True Murder.
From my angle of the room, I can just make out the last rays of light as the disappearing sun slides over the horizon. On the bunk below, Nelson stirs, his snoring a rhythmic beat, muttering as he comes to. Looking out past them iron bars, is another world that’s in constant flux. A straight road leads onto the distance, dull gunmetal grey. On both sides the fields are awash with colour; a golden corn field swaying in the gentle breeze one side, the other deep purple lavender. But it’s the solitary tree that I love, standing there, forever changing with the seasons of the year while in here every hour stays the same. In winter that tree its branches bare and sticking out resembles a skeleton, its framework stark against the snow. But it’s that tree that keeps me sane in this small cell. Many times, Ive stood looking out at the world beyond and wishing things could have been different. Down the corridor the heavy thud of doors slamming reverberates through the old building I call home. The guards shout “Lights out gentlemen as locks click and snap before peering through the letterbox flaps making sure everyone’s accountable. Reaching our flap, he lifts, before spiting at me before, shouting as loud as possible, “And that means you to Henderson! Lights out!!!
Awoken by the commotion, Nelson wearily sits up, wiping the remnants of
sleep and says, “Don’t take no notice lad. Just keep quiet, keep your head
down and do your time.”
“I shouldn’t be here, I’m innocent. “I cry, punching the bunk in my
frustration.
“Everyone’s innocent in here, didn’t you read the notice on the way in,” he
laughs. “Want my thoughts lad?”
I merely shuck my shoulders.
“Keep up with the writing, quite impressed what you’re done so far.” he says before
laying back down on his bunk. “They say write what you know, and you lad, know
murder. Don’t let that torch go to waste and get your story out there, least in way you
will have escaped and got your name free.”
I must admit I do enjoy writing and if it gets me free in some way got be better than
feeling sorry for myself and staring at them bars. With new energy I swing onto my bunk,
grabbing a small torch, some paper and pen and begin to write. For now, the only
Sound is of my pen, as it dances across the paper scratching what’s in my head.
The Killer.
With hands sticky with blood, I wipe away the tiny beads of sweat that cling to my face as I climb the hill. My legs hurt with exertion as they pump ever upward until I rest and look backward. Even now as I reach the summit I cannot believe I’m totally free. As the light starts to unfold, behind me, I can only imagine the alarms ringing and the steady beat of hobnailed boots stamping on the concrete; their hands full of snarling dogs, barking as they sniff my retreating odour.
Fiinally flopping down at my favourite tree, an ancient oak that’s see it all before. Enjoying the evening breeze, I ponder my next move. Autunm, that’s my preferred time of year when I was much younger; when the last of the golden leaves have fallen and thetrees prepare for the approaching winter as they huddle together, their bare branches snapping in the biting northern wind.
Me and Petra would love to run through the rotting leaves, kicking and laughing as they floated, almost in slow motion, in a spiral of vibrant shades of crimson, orange. Far below us the town lights wink one by one into as the approaching night sheds the last vestiges of deep mauve and indigo. Already, the curtains are being draw, the old gas boilers flickering into life, people’s homes shutting like clams. Sitting here watching from my favourite tree as a boy, I can still feel the rough bark digging painfully into my back. Up here among the screeching birds I imagine the lives and stories that emit from the town below.
It’s been too long since I’ve been here. The last time was when I had the bust up with Petra. I been a fool, accusing her of sleeping around, which was rubbish, I was angry, and it was unfair to lay the blame of my unhappiest at her. I left, needing time to cool down. Tomorrow things would be better, and I might even mention the M word. Reaching home, I went straight to bed and must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow
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I pull myself away from the story and relax for a moment. I’m pleased with what I’ve got down on paper, but I need to have my main character at the centre of the action. He needs to smell the blood, feel the harsh reality of what’s happened in this sleeping town. It’s almost like midsummer murders. Scratching my head I lay back down and try to get the words and the angle of the story that works. Nelson is sleeping peacefully, and the only other sounds are of a disgruntled inmate yelling in the distance.
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It’s been too long since I’ve been here. The last time was when I had the bust up with Petra. I been a fool, accusing her of sleeping around, which was rubbish, I was angry, and it was unfair to lay the blame of my unhappiest at her. I left, needing time to cool down. Tomorrow things would be better, and I might even mention the M word. Reaching home, I went straight to bed and must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Waking early next day, the glorious light filtering through the window I feel so much better. Getting dressed I suddenly hear the scream of a young girl. It sounds like sister from downstairs, she almost sounds hysterically. Something I’ve never know before. Hastily I rush down the stairs, almost tripping in my part dressed trousers and fall through to the living room. Mum is there, her hair in disarray, her features grey as stone as she cradles my little sister.
“What’s going on?” Is all I can get out before Daisy, my sister, sobbing so at first, I can’t commute what she’s telling me.
“It’s Petra!! She’s dead, I can’t believe it.” She says before bursting into tears again.
“Dead? What do I mean,” I say sounding even stupid to me
“Dead as in someone murdered her last night.,” she said angrily.
“Murdered? How, why?” My head was swimming with all this information. “I was with her last night, we had a row, and I was going to patch things up today and propose.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I feel the contents of my insides rising. Staggering to the loo I’m violently sick, and I just sit there waiting for the bile to recede. Joining my sister and mum I don’t know what to say.
“The police were around early this morning; it was them that told us. They said they would be back, think they want to talk to you.”
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With an aching arm I put down my pen, my eyes trying hard to focus on what I’ve written. I think it’s good but then again, I’m going to bias. Outside, the night is a deep well of ebony stretching forever. As my eyes become accustomed to the dark, I can just make out the tiny glow of lights. I think to myself that the universe is so large, with an infinite number of stars and stories. I’m not happy with what I’ve wrote, perhaps tomorrow I’ll try again and make a better story. With practised hands I make a plane from the paper I’ve written and gently slide it through the bars where it floats downward before hitting the ground, another paper plane amongst the mounting pile already there. I may be here, but my name will escape, it’s just a matter of time and I my true story will be told.