One Choice

Warning: Sorta suicidal thoughts, death, murder

It wasn’t my fault. And yet, here I was anyway. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? I honestly didn’t know anymore. I stopped counting after a week. I stared at the wall. White, like everything else in this infernal place. Even the food was white. I guess it was supposed to make the prisoners go so crazy they didn’t try anything bad. But, they already assumed I was crazy, so I guess it didn't really matter to them. Of course I wasn’t. I had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Again. My entire life, that had been my story. 6 years old, that volleyball that flung right in the grill. 14, walked into the gym floor just as an earthquake happened. I had hung there for hours, my fingertips turning raw from holding on to the tiny ledge. And now. Of course it was the day I missed the bus. Of course I took decided to take the back alleys to get home. Of course I had to run right into a crime scene. As it was happening. I had stood, frozen, unable to move. The killer looked at me, and their black eyes seemed to bore straight into my soul. I heard sirens wailing in the background. Then, before I could even think, they shoved the bloody knife into my hands and sprinted off, disappearing in the shadows of the alley. Then I heard a booming voice shout, 

“Stop right there!” 

Now, here I was, my eyes going blind from the endless whiteness. Maybe I should have marked the days on the walls like those people in the movies. Not that it would have mattered anyway. Life sentence. Whoever actually committed the crime must have been a serial killer. I wouldn’t know. My trials were a blur, my mind unable to get rid of the scene of that day. I should have dropped the knife. Or taken it and run. But the most horrifying thing about that day was the look on the victim’s face as she lay dying. There was such a pleading in her eyes, asking for help, so desperate… I shook my head. I didn’t need more nightmares. 

My stomach rumbled and pain shot up from my gut like fire through my veins. I hadn’t eaten in so long. Every time I tried to eat, the vision of that woman’s face appeared in my head and my stomach clenched with nausea. Even now, months after the encounter, I wake up screaming, yelling about blood on my hands. But I knew I had to eat. I didn’t particularly care if I died, being in this prison was practically the same thing, but I was waiting for that day. 

The day. 

Even thinking about it makes a happy warmth spread from my chest. It’s the only thing that keeps me from the dark thoughts that lurk in my mind. They call for me, and I have kept them at bay for as long as I can, but I don’t think I can hold out for much longer. But I will try to until tomorrow. Because tomorrow, the day, I will see my family again. They will come, I’m sure of it. They have to come. I don’t know what I will do if they don’t. So, ignoring the pain and horrible images that flash under my eyelids every time I blink, I hobble over to the tray of white food that sits on my white table and shove it in my mouth before I could think about the consequences. Then I threw myself onto the bed with white sheets, shoving the white pillow over my eyes and forced myself to sleep. My mind drifted as I thought about the trick my mother used to use to get me to fall asleep. 

She would set me down in bed, pull the covers close to my head, and brush away the strand of hair that always seemed to escape the rest. The she would say to me, her voice low and soft,

“Never try too hard my dear, let go, and the world will come to you. You just have to let it.”

That was the last thing she said to me the night she disappeared. When she left that night, love radiating from her dark form silhouetted against the hallway lights, I felt a clenching feeling in my stomach, as if I somehow knew what would happen. As if 7 year-old me had psychic powers. But I could feel it. I knew it was there. And I was right. After that night, I never saw my mother again. After that night, my family fell apart. After that night, my life was never the same.

**********

I woke up the next morning with the pillow still over my face, drool soaking one half. I groaned and threw the pillow off, and a blinding white light filled my vision. I rolled over and fell flat on my face on the floor, my wrist digging into my stomach.

“Oww.” I pushed myself over and got up, propping myself against my bed. I heard a knock on the door.

“Visiting day!” A deep voice called. My eyes widened. I jumped up and ran to the door, before realizing if they opened it now, my face would become very acquainted with the metal door. I jumped back just in time, and despite myself, smiled. I peered beyond the space between the guards, to the beige wall behind them. Not much color to anyone else, but to someone who had only seen the color white for months, I relished the sight of any other color. The guards grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me forwards, digging their nails into my shoulder. I looked around at everything, the yellow stripes on their uniforms, the silver metal bars on the other inmates' cells, the blue painters tape left on the walls that was newly painted. I was shoved into a small red chair that dug into my sides, but my joy didn’t waver. Some small part in the back of mind issued a warning, be careful. You don’t know if they will actually come. But I ignored it. I didn't want to let myself get my hopes down. At least if you go down, you’ll have nowhere but up to go afterwards. 

I waited, listening to the ticking of the clock that I was pretty sure didn’t work. 

One hour...Two hours...Three…

Suddenly I heard one of the guards call my name. I immediately jumped up and accidentally pulled the chair that was attached to my handcuffs along with me. Before I could blink, I felt the barrel of a gun pressed to my throat, and my face on the hard stone floor. 

“Sorry.” I mumbled against the cold, hard floor. “Just excited.” 

The guards grunted and I felt the gun leave my neck, though I could still feel it’s imprint. I pushed myself up and let myself be led to the visiting room, bulletproof glass with two sides, two phones, and two chairs. Six of these filled the entire room, and the guard pointed to the middle one and pushed me along. I took a deep breath as I wondered who had come to see me. My brother? My dad? Probably not him. I walked over to the glass, and stopped in my tracks as I saw who it was. Long, dark brown hair, shorter than I remembered, blue, piercing eyes like mine, and that warm smile that could fill a whole building. 

My mother had come to see me.