Locked Away

Dream Marks on My Pillow by Ana Lancu

08/12/1993

This wrinkled pillow is all I have. In this confinement, nothing else is mine. I spend the day, following a routine; Wake up, go to breakfast, work out in the yard, shower, free time, and then back to my cell. Of all the things here, nothing is my own. I have no photos. No family outside of these walls. I've been on my own for a while, traveling, seeing the world. I had traveled abroad, and finally made it to almost every country. I had seen it all. The Eiffel Tower, The Forbidden City, The Great Wall of China, Sydney Opera House. You name it, and I've most likely been there and could tell you about it. I had just come back to the States after this worldwide adventure of mine. Let's just say I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I was in Detroit, and I was going to go to all the museums in the city and admire all the art. I walked into a nearby gas station and was searching for a bag of Barbeque Lays. Before going into anymore detail, let me just state on a side note that Detroit is a bit... crime-filled. So I was grabbing a bag of chips on the shelf, when the man in the mask came in. He had a gun and barged in, robbing the store. I had my own gun on me, as I travel alone, and I started crawling towards him, trying to attract little attention. I had gotten close enough, shooting distance, and I pulled the trigger. The man was taken by surprise, and his now wounded body fell to the floor with a soft thud. I had never killed anyone in my life, until that day. The cashier was in shock, crying her eyes out. She looked to be about eighteen years old, probably new to this job, and she was hysterical. When the police arrived, she tried to explain what happened between her sobs. They seem to have gotten the story wrong though. There were no cameras in this gas station mart, and the cashier was the only other witness. Next thing I know, I'm in court, claimed to be guilty, and thrown into prison. I always remember that day, reflecting upon the details of it, everyday. Sometimes I think that cashier might have had it out for me or something, or was possibly an accomplice. Maybe she was a daughter of a mob leader, who knows? All I know is that longer I am in here, the more I think of how she framed me and how she could have been apart of the whole robbery scheme. I don't know maybe I'm crazy.

Wait. What's that? The guard just said someone's here to see me. As I peer out my open cell door, I see her at the end of the hall. Her young face, slowly coming closer and into my line of sight. She looks different; older, lustful, and evil. The face comes into the light, and I can clearly see her now. It is her. The cashier.

-Charles