“20 years.” I said, emotionless.

Hillary just took my arm, moving her masculine hand with perfect nails down to my palm, grasping it fully. “We’re going to appeal.” She stated, not believing it herself, but nevertheless trying to heal the fear in my eyes.

“No we’re not. We’re bargaining from having to go to trial. We’re settling.”

The LA Courthouse was busy but no one seemed to notice Hillary and I sitting on a bench, our lives slowly turning inside out, waiting for our final hearing after lunch. It wasn’t until Hillary looked at me with eyes full of tears that I realized the finality of what was happening to me.

“But it’s not my fault.” I said, knowing full well this was the direct result of all of my actions. I did have a psychological disorder, but that didn’t hide the fact from the judge my history of violence.

“I’ll be there forever.”

“No, you won’t. Greystone will continue to work with you on a psychological profile and within a few years…”

“Few years? You mean eight birthdays, eight summers, eight New Years--- 8 years until I’m eligible for parole/review.”

“You know what you’ve done, yes?”

I simply nodded. I hate it when people took that tone of voice, when they talked to you like you’re some kind of pet, “you know what you’ve done? You know where you’re going?” Bullshit.

The ringing sounds of people’s shoes hitting the linoleum floor echoed down the corridor past us, lawyers and attorneys, clean and pressed clothes, hair and make-up ready for a television camera. The perfect people, people who have judged me my entire life. The other side of the nightmare called my life. Well, screw them. I’ll take my 20 years. I’ll do my 8 until parole and once I get out, I’ll be perfect.

I’ll be these people walking down the hallway, their fancy dress shoes CLACKING the floor with sounds of importance, with the sounds of a better life.

And yet you look in their faces and you can see their misery. Pretending to be happy with their 9 to 6pm existence, getting in their fancy cars at the end of the day, returning home to their families and a certain peace of mind that perhaps one day all of this will be over.

“We’re ready.” Mumbled my attorney to Hillary. It was showtime, to decide the future of my life.

Hillary’s car pulled out of the parking lot, me in the front seat. We both glanced at the car clock on the dashboard. I had 4 hours until I had to report to Greystone or face criminal prosecution. Bottom line, there wasn’t enough evidence to convict, but enough to clearly point to a problem. I agreed with their settlement, taking my 20 years--- which, with good behavior, could equal out to 8 years.

I now had 4 hours before Hillary would become a visitor to me only during certain hours during the week.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Disneyland.”

We were both silent. Now I took Hillary’s hand–and I simply nodded at her.

After getting some new belongings, we returned to the mental facility called Greystone, which would now be my home for a long time.

Unless, of course, something really bad happened to change that fact.