever, seizing him, flinging him into prickly bushes; chasing him across lines of fast traffic, pushing him to scale walls, scrape his shins, fall; leading him to muddy waters, dunking him.

If the police didn’t get him
he’d grow too weak to swim.
He would sink.

I prepared his last supper, and, like Judas, I attended, smiling while he tasted; chewed; passed compliments on the food, all the while assessing his pitiful condition: face and hands cut and bruised; ripped jeans stained where the blood had seeped through.
I looked at his eyes, hooded by brows that I had not designed, pupils working overtime; taking in the room; flicking to the curtained window – his tormented mind visualising police in the darkened street.

Judas did it with a kiss, but in this age of technology I did it with a click. My text sent, its single word a simple request beginning a short chain of events resulting in a tense knot of uniforms beyond my door.

As the handle turned, my heart churned, altering the shape of my fear, but offering no relief.

a
six
year
prison
sentence
was expected.
it felt like
eons,
like
f
o
r
e
v
e
r

The police were kind; they gave him time to say goodbye. I looked into his face and recognised the child I’d raised who’d filled my soul with love and pride – I’d thought that child had died, but suddenly, as if he’d been baptized, arrest had cleansed him of his sins, sloughed away the years of filth the drugs had left behind. The feeling of grief and loss redoubled, splintering beneath my ribs. Pity dripped into my soul. I had to fight to hide my tears: crying wouldn’t ease his journey to the cells. When we parted, a brave smile clung unconvincingly to my twitching lips.

My eyes stayed dry;
I didn’t shake; I didn’t hit the floor –
until I heard that final sound –
the slamming
of the
door

This post was inspired by a heartrending post on grieving and healing mothers. My poem tells of an event that occurred over two years ago, and is therefore no more or less than a part of my history. My son was arrested and imprisoned in March 2014. He received a thirty month prison sentence – far less than was expected, and has since been released on licence on three occasions, only to be returned each time for infringing his licence agreement. He will remain in prison until September, after which time his sentence will be over.

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Author: janebasilblog

Jane sits around and writes a bit, then she does some other stuff, then she sits around and writes a bit more, then she eats something. Sometimes, at night, she goes to bed.

23 thoughts on “Like Judas”

      1. I just clicked on that link, and got “Sorry, this content isn’t available right now.”
        This is my general facebook account. https://www.facebook.com/jane.basil.9?fref=ts
        I also have a facebook writing page, linked to WP but it’s out of action at the moment. It’s a WP fault, but there’s no point in asking them to fix it – they’ll either ignore me or say they’ve fixed it when they haven’t.

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  1. You know I suppose that should have been shocking or something, but more than that I found it intensely interesting when I thought of the stamina it took for you to feed him and then let the evening take its course.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. He’s a slow eater. I waited until he was half-way through the meal, then texted the word “Now” to someone who put through an emergency call to the police for me – I set it up just before he arrived. I’d couldn’t make the call, as he may have become suspicious if I left the room, but it was easy to press send. It was hard to act casual when all I wanted to do was hug him.
      I wish I hadn’t had to involve a third party. She was still in trauma long after I’d got over it, though she knew it was the best thing to do – for Paul and for our family.
      It was horrible, but now it’s history – it’s a shame history has a habit of repeating itself. I hope I don’t have to do it a third time 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      1. The first time he was arrested it was down to me. The second time he was treated unfairly, and I was furious about his arrest. I was away at the time. The third time they picked him up at my place, but it was nothing to do with me, and he had been asked to be recalled to prison, for his own good. Last time – three weeks ago – I called the cops on him because he was on the run again, and was going the same way as he had before his first arrest. He nearly drowned a couple of nights before I did it, and it was getting scary. He knows it was me, and he’s not angry.

        Liked by 1 person

    1. It may be easier for your son than for you. He’s getting used to the way of life, finding it’s not so bad. Have you visited him yet? If not, I suggest you arrange a visit soon. It won’t make everything fine, but it could help.

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      1. Yes Jane – I have sent my application forms (visitor) in for approval. Our family dynamics are difficult – my husband is not willing to be sympathetic or forgiving of his son; he is very centred on how ‘his son’s actions’ have affected him. Layers of issues – I suppose that is a common theme within families like ours. Thank you for your wisdom.

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      1. Yes – I feel not only like Judas, but I feel that I showed my son that I no longer had faith in him. Did my action of lodging the Missing Person Report instigate his further drug demise? Or was he already his own train wreck? Either way my sanity and soul are running on empty at the moment!

        Liked by 1 person

      2. I seem to be missing something – surely filing your son as a Missing Person shows concern for his welfare. It’s a normal thing to do when someone you love has disappeared.
        He was using crack. Crack is a monster that strips the user of all humanity – but the effects are reversable. If he gets clean he’ll go back to being himself. I don’t know where you live – in the UK, he’d be unlikely to access crack in prison, but I don’t think you’re in the UK…

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    1. I can’t say I know how you feel – nobody can ever know how another person is feeling – but I do know that you’re suffering is beyond words.For a long time I thought the agony and grief would kill me, but it didn’t. Each time there was a new crisis I’d think I couldn’t take any more. Sometimes I’d curl up on the floor, expecting – even hoping – to die, then I’d stand up and get on with my life, such as it was. People told me they didn’t know how I kept going, but I’m no hero. It happens, it’s horrible, and you have no choice but to keep going forward. You will survive this.
      I don’t know if this link is any use to you – it’s worth taking a look. I go to a group in my area, but I don’t do the 12 step programme: http://www.familiesanonymous.org/

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Thank you – I truely appreciate your wise words. I should try and connect with people in my proximity – I am an intrinsically shy and private person, so talking ‘face to face’ with others would be a big step for me.
        However, just reading your words of ‘going forward’ and ‘surviving’ has helped.
        I also enjoy reading your blogs!

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