My Own Prison 

It was a warm, lazy July afternoon. I was catnapping on my bed in the basement of my parents' house when I heard a knock on the door. I rolled over and ignored it. The knock came again, more insistent, followed by strange voices calling for me. My mother finally came to the door and called down to me the words you never want to hear, especially when napping: "The police are here to see you".

I shook myself awake, wondering what it was all about as several detectives and uniformed officers descended the stairs. I found out soon enough: my husband called the police and told them that I had threatened him with a gun, along with other nasty (untrue) allegations.

No matter what I said, the police didn't believe me. Even though the entire story was a lie, no one wanted to hear it. They just take you to jail and let the courts sort it out. I've always found that the person believed is the one who called first.

I was taken to central booking where I spent the night, awaiting arraignment. It was cold, which I didn't mind, and I loaned my jacket to a few other prisoners so they could use it as a blanket. There was a payphone in the holding cell and I was able to call people and let them know where I was.

One of my friends asked me what I wanted them to do. "Should we go beat him up? Slash his tires? Burn his house down?!" she asked, hoping I'd say yes (no one much liked him anyway). I told them not to do anything, because I was still hoping I could fix this. I didn't want to do anything that would make the situation worse (or, be traced back to me).

I spent twenty seven hours in that cell before seeing a judge and being released. Twenty seven hours is a long time to just lie on a cold, hard bench and figure out how you are going to destroy someone you loved. Plotting and planning, that is how I spent my time in jail.

Of course, once I got out, I did nothing. I was too nervous about getting into any further legal trouble. I'm glad I did the right thing, even if it was for the wrong reasons. By the time I was in a position to exact some sort of fantastic revenge on my ex, I didn't want to anymore. Revenge is a dish best served cold--and, if you wait long enough, a dish you may not even have the taste for anymore.