9/11 Descriptive Writing

The rain mocks me as I ease my frame into the parole van. I mutter, trailing off my thoughts as an officer disapproves of me in the rear vision mirror. A month of numbing cell beds, restless nights and tormenting words was starting to take its toll, though as the countryside begins to blossom into township, I find the energy I urgently need to defend myself. While reminiscing, I study the raindrops as they chase each other down the windows, hurtling at speeds at which I can only hope my life will pass at while I'm in prison. Clandestinely, water decides to pool on the roads, adapting to the controlling drainage systems. Aren’t we all a part of a system? Everything is simplistic, yet unimaginable, like my charge. I am lost in society.

The disapproving officer draws me out of the van, triggering a sharp pain up my arm where the handcuffs meet my skin. My skittish movements don’t seem to match the person which I have been described as for the past month. A killer? A liar? I am none of these. The stairs towards my destiny seem to last forever, again making me question society. Aren’t staircases supposed to symbolise going to heaven, not hell? I enter the courtroom, overflowing with faces that I

try to avoid. Wood panelling and a ticking clock welcome me. The judges pellucid-green eyes inspect my appearance, as he lines up the papers in his aging hands. I am standing, succumbed to the hushed tones of the gallery behind me. Words explaining my case flow out of the mouths of strangers, and into my ears as though I am being told a story about someone else. How is this story mine?

The overwhelming urge to get out of here gnaws at me, making my stomach twist into a bouquet of nausea. I kick myself for being so nervous. Men in overpriced suits, young mothers and retirees stare from the jury stand, unimpressed at my now bare head. Though it isn’t just my head that is bare after this charge, so is my life. It has become a barren landscape of confusion, resentment and hate. I search my mind for traces of evidence of what I’d done, prompting myself to remember. That way I won’t have to deal with becoming alien to a world which I once held in the palm of my hand. My dissociative state is a cover up, I’m told. This is not me.

The images of two distorted bodies, of whom I recognize from magazines are shown.

I have killed a couple who usually rule the media. It seems natural to assume I have now taken their place. I am made aware that this event occurred during the night, though my only witness is that of god, and the couple who I believe are now six feet below the earth. There is no one else left to testify against me, from what I have heard. Yet still, all of the evidence is not in my favour. In my head, I watch my slim chance of freedom wash away with the rain water, down the drain and into the system. The lawyers become heated. Clearing his throat, the Judge smacks down the gabble, ordering silence. It all means nothing. I have slipped away with the nonsense words of these people. I will

lose.

The Judge questions my memory of the night. The reason why? I don’t know. I remember watching television, following cases that have been resolved due to a mental illness of the offender. I do not have a mental illness. Yet I still cannot answer his questions. Hours crawl past. I am asked to stand, to make a plea, to conclude what I have or have not done. Not guilty. A burst of anger arises from the back of the room, and for the next few minutes all I can hear are cries. Murderer. I sit silently as the jury are asked to leave. The clock continues to tick. I can feel my mother and father in the gallery, awaiting my uncertain future. The jury explain that they have come to a unanimous decision, I close my ears.

If only incarcerated meant reincarnated.