No justice for me

I never wanted to be the sword of justice but here I was, after years of not trying my best in law school, at the Judge in Training table, paid by the Department of Justice to learn the ropes before it would throw me in court.
For everybody else it was a triumph, for me it was the thing I’ve failed to fail at. My father? Walking like a peacock through our small town days after the news. My mother? Never more proud of me, slipping the info in every conversation, I made cabbage rolls and my son got into the National Institute of Magistracy. My friends? Gloriously patting me on the back, good job, you did it.
I understood why, it was no small victory. Take a couple of thousand Bachelors of Laws, some of them trying for the eighth-ninth or tenth year, test them for two weeks straight, see how they do in law theory, civil and penal, IQ, mental sanity, health, then interview the remaining hundreds in front of a camera and pick the next judges and prosecutors for the whole country.
How I got through that without really wanting the job? My fucking ego. I needed to know I’m one of the best gunslingers out of law school, needed the world to know. Well, maybe not the entire world, but the admission process is national news in my country.
That’s how I ended up looking at detailed photos of a hanged man and finding out all about the wonderful consistency of his neck’s purple marks. Reminded me of how passionate my criminology teacher described the blood pattern on the ceiling in a case of scorned wife versus one husband’s cheating penis.
My clear lack of enthusiasm for something that was holding the front page of every paper, the businessman found dangling in the wind from the balcony of his shiny new villa, was my final sign. It was time to face my truth, all this wasn’t me.
I knew that from the first day, just didn’t let it sink in. When one of the Supreme Court’s judges came in the room, every single one of my peers said something in line with ”It’s my dream to be here” and I said… ”hello”. When a top prosecutor introduced himself as our guide to organized crime, every single one of my colleagues said something in line with ”It’s my dream to be here” and I said… ”hello”. When an information officer informed us that… you see where I’m going with this, don’t you?
Then there was the big house incident. A hot sweaty morning started the day with the bus going through the steel gates of our largest prison. Guns, frowns and brawn.
”They hate you and cops the most, don’t respond and don’t provoke. Understood?”
”Yes, sir.”
We rose above their banter as we walked the narrow halls; us, the angels of justice, them, the demons of crime, armies of heaven and hell never at peace. Only I was no angel, and the crossed eyed gangbanger in cell 108 definitely had a devil’s mouth on him, worthy challenger for me to rise above no more.
I engaged in such a meaningful conversation with the 108’s guests that in no time the entire B block was screaming, kicking the bars and throwing stuff at us. They really couldn’t take sarcasm.
Me trying to tell myself that I don’t belong. At least the girls loved me. You know how rare you come across a handsome genius rebel at the National Institute of Magistracy? Never, but one out of three was also pretty rare, and I sure was a rebel.
Finally, it came down to this: where everyone saw a chance to bring justice and fairness to the people, I saw a life buried in human misery, under mountains of files about how cruel can we be with each other. On one side of the scale stood my family and everything they’ve done to get me there, on the other stood my very soul. My soul tipped the scale by a feather.
When I handed in my resignation it was like the God of Thunder put his hammer through the building. The news lightninged upwards till it reached the top floor, where I was called the next second.
”Are you crazy?”
Apparently, I was the first ever and the director wasn’t having it.
”Think what you are giving up.”
I did.
”Take two weeks to think about it.”
Won’t change shit.
”Fine, take a year.”
Can I do that?
”Say you’re pregnant and you need a year off.”
Until that moment I considered myself a masculine sort of guy. I’m a man…
”Girlfriend, do you have a girlfriend?”
I do, proud of it, wasn’t easy.
”Good, get the paper and I’ll sign you off for a year.”
I confess, for a split second I thought my father's a doctor, faking a pregnancy is totally doable. The irony was very appealing, forging papers to postpone being a judge. Talk about a nice career start.
”You are on your own,” said my father that evening and hanged up; obviously I didn’t go for the pregnancy scheme. I had no place to stay, no money and a new city to figure out. It was perfect for the free me, the artist, the writer, the creator, the man with a dream. Very important note, I had Friends, yes, with a capital F.
It feels like a lifetime ago, that day. Ten years later, I’m a professional writer with a 4.5 stars rating on Goodreads and real fans(something that a judge will never ever have).
You would think I’m happy, but no, it’s not enough, I need more, I need to know I'm one of the best. This fucking ego will be the death of… oh, I did get my girlfriend pregnant after all.
