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In that moment, I had felt so powerful. Right then and there, I held sway over life and death itself. The beating heart of another person, extinguished on my command, like a god!

I laughed as I watched her cry. My eyes wide with ecstasy at the sight of her terror. My heart raced at the sounds of her screams. My fingers tingled at the sight of her blood. It was just as I had imagined it.

Oh, it was so good, like no other high in the world…

Now from once feeling so powerful and in control, I walk down the corridors of the place of my incarceration, surrounded by guards and other offenders, most of whom are much taller than me and far more intimidating. They don’t know what I did. But if they did, I would probably be in even more trouble.

Anxiety about that possibility gnaws at me every day. I might have to go my entire life living in fear of someone wanting to take a crack at me and enact their idea of vigilante justice.

How ironic that I might end up twitching and bleeding on the floor, just like her?

I feel so small, powerless and vulnerable. It just isn’t fair.

I glance in the mirror above the toilet in my prison cell and look back at myself in my grey prison-issued sweatshirt and joggers.

“Stupid girl” I chastise myself, narrowing my eyes.

My barrister, while acknowledging my protestations of innocence has several times hinted that a guilty plea might land me a shorter minimum term.

My brother, typically blunt as he is, said I might get out in my thirties. My god, that’s so fucking far away, all my life again and more. Why should I accept that?

My mother accepts my innocence of course, but I can see in her eyes the doubts are beginning to show, even for her.

The words “mandatory life sentence” keep running through my brain ever time my head goes down to sleep.

What if the parole board always decides, no matter how well I behave, my crime is bad enough I should never be released?

Also, if I get out, it is just so hard to conceptualise the idea of being an old lady and still having to see a parole officer for something I did decades ago.

All because of my, avoidable tiny mistakes. It is so frustrating!

It just isn’t fair! I can’t do it! I won’t do it! There is nothing linking me with the murder weapon. Not a drop of my DNA. Yes, I know I was there, I can’t dispute that, there are too many witnesses. I know I will have to do time, but if there is a single chance I might avoid a life sentence, I have to take it, or else surely, I will regret it forever.

No, I can’t stay here. I just can’t. I don’t deserve to wither away behind bars or get shanked in a corridor someday.

I have to get control back over my life, I won’t let them make me feel small forever, just because one time I was too stupid to get away with murder. I’m smarter than that, I have to persuade the jury to make me not guilty.

And with that comforting thought, I will get what rest I can before I go in the sweatbox tomorrow, to face my first day in court…

Description

In that moment, I had felt so powerful. Right then and there, I held sway over life and death itself. The beating heart of another person, extinguished on my command, like a god!

I laughed as I watched her cry. My eyes wide with ecstasy at the sight of her terror. My heart raced at the sounds of her screams. My fingers tingled at the sight of her blood. It was just as I had imagined it.

Oh, it was so good, like no other high in the world…

Now from once feeling so powerful and in control, I walk down the corridors of the place of my incarceration, surrounded by guards and other offenders, most of whom are much taller than me and far more intimidating. They don’t know what I did. But if they did, I would probably be in even more trouble.

Anxiety about that possibility gnaws at me every day. I might have to go my entire life living in fear of someone wanting to take a crack at me and enact their idea of vigilante justice.

How ironic that I might end up twitching and bleeding on the floor, just like her?

I feel so small, powerless and vulnerable. It just isn’t fair.

I glance in the mirror above the toilet in my prison cell and look back at myself in my grey prison-issued sweatshirt and joggers.

“Stupid girl” I chastise myself, narrowing my eyes.

My barrister, while acknowledging my protestations of innocence has several times hinted that a guilty plea might land me a shorter minimum term.

My brother, typically blunt as he is, said I might get out in my thirties. My god, that’s so fucking far away, all my life again and more. Why should I accept that?

My mother accepts my innocence of course, but I can see in her eyes the doubts are beginning to show, even for her.

The words “mandatory life sentence” keep running through my brain ever time my head goes down to sleep.

What if the parole board always decides, no matter how well I behave, my crime is bad enough I should never be released?

Also, if I get out, it is just so hard to conceptualise the idea of being an old lady and still having to see a parole officer for something I did decades ago.

All because of my, avoidable tiny mistakes. It is so frustrating!

It just isn’t fair! I can’t do it! I won’t do it! There is nothing linking me with the murder weapon. Not a drop of my DNA. Yes, I know I was there, I can’t dispute that, there are too many witnesses. I know I will have to do time, but if there is a single chance I might avoid a life sentence, I have to take it, or else surely, I will regret it forever.

No, I can’t stay here. I just can’t. I don’t deserve to wither away behind bars or get shanked in a corridor someday.

I have to get control back over my life, I won’t let them make me feel small forever, just because one time I was too stupid to get away with murder. I’m smarter than that, I have to persuade the jury to make me not guilty.

And with that comforting thought, I will get what rest I can before I go in the sweatbox tomorrow, to face my first day in court…