Thoughts of an Outsider

“What’s your name?”

The words spoken by the woman minutes ago still lingered in the air, as if the words remaining there would somehow convince the young brown-haired boy to talk. The woman watched for some expression on his face but sighed, finding none. His eyes were searching the room for something. She was speechless, too. She couldn’t believe that this was the boy she was supposed to see. In her ten years of experience as a juvenile hall psychologist, she had never seen anyone like him. The sixteen-year-old boy sitting in front of her did not match the description she received of a psychopathic wild boy who angrily shot a classmate with a 9 mm Parabellum pistol. He just couldn’t be the person who shot a boy five times continuously, without showing mercy to him even after he was dead. No, the woman thought, this is not the right guy.
            She looked again at the biosheet she received from the office, the photo matched. She reread the sheet again. A 16-year-old eleventh grader with a sparkling resume; all A’s in AP classes, no referrals, no suspensions and one single detention for not handing in a homework on time. Teachers described him as smart and friendly, someone who never spoke about another person in a negative manner. ‘So why?’ she thought, ‘you just don’t fit the criteria for a psychopathic killer. If only you would talk… if only you would tell me what that dead boy did. Was he a bully? Did he hurt you? Perhaps you acted in defense, in which case, you shouldn’t be within these juvi walls. The judge found you guilty, right? But on what terms, boy? Don’t you, as a human being, have some say? If you never gave your side of the story, how could they pass a judgment on you? People around here say that the jury was merciful to you, by sentencing you to 25 years rather than life in prison. So it’s not your life that’s locked up, it’s your youth. And when you do get out, society will hate you, it will discriminate against you; it just won’t accept you. Wouldn’t your whole life, then, be worse than any penalty? You won’t find a decent job, your family might forsake you, your friends… haven’t they already started to hate you? Talk, boy, talk to me.
                Maybe you’re scared of me, of being judged by me. I promise, boy, I will be fair to you. I won’t judge you. Talk to me, please. For God’s sake, open your mouth. It will be better for you. I don’t want to hear the why’s, I really don’t. I just want to know the who’s; who you are, who you want to be and who you can be. I really don’t want to know what you did, whether you’re guilty or innocent, that’s simply not the point. I want to know your favorite color, the video game you like to play, your childhood ambition, your hero, the movie you watched a million times, your best friend; just the simple things in life. Please, boy, talk to me.
         I wonder what you’re thinking. Are you debating within your conscience? Is one side of your mind telling you to talk to me and the other one forbidding you to do so? In all honesty, I root for the former side. You’re not scared, are you? No, I was wrong. It’s not fear I see in your eyes. Then what is it? Is it anger? Revenge? No, I’m wrong again. It’s sadness, despair, disappointment. I can’t tell you to cheer up. What right do I have to do that? You have every right to be sad but please let me help you. I promise I’ll be on your side. Just talk to me, boy, talk.
         You know, I have a son, a precious one just like you. He’s four years old. You should hear all the charming things he’d say, all the mischief he does with his little hands. Yesterday he asked me if he could come to work with me, and I told him that he can when he’s a big boy. He said that he wants to be a big kid soon. I hope the world will treat him well.  I bet you were a cute kid too, your mom’s little gem. Tell me about your mother. Did she hold your hand when she was taking you to the first day of playschool? Did she look at you proudly as you stood there with your little kindergarten diploma? Or were you a daddy’s boy? I bet you liked to play baseball with your dad and steal his ties from his closet. I can just imagine you fighting with your little brother. Talk to me, boy. Who is your most favorite person in the world?
         You’re looking at me as though I’m crazy. You must be wondering why I have tears running down my face. I’m sorry I have nothing else to offer except for this silence we sit in, except for the tears in my eyes. I’m sorry I have no words of comfort. Talk to me. Tell me I am a crazy woman, tell me something! You’re probably wondering why they pay me to be comforting when me, the person who supposedly knows everything about the mind, when I have nothing to say. I think perhaps you’re tired of listening. That’s why I’m not speaking. You probably had to listen to a million words from the jury and a gazillion more from your defense attorney; even more from your warden and the other so-called “criminals” in your section. I’m not like them, I promise. No, boy, talk to me, I will listen to you. I am on your side.’

“Ethan. My name’s Ethan….”