The Confession Of A "Guilty" Man

I believe it’s been ninety days since my incarceration.

Three whole months that I have just been sitting in my cell. Staring at the small tallies I’ve made with the single piece of stone that I found loose on the floor. Each one signaling a different day that I’ve been in, the dreaded, solitary confinement. I’m surprised that they even gave me this notebook at all. 

They must have given to me to keep me from losing my mind. Or to maybe write my own confession. Either way, they aren’t getting it. Because I didn’t kill him. I broke a law, yes. But I did not murder the king in cold blood. I was just simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.

The cell’s small. About maybe my height in length and width. It’s able to fit a bed where my feet dangle and a small toilet. It works, but I’ve definitely slept in better places. They didn’t even bother to give me the decency of a window. The only light I’m to use to write is the crack of it that shines under the door frame.

They want to pin the murder of the king on me. I may not have agreed with many of our late liege’s decisions, but I’ve never held a deep grudge against the man. Not one large enough to kill him. I was only ever there to steal some gold that I felt that the king didn’t really need. It was going to collect dust in that vault, now what kind of life is that for a coin?

Aren’t coins themselves citizens? If they are, I say they’re getting the short end of the stick. We melt their comrades into gold, stamp our sigils onto them and separate them from their nickel based brethren. Trading them for goods and or services that one needs. I say we should start a petition to get these coins the rights that they deserve.

Not sure how well the guard that’s supposed to read this book is going to interpret that meaning. He’ll probably say something like “The bloke’s already gone and started to crack!”

Though the walls of this cell are thick, the small crack in that door frame allows sound to slip through. If I’m really quiet and don’t move the chains continuously wrapped around my wrists and ankles, I can hear what they’re saying. Sometimes it’s other inmates taunting visitors, or the guards laughing with each other about some joke that I’ve missed the punchline for.

I can hear many conversations that take place and I’ve started to memorize certain guard’s voices. I know that there’s one guard, named Jeremy, who recently had gone through a rough divorce with his wife. He claims that she cheated on him. He came home from patrol one night to find the door to his home unlocked. Once he found his wife… It was all over from there. I felt bad hearing about that one.

There’s another guard, Celeste. She’s quite the interesting one. She’s new to the force. If I had to wager, I’d place her age roughly around twenty at the earliest. Yet when she yells at the prisoner to keep their mouth shut, she sounds like she’s forty. At least, not when her voice cracks under her pressure. It’s clear that she’s uncomfortable with this job. I can hear her muttering to herself to stay calm. That these prisoners are just trying to mess with her head, that she shouldn’t let what they say get to her.

Personally, I don’t think she’s going to last another day here. She had one particularly nasty encounter with a prisoner. I heard from another guard named Clarkson, that she was escorting a prisoner to solitary confinement with another named John. On the way, said prisoner was able to wrap his chains around John and knock him off the banisters. Poor Johnny died on impact.

Then the prisoner turned to Celeste and ran towards her. Luckily, two guards stood at the base of the steps and shot at the prisoner. That explains the weird noises I heard about fifteen days in. He didn’t die immediately, but the whole event was enough to convince Celeste that this wasn’t the job for her and she eventually quit. It was a shame too, I really wanted her to be stronger.

Then there was Percy. I hate Percy. He was the one who escorted me into the cell of which I had now grown so accustomed. He must have been a patriot of the murdered king, because he spat in my face the second he saw me. If that wasn’t enough, Percy dragged my face against the dirt and asked me how it felt to ruin an empire. Such a drama queen that Percy.

I don’t think he quite understands how a city works. Everything isn’t going to tumble to the ground just because the monarch dies. If that were the case, wouldn’t you think we would have backup plans in case something like that did happen? The king’s just going to be replaced by another spoiled brat within the year. So why harass the man who didn’t even kill him?

Percy is currently on watch, as of the ninety first day. He’s teaching another new guard how to treat me. By continually banging on my door and disturbing my much needed beauty sleep. The kid said something smart. He asked “Should we really be doing that?” I heard the sound of Percy snorting, I didn’t need to be sitting next to the crack to hear it.

“He killed the king, what’s it matter to anyone?!”

Once again, I hate Percy.

***

It’s about one hundred and twenty days in. I’ll admit, I’ve been forgetting to write some days. It could probably be… about one hundred and fifty days now? I’m not sure. I can feel my brain turning into mush. One of the guards, I think his name was Clarence, brought in a priest to bless me and tell me that the lord had forgiven my grave sin.

This priest was interesting. I had never seen his attire before. Instead of the white garb that many of the city’s official priests used, he wore a deep purple one. The edges of his cloak were threaded with what looked to be a golden linen. His cloak formed a hood around the mantle that held two red rubies surrounded by a silver threading. I wasn’t an expert jeweler, or religious, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that those were real rubies. He certainly wasn’t any kind of priest I’d ever seen before.

I promptly told him that I did nothing wrong. The king was murdered by another, and I could give a description of the individual. The second I got this notebook I had written it down several times, though I believe they must have torn out that page by now. Just in case, I’ll write it again here. I’ve counted it to memory.

Blonde hair, roughly down to the waist. Tied into many different braids. The right side of the head was shaven. A fairly lanky build complete with paler than snow skin. He looked like a ghost of some kind. His eyes glowed a bright blue with slits for irises. Once he saw me, he attempted to attack me with long silver claws that protrude from his fingertips.

I gave the description as best as I could to the commander of the guards the day I was arrested. However, they simply just laughed and told me I had gone mad. I wanted to break the cuffs binding me to that chair and scream that they were the wrong ones. I was being accused of something I didn’t do. But from what I hear, it’s public knowledge that I’ve killed the king now.

My question is, why are they letting this creature get away with it? Do they genuinely believe it was me? That’s impossible. I saw the king’s body before I was dragged away. The deep claw marks on the king’s body were far too long and close together to be done by the simple dagger I held in my scabbard that night (which had not a single drop of blood on it.) Plus, the king’s face was pale. Sure, it could’ve been the fear or the loss of blood in his face, but the way the king’s mouth hung agape.

Something about it just wasn’t right.

It’s like he was screaming from the depths of his soul. Like he was praying to every god he ever knew to come and save him from this fate. Like he saw the face of death itself and the scare alone killed him. The slashings being just for the creature’s enjoyment. Either way, I’m not the one to blame and I’m not giving in to their demands.

***

It’s about two hundred and thirty days now. But that’s just what I’ve been counting. Some days I didn’t feel like keeping track. It takes so much effort just to make the tally. I didn’t really see the point in it at the time. Now, I’m beginning to regret it.

My sentence was that of a lifetime. After all, I (supposedly, you aren’t getting me you seat melded lumps of dung) killed our imperial majesty. King Hobbles the fourth of the Honey suckled dynasty. Who really cares about him all that much? I understand that Percy is one of his biggest fans, but truly, was he that good of a king? 

I don’t recall anything excellent he’s ever done. Maybe Percy’s on watch. Maybe he’s bound to enlighten me on my ignorance. I’m sure he’d love to educate his god’s killer.

It wasn’t Percy.

It was a woman named Jane. We ended up having a wonderful conversation about the king though. She also didn’t like him. She thought that he was too self centered and only ever cared about his kingdom. Jane believed that the king should have sent the armies southward during the war effort. There were people she cared about down there and due to the king’s laziness, they were killed in the ensuing battles.

Well there you are. Jane is the killer. Case closed. Even though her voice didn't sound like she would be lanky or have five inch claws coming out of her fingers. No let’s just pin the blame on the random man who looks like he crawled through a swamp and slept in the sewers for the past month.

I’m tired of this. My hand hurts from the writing and, though I’ve asked so politely, Jane won’t leave her post to go get me another pencil. The one I have right now is too stubby and it hurts worse to write with. This isn’t me confessing to my crimes, this is me giving the notebook to Jane because I refuse to write in it any longer.

Goodbye world I’ve loved. You were great while you lasted.