The Mistake That Broke Me

Chapter Eleven: In Eight Hours

Song: Cut by Plumb

*Warning, suicide mentioned in this chapter

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In eight hours, I would die. Life would cease to exits for me and I will be plunged into a sea of ink.

But let's go back in time before the hours leading up to my death. The years dragged by painfully slow. Three long  years, behind the bars of my destruction. All the three years seems to have blended together. Everything was the same when I think back into the past.

I am now twenty-four years old. I have toughed up a bit, but I guess prison life will do that to anybody. I look and act more like a criminal every day, and that's what scares me. I don't want to be like the others. I don't want to be like the others, in which most of them have no sense of morals nor do they care.

I cuss more. I carry more anger and rage within me. I channel that anger to other prisoners, and whereas I used to cower back from fights and avoid them, I now willingly involve myself in them.

I've made friends.

But not good friends.

Just like old times.

Every single friend I've had in my life meant nothing. They abused the title of friend and used me for it. They used me for my popularity, wealth, and now drugs.

That's right, my new friends use me for drugs. Somehow, someway, some of the prisoners have drugs that they have smuggled into the prison.

And I am the main dealer.

Horrible, I know. I hate myself more and more every day for it. I tell myself that I want to get out early on good behavior, but I know if that I keep this up, that I will eventually get caught.

And then I won't get out early.

It's horrible being so miserable all the time. I guess that I can't help it when my future which once held sunshine, holds absolutely nothing now.  No family, no friends, no dream job, no mansion.

Guilt will be my only company, and even now, it still is.

My family nor friends never visited me. Not once. And that hurts, a lot. I feel cold on the inside. Bitter. Angry. Upset. So many emotions about the fact that my family doesn't love me. That my family chooses their precious image over their own daughter who's rotting in prison for her own fault.

And maybe I deserve this, I don't know. It's just that every time I close my eyes I see the little boy's face. He's everywhere. I see him. My eyes don't even have to be closed and yet I can still see him.

In fact, he's standing in the corner looking at me right now as I sit in my bunk. He never leaves. He just watches and follows me. He speaks no words. He's emotionless besides his eyes.

He's bloody and he looks exactly like he did that fateful night when I pulled him from the burning vehicle. The hallucinations have started long ago, but I am too afraid to tell anyone lest I be thrown into a mental institution.

But what I do know is this:

His appearance is slowly driving me to insanity. I can't take it. I can't take his large eyes filed with pain and innocence staring at me all the time. Because he reminds me of what I did, and the guilt gnaws at me.

Sometimes, when my cell mates are asleep, I smash my head against the cold, concrete wall of the cell until I fall unconscious. I think that maybe, there's something wrong with my head and maybe, if I smash my head hard enough, the little boy will disappear.