Chapter one
Russ Brennan was a jail bird. At least for the time being. His probation had been extended for four months for jumping bail, he missed his girlfriend and her daughters whom, he cherished as his own, did not know he was a convicted felon. Still, he was counting his blessings. Who would have said his life would turn out like this? When you're seventeen, Mr Popularity and your family loves you, it is difficult to predict that at 36 you'll be doing time for something or other. Yes, all in all, Russ Brennan was very happy to be missing his 20 year high school reunion.
As it was, Russ was sitting through a creative writing class. It took jail to make him sit through one. Mr Friedman, a mousy little man, was addressing a room where 20 mildly dangerous convicts sat in tables that made them look like over inflated versions of themselves. It made them uncomfortable as the inadequacy of the chair more than mimicked- it morphed into their own. But what made Russ stick with the humiliating chair and the good for nothing class was the need to impress the parole board with an exemplary behaviour. The board and, of course, Tempe, his not so little sister.
Mr Friedman was handing out slim notebooks to each of the inmates and, in his quiet manner, explaining what he wanted out of his pupils, however certain that few would even bother.
"I want you to write your story. This is not a test, so you can opt for fiction if you want, but I would prefer an honest, hand in heart biography. We all have our secrets, our sorrows, our embarrassments. Tap into those things, those feelings and put yourselves into paper. It will be private. You think of me as a priest" he chuckled lightly at his own joke "or your lawyer. Nothing will be held against you!"
Russ took his note book and looked at it with increasing dread, the feeling augmenting when he looked at all the accusatory blank paper demanding that he rise to the occasion. Tempe, Russ, thought, would have no issues with the assignment. Hadn't she kept a stash of little notebooks she used to fill with stories since the time she had learned her ABCs? His mouth twisted in a feeling that was, in equal parts, sibling rivalry, pride and old sense of insufficiency. Mr Friedman, keen observer of humans, mentally compared the look in Russ' face at that very moment to a dear caught in the headlights of a speeding car. He also made a mental note to use in his projected book on jail life.
Russ knew. The difficult part was to start. Blank paper held dread, not promise. The subject seemed unremarkable, unworthy of the time and effort. Mr Friedman approached him in a manoeuvre he wouldn't try with many of Russ' counterparts.
"Start simple, Brennan. Don't go for the Nobel Prize." Russ nodded, silently. Took two deep breaths and felt himself relax. He went for the David Copperfield approach.
I am born
He looked at it for a moment. What of his childhood? It would be a short chapter. He had grown into a man at 7.
I was born Kyle Keenan in 1972. I had a regular mum and a regular dad, a regular life, and when I turned 4, a got a regular little sister. In 1979 Kyle died and Russ Brennan was born. My daddy, an affable man told me to forget my name and he gave a new one. He impressed on me the gravity of the hour by pointing at my mother and sister and telling me how I would be killing them if I ever remembered my real name. I learned the value of deceit. Then, he pointed a man standing outside our house and told me that I was to run and protect my baby sister. I learned how to leave. I was seven, but I took that responsibility. On hindsight, as I father, I ask myself what could a seven year old have done had that man come calling back. The child I was then became Russ, with a not so regular mum, a not so regular dad and a not so regular life. My eyes always on the other side of the street, my baby sister always under watchful eyes. I would call out "Marco", she would answer back "Polo". From when she was two to the moment I left her alone in an empty house where there should have been a family, I was her safe place and that was our safe word.
Page 1 of 1