02875

"02875"

by: Missbeenaroundtheworld

I was 22 when I was wrongfully sentenced to 100 years in prison.  I've now existed 10 years in this desolate, dark, and musky cell. Cellmates come and go, but I have no interest in them.  I've been spending most of my time staring at the wall: What would life be like if I wasn't trapped behind bars? what if I could prove myself as a wrongly convicted man? Ten years of my life flew by, ten percent of my life. Unless I can live past the age of 112, I am supposed to spend the rest of my life in this dark cell because I have apparently taken someone’s life.

I am staring at the wall next to my bed. It’s night, and although I can’t see anything, even the contours of my hand, I've stared at the flat cement for so long that I know where all the cracks and the splattered stains are, and I can paint its pale tawny color with my mind. When my body begins to feel numb, I roll over on the bawdy mattress, and I hear the squeaking of the bed springs shatter the silence. The only sounds I hear are heavy breathing and a harsh cough from an unknown neighbor, the hacking of a heavy smoker. It doesn't matter if I close my eyes or leave them open because either way, the darkness envelops me; it grabs me by my throat, making sleep impossible. My thoughts won’t leave me so I try to empty out my head as I keep on looking at that wall. I imagine removing every existing memory from my head, one by one. I’m used to this because I've faced it for the ten years I've been in this dungeon. However, nothing will ever change the regret, mortification, and discord that I feel when I look at myself in the mirror. I do not belong here. Instantly, my head fills with acrimonious and fervid anger as I think about the crimes that have been committed against me.

I had an ambitious future ahead of me. I was going to start my own business. I wanted to have two kids, one daughter and one son. Does anyone know this monstrous feeling of being wrongly accused? Maybe. There are people who have been sent to jail for a crime they didn't commit.

I no longer look human, not only because of the deprivation of the sun for ten years, but also because of the unpalatable and deleterious food they give;it looks and tastes like dog kibble. The time I spend here would be more purposeful if I actually had committed some crime. My thoughts are spiraling down a dingy and abysmal hole when the dim lights flicker on. I see the prison guard walk through, making sure that none of them, none of those infamous and dangerous criminals have escaped overnight. Yet again, a sleepless night has passed.

Oh, but what is this? The guard has stopped in front of my cell. I look up at him and our eyes connect. He looks like the janitor from my old apartment, corpulent, determined, and tired, with the worried and frowning wrinkles on his forehead and the permanently pursed lips. He says my number, “02875.” My heart skips a beat. He stares at me expectantly and looks down at the sheet of paper in his hand. Through the dim light, I can see the outline of a picture, messily glued down. He squints and he reads the number again, looks at the picture, and looks at me. He’s irritated because of my slow response, but I can’t will my body to respond. The hand holding the paper shifts at an angle where I can see and read the number. Instantly, my body jolts back to life. I hesitate before responding, and decide to nod, fearing to hear my voice.

I am shocked and amazed. My name has been cleared, the judge has changed my sentence and I am to be a free man tomorrow. The paperwork is dreary, drudging up the facts of my old life. Interestingly, reminiscing on the past does not hurt so much now though I can feel a suppressing feeling push against my chest, as if a large elephant has sat upon me, crushing me with its large torso.

Memories sprint by, and I am hardly aware. That moment: the shattering and sickening feeling, the pound of the judge’s gavel, the look certainty in the jurors eyes, the tight lips of the spectators, the sigh from my lawyer, and the burst of tears from mom and dad. On that day, I could barely hear anyone; I felt like I was in a dream and I felt worse than I had ever felt before. During that moment, my dreams had literally been picked up and incinerated before my own eyes.

I shall be a free man by tomorrow. My dreams are like a crumpled, slightly burnt, and ripped-up article that had been thrown into a trash can and is now being picked up at a dump by a beggar who is putting the little pieces together with trembling hands. My dreams and my life have been rekindled. Starting tomorrow, I will no longer be wearing this damned, atrocious, and repulsively itchy orange jumpsuit that is designed like the little pajamas that I used to wear when I was eight years old.

No more pain. At times, it was unbelievably painful to even take the shallowest of breaths; no sounds came out of my throat; I felt like all the emotion and the facial reflexes I had were gone. No longer will I feel that pain. I can almost imagine myself smiling. Now, I guess, I could meet someone whom I love.

My heart instantly quivers with hope. Cautiously, I allow myself the freedom to think about love. To truly love people for whom they are, to love every little thing about them - to live my life with them, to grow old with them, to die and be buried with them. And I long for the touch of a woman.Will I meet this person? It’s amazing to think about how the path of my life, the thoughts in my head, the questions I ask myself can change in a day. Yesterday, I was asking myself; at what age will you die in this cell? Today, I am asking myself: Will I meet the love of my life?

My eyes grow bigger and brighter as I think of all the little things in life that I will once again enjoy - the sounds of rubber soles squeaking down a hallway, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the feeling of comfortable clothing as I walk down the street, the taste of delicious food, and the freedom to enjoy playing sports.  I can’t help but smile. I fall asleep with what I imagine; I look up with a large toothy grin of a content toddler waiting with anticipation for Christmas morning.

I wake up and see that old guard again, and I can’t help but think that although I’m not going to miss wasting ten years of my life in this dreadful place, I’m going to miss seeing him walk through this corridor through the bars of my cell. Once he opens the cell door, I’m finally free from prison.

Here he comes. I can hear his meticulous steps and the rattle of his keys. I take my first step, my first step of freedom, and my first breath out of the suffocating cage.  The guard faces me, and manages to give me a half-smile, half-grimace. I’m excited; I’m radiant, and I can feel the adrenaline pumping down my veins. I can’t wait to get out of here. I walk into a room, much like an interrogation room. It’s still dark and gloomy but much nicer than the cell I have been confined to for 10 years. The hue of the walls and the hue of the ceiling are the first colors I've seen in a while; They are the colors of a clear blue sky. I smile widely at the doctor, who looks at me with a pitiful smile. It doesn't matter to me because I am one step away, one exam away, from retrieving my dreams.

He does a normal check-up and tells me that I need shots for immunization, and I am more than willing to do anything to get out of here. He pulls out a plastic, white, almost perfect-looking syringe. He pulls out a cotton swab and cleans my arm. He pulls off the cap of the syringe, revealing the needle that gleams like what the moon must gleam like on a clear summer night. I’m fascinated by the way it reflects the light, and I watch with a smile as it goes in my arm. My eyes close, and I feel numb.

I open my eyes and I’m in a room. The pastor is still in the room. He’s wearing a blue suit. He closes the bible. And they pronounce me “deceased”.