The Price of Love

March 18, 2012
Her shriek penetrated the thing I used to call my heart. I grabbed the cold steak knife as it caught the reflection in the candles. I could not believe what I was doing. I clutched the bright diamond in my hand and I thrust the dagger into her chest breaking the skin just like she just broke my heart. In the heat of the moment, I jabbed the ring on her cold finger. She was simple beautiful, even though she was covered in her own blood.
The sirens began to howl, as I stood frozen. I decided not to move, I could not. I mean me? Against a squad of cars? It would me incredible and unrealistic if I could make a break for it. I watched all the cars throw up police officers of different varieties. Some with guns, some in blue, while others had the apparatus of tan, even some with tasers. All of them had three things in common: One, they all had badges. Two, they all had handcuffs. Three, they all despised myself. They began to fly over me when I threw my hands in the air; they cuffed me and read me my rights. I swear it was more miserable hearing his voice than my blood pressure rising.
As soon as he hushed his monotonous voice, another police officer shoved me into a car. As I was driven away, they invaded my beloved home. I never saw her body being drug out, but I knew that they were going too soon.
Once I arrived at my destination, I of course had to spout out what seemed like my life story. The man behind the desk ordered me to give my name, date of birth, and all other things possible. I sat quietly with my fingers stained from the ink that was used for the ten print card. They took my picture, made me write and speak, and gave me a number as if I were a math problem. I had a problem all right, a huge one.
The man handed me a cold quarter and told me, make it worth it, the phone is in the corner. I slowly shifted towards the phone, whom would I call? Who would care? I was an only child, and an orphan at that! I closed my eyes and sighed. I practically had to drag myself up to the counter to return the quarter. I sat down and waited for an officer to take me to the cell.
I lay in my bed for hours on end, why did I do it. How could I have possibly done it? I loved her, but she had played my heart. She had loved me, even though she did not at that moment, I still killed her. I quickly allowed this thought to die as another stirred. If I were to be convicted guilty and fried for my punishment, I could never become the writer I promised my students I would be.
After I awaited two moons to be given the arrest report, I finally got it. I read over it, for it was the only thing that was not about my thoughts. What I got from the vile piece of paper was this:
Mr. Isaac W. Himmler
Convicted of the murder of Miss Victoria J. Price through a knife
Sentencing to the death penalty

I could not read no further. Just seeing her name once destroyed me.

The next day, I of course plead innocent just for the slim chance I could be set free. My court case was in a few days so they could go through the process of the jury selection. My lawyer told me this, “Your chances are slim, you are up for the murder of one of your students, and you will never win.”
I turned to him with tear-filled eyes, “You do not understand, I really loved her.”
He replied earnestly and sincerely, “ I know, but I do have one idea…”
Wiping away my tears I questioned, “What is it sir?”
With a dead serious look upon his face, he said to me, “Play mentally handicapped.”
Shocked in horror I asked, “Is it my only chance?”
Sadly, he told me, “It is the only way.”
Is it true? I pondered, could this be the only way? I have to,

The indictment was followed soon after this and the jury decided that there was enough evidence to follow through with the case. Following this day I attended my arraignment, me playing mental I questioned the judge in a stupid matter what an arraignment it. He said, “Choose if you think you are guilty or innocent.”
I replied, “W-why would I when…uh I am innocent?”
The judge said to me, “I have heard enough, you are to be put in jail for a week until your trial. The jury and I have not allowed you to have a bail amount.”
I pretended to have an impairment in my walk as I was escorted out of the room. I awaited seven days for my trial to start. All sorts of thoughts skimmed across my brain during the days, the one that stuck with me the most was even though she was dead, did she forgive me. The seventh night, for the first time in a long time, I prayed for forgiveness.
The next day I journeyed over to the courthouse. The one thing I had not thought about was who was the witness? Nobody was with us. Does that mean nobody was near though? After Judge Taylor took his seat and called upon the first witness. I looked around from side to side for the person he called for, and then I saw her. It was the elderly woman that lives beside me; did she hear Vicky’s screams of hatred into the night? It must have been that. When she approached the stand for questioning her responses objected all of my lies, I mean after all, if I were in her place I would as well. She said that she heard shrieks, so then she called the authorities to look into it for her.
Next, I was called up to the stand, pretending to be mental; my lawyer did most of the talking for me. Many questions darted across the room, and one always had a smart response to another. All of the sudden, the urge came over me; I stood up and screamed, “I loved Vicky! I loved her the night I murdered her! I loved her so much I was going to propose to her. I bought the ring and everything, after we ate and before I bent down on one knee, she broke my heart. In fact, she broke all of me. In the middle of my anger instead of killing myself like a normal man, I killed her.” I fell to my knees sobbing, “I loved her, she was my only student that did not say that I was different, but she understood me! She knew me, but I let her down. If she could hear me now…I would hope that she would forgive me.” The man opposing me began laughing as I continued. “I cut a beautiful life with potential short because I did not want her to see the ugly beast I had become. Someone that marvelous deserved to see God that day! Someone that once loved a crazy man like me, deserved to walk with Jesus!”
The judge called out, “Mr. Himmler you may have a seat.”
Ignoring his comment I spoke, “I loved the things she wrote in class, the stories that would consume her thoughts. Most of all she thought I had potential, that I could be a writer.” I laughed through my tears, “She even thought that I would do great things, well look at me now Vicky!” I screamed, “LOOK AT ME KNOW!” I collapsed grieving, “Vicky, I hope I get to see you soon before my trip to hell!”
The judge took me off the bench and allowed other people to speak; I quivered in my seat from anxiety. Finally, the case came to an end and he sent to jury out of the room to discus and the jury came back out demanding a psychiatrist and profiler. Once one was appointed, one began shoving lights in my face while the other asked how I felt. After I was violated and pried of my sanity, they portrayed the information to the jury. Long minutes lead to hours and hours lead to the night, finally the jury returned telling the judge I was guilty, but since I was ‘insane’ I were to be sent to an insane asylum for the rest of my days. The judge hit his gable and I was thrown to the back of the van awaiting my destiny. My thoughts were fluttered by my precious Vicky and how I missed her.
Do you think insane asylums allow writers?

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