Beneath Civil Pardons

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    The room was dull in color. Browns and beiges flooded the walls and floors. The lack of air was pungent, strangling me secretly. Benches were filled with burdened faces and twitching hands. Myself, would soon be added to that list, I just hadn't found my seat yet. My mother's hand on the small of my back felt insignificant as I met the eyes of my father. The ground became my focal point. I counted the stitches in the worn carpeting, one by one. Interrupted by the too-loud voice of the baliff, I forced my shaking legs to stiffen and allow me to stand. All judges look the same, basically, each with their own threatening and powerful impersonating expression. I know that charade all too well. Here, I was just the scared and fragile minor witness. I felt as just, scared, tragic almost. But yet, I was fierce. I would often pass mirrors in my house to scowl at my reflection, sometimes scared by the confusion I felt in my own eyes. 

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