The only thing of substance that I have ever learnt from life is that it is easier to prove that you did do something than to prove that you didn’t. If I, for instance, continue to feed my dog when I am being continually suspected of not doing so, I can easily prove my innocence by evidence that the dog is not anorexic.

Likewise, when I need money and there would appear to be nobody home for me to put a request in for said cash, it is not entirely unconscionable for me to walk into my sister’s room and relieve her of a small portion of her funds. This is easy to prove. I, having no money, and Rose, being plentiful in finances, which somehow gradually decrease everyday; it does not take long for the onus to fall upon me. I, therefore become a prime suspect every time things should go missing from Rose’s room and as a result of my past, as a young bus money thief, I find it harder and harderto prove my innocence.

I have never denied my past. For this reason I took offence when both my mother and my sister cornered me last Wednesday. I woke up relatively early, about 8:30, and proceeded to walk up the hallway and into the kitchen. As I turned into the kitchen however I was thrown two veritably hostile glances. Our kitchen bench, which separates the kitchen and the dining room, had one female on either side, both looking in my direction, both leaning on each side, as if they had each been discussing an issue of dire importance. They remained silent as I walked to the kettle and pushed down the nob to boil the water. I was then confronted about ten dollars owing to Rose, to which I queried as to why I would owe her such an amount. I was then asked whether I took this amount from her room. I replied that I hadn’t. The looks that followed were more than usually insinuative.

A little while after, as my mother and I were driving in the car, the subject was again raised. My guilt highlighted in reference to my previous crimes. As we drove along the motorway previous misdemeanors were mentioned, clearly infringing on my rights as a reformed citizen, it became clear to me just how difficult it is to prove innocence rather than guilt. I had owned up to my crimes, but I would always be a suspect. That silver, shiny, ‘Chuppa Chupp’ money tin that I had dipped into so many times has become a stain on my otherwise clean name. I had not taken the money, in fact it would probably turn up under Rose’s bed in a couple of weeks, just as her charm bracelet did a week after we replaced it, but until then I was the only one informed of my innocence.

The Artist & the Penal SystemBy Jade Thrupp

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