Crime Suspense

This story contains sensitive content

-this contains physical violence and mental health content


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I hate this stupid jail cell. I hate his lawyer. I hate my lawyer. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I hate how clever his brain is and how stupid mine is. I hate how he played me. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I hate the noises coming from the surrounding cells. I hate my life. I hate the crime that he framed for. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I hate the prison guards and how they stare into your soul and watch your every move. I hate the soggy oatmeal soup I have to eat every single morning. I hate the breeze from the barred-up window. There are no sheets on the “bed”. If that’s what you would call it. At least not in these cells. The ones for the murderers. But I didn’t murder. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I hate his tricks. I hate the chains digging into my heels. The whispers from all around are getting to me. The hissing of the evil guards who don’t believe me. The spit that drops from their mouths in distaste for us prisoners. Some of us falsely accused. Others truly committed the crimes they will die for. Hanged outside for all the other prisoners to see. To scare them, as if saying, “You’re next. This is what will happen to you.” That will be me eventually. Scaring people with death. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I will never get tired of writing that. They will be my last words if I don’t get out of here. It is June now. It has been for four days. The air is slightly warmer. Slightly. I still shiver at night on the cold hard wall beds. I don’t know when I will be hanged. Or if I will be hanged. Some people die in other ways. Some people have such terrible deaths, their screams echo through these stone cold walls and frighten even the toughest prisoners. No one knows how those people die. I hope I never find out. Some people are shot with rifles. Shot full of lead. Dead full of lead, that’s what we say here in the prison. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. Ten people died today. Ten. Most of the time, we go weeks without one person dying. That could be me at any time. I could be the one hung up there tomorrow. Dead. Dead full of lead. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I hate to remember how smug his face looked like when the judges sentenced me to die, after a while in jail. It’s miserable here. The only decent thing is getting packages. In May, I got this journal. My sister had written a note telling me to write this journal so when I die, she can see what happened. No one is allowed to visit. I don’t really care. My sister was the only important person in my life. My dad was always drunk, and my mom was a jerk, favoring my sister. Still told me she didn't have favorites. One of my least favorite lies I’ve heard. After Nathaniel’s of course. I hate him. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. They took my cellmate, Matt, yesterday. I guess I forgot to say that I had a cellmate. He seemed older, but not old old. Like in his forties or thirties. He had been there long before me. Well, not that long. Ever since the beginning of June, he had been telling me he was going to go soon. I didn’t believe him. He was crazy. He never slept and rocked back and forth in the corner muttering, “They're coming, they're coming.” He had acted like a psychopath. But he was right. They were coming. For him at least. He had almost been like a friend. Almost. I would be scared until I die. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I hate the trauma he’s caused. I hate how I’m slowly going insane. It’s the food and noise. The screams. The rifle shots. Bullets killing people. Dead full of lead. I don’t even know what to say anymore. I’m just waiting. Waiting to die. To be done with him. The one who caused this. He should be the one sitting here, asking himself, “Will I die today?” He should be the one suffering and eating soggy breakfast. He should be the one chained to the wall, with the iron poking into his skin. It. Should. Be. Him. I hate Nathaniel Evans. 


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I used to think it would never get old. Writing that over and over. But now, now it gets old. My pencil pushes harder and harder into the paper every time as if he might feel it if I pushed hard enough. But I know he won’t. He's probably sitting in a mansion that was paid for by the government with the money he got for finding me. For accusing me of the murder. I hate how he knew he would get money if he accused me. I hate how he got rich and probably famous for framing me. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. My pencil broke last time I etched those hideous words into this paper. I’m now using a dusty old piece of chalk I found in the corner. It’s almost August now. It will start getting cold and I’ll go back to shivering in my sleep. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. I’m sure I’m going to die soon. When the guards walk past, they look at me and whisper. The air is very cool now and the guards almost look like they pity us. But I doubt they do. They are heartless creatures. They give us cold oatmeal and don't even give us time to go outside. Not that I would want to now, but in the summer, it would have been nice. The guards don’t know nice. Neither does Nathaniel. I hate Nathaniel Evans.


I hate Nathaniel Evans. Soon I won’t be able to because I'll be dead. The guards now pace in front of my cell and their whispers become louder. They haunt my dreams. My dreams as cold and hard as the bed. The guards are looking at me from across the jail. He can’t see that I’m writing. He’s too far away. I think today is the day. I will hide you and hope the right person comes along. They are walking over. I can hear their keys. I hate Nathaniel Evans. 


I hate Nathaniel Evans. Whoever wrote this wanted to get that across. If you’re watching me, I read the whole thing. Nathaniel must’ve been a really terrible person. I guess I’m the first person in this cell after you. Or maybe people before me just didn’t find it. Or maybe they just didn’t write in it. I’m writing in it, though. But I’m only here for a little while. I have to go to court soon. I was falsely accused, too. I hope I get away. Not get away because I’m innocent. I hope I am not found guilty. There's no proof I did it. And I didn’t do it. I’m not sure if you’d want me to write this, but on behalf of my circumstance, I will. I hate Nathaniel Evans.

February 19, 2023 21:53

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