A/N: A short piece, like many others, written for school. I figured, might as well stick it up here, right?
Disclaimer: I do not own To Kill a Mockingbird.
No.
No.
This could not be happening.
Atticus had had all the evidence stacked in his favor; there was no way Tom could have raped the Ewell girl.
I sat there in the balcony next to Scout, unable to believe what I had just heard. No. It was impossible, unfeasible. Ridiculous. How could a jury do such a thing? It was so obvious what had happened! Under normal circumstances the verdict would have been clear enough for a bird to fly into!
But the circumstances weren't normal, I reminded myself. They were far from normal.
Because Tom Robinson was Negro. And Mr. Ewell, though he was an dirty evil jerk of a man, though all of Maycomb hated him and all he stood for, though we just couldn't stand to look trash like him in the face, though even Atticus thought his family was nothing but trouble, the fact remained that, well, he was white.
But still, it was obvious that Mayella was lying, obvious as the fact that my little sister's a hot-blooded moron and that Dill can't tell the truth if he tries and that Aunt Alexandra is full of nonsense half the time. So why hadn't Tom gotten off?
Hadn't all of Atticus's efforts paid off?
How could anyone send an undeniably innocent man to jail, an innocent man with a family, two boys just about Scout's age, a little girl a third of my size, a wife who would miss him?
Atticus had never given me the delusion that good always triumphed over evil. Comes with the lawyer's son territory. But this time good had gotten steamrolled.
And it was all I could do to keep from breaking out into tears.
I didn't, of course. I was too old for that; crying was for kids, not for guys like me.
But I must have looked like I was going to, because Scout cocked her head in concern and asked me if I was feeling alright, because she hadn't seen me look so weird since Mr. Nathan sealed up our tree-hole nook.
I didn't answer her. I couldn't. I was too busy thinking about how I had always wanted to be a lawyer (except for that week in first grade when I wanted to be a professional tee-ball player). How I wanted to help people, make the world a better place. Aid justice, and comfort those who were falsely accused. Just like Atticus.
But now I knew that it just wouldn't make a difference.
You can't change people's opinions; they make them too quickly and too stubbornly.
I didn't want to be a lawyer anymore.
I didn't want to struggle and come out with nothing in the end.
When we returned home, I just stared at the wall.
And finally, I couldn't take it anymore.
I locked myself in the bathroom. And though I knew it wasn't tough, it wasn't manly, though I knew I was too old for it, I couldn't help it.
I just stared at my reflection in the mirror and cried.
