Deep within a dark and gloomy room, laid a man with his face buried in his hands. He screwed up, and he knew that. He made several attempts to speak out loud, but stumbled on his words and covered it with heavy and uneven breathing. The images in his mind were all he could see; drops of blood scattered across the ground and a lifeless body… What had he done? The question was driving him to madness as he fought desperately to look for the answer. He scratched at his eyes and pulled at his hair, gritting his teeth and wheezing. He was a mess.
“I screwed up,” he repeated over and over again. He never thought a fight would lead to the death of another; never thought there’d be any real consequences for a friendly slap fight between him and a friend that turned violent and nasty. He looked up at one of the walls and stared blankly at the pale gray paint that covered it, allowing it to become his own imaginary movie screen as his memories began to play.
In his mind, there were images of smiles that pulled a twisted grin from his face, and the sound of laughter that sparked a deep laugh from within him. He felt a moment of perfect content until pictures of a boy clutching his pierced stomach flashed through his mind, and heard the sounds of blood-curdling screams that refused to be forgotten. He widened his eyes, breathed a little faster, and made a scream of his own. He wishes he hadn’t remembered as he reaches up with his hands and digs his nails into his cheeks, scratching at the tender and tear-soaked flesh. He then pulled his hands away a few moments after only to observe his newly blood-drenched fingers. These hands – no matter how many times he washed them— he knew they would never be clean again. He will always be dirty and guilty of his crime, and he will always be locked up in this hell-hole they called a prison cell.