By: Emaan Atif
I can hear footsteps coming towards me. He’ll find me, I know it. Light blinds me as the wardrobe doors are yanked open and I feel a callused hand wrap around my ankle. Before I know it, I’m lying on the ground, at his feet. He raises the bottle in his hands, and I blackout.
I walk into the bedroom, shivering from terror, and see the child on the floor, unconscious. It is his doing, I’m sure of it. Who else could it be? I pick her up, her body frail and limp in my arms, and I tuck her into bed.
I am angry. Scratch that, I am enraged. I do not remember why. That detail escaped me hours ago. My hands have blood on them. When did that happen? The bottle is empty, and I fall asleep.
I walk down the street, the small gun concealed in my coat. The snow is falling, and it is bitterly cold. I pull my coat tightly around me.
The club lights are loud. They make my eyes hurt. My throat burns as I drown shot after shot of tequila.
These people, they annoy me. They enrage me. My hands hold the gun more tightly.
It is cold, and I’m shivering. The orange jumpsuit they provided me does little to keep out the bitter cold.
The bench is hard, and I’m scared. I do not know why I’m here. The lady laughed at me when I asked her.
There’s a man in a suit. He’s asking her questions. They are separated by a table, and her hands are shackled. He keeps asking her questions. She starts to cry.
How do I answer him? I don’t know how to answer him.
The judge begins to talk; she says I killed people. Did I? I might’ve. She says I’ll have to spend my life in prison. That’ll be lonely. Maybe I should take the girl with me. And the woman too. At least then I’ll have company.
They want to separate the three of us. They can’t. I am her. She is me. We are one.
Photo from here.)
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