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No Reason Why
The food falls from the tray as it’s slid through the door. The stale bun hits my head, and I feel the throbbing pain that arises. I touch where the pain hit, a lump formed underneath my fingertips, and I try to remember what happened. But I can’t. I attempt to lift myself up, but I fail miserably and fall back to the stone floor. The hard hit makes me dizzy, but the blur soon leaves my eyes and I try to place where I am.
When I look up stone walls surround me, no bed, no sink, no toilet, just walls and a lamp hanging from the ceiling. I look down at the tray of food and follow the trail of crumbs it left behind to the door, a door of metal with one slit towards the bottom I’m guessing where the food came from.
I’ve heard about this place, heard this room described to me many times, but I thought they were just rumors. I’ve never actually known anyone who has actually been inside before. Apparently this is the place where the rebels go, the people who don’t follow The New Order, who feel like things should go back to the way things were before the war, before our sector was taken over and “adjusted”.
Of course there are many questions that soar through my mind as this sinks in, but there’s only one that my curiosity’s drawn to: Why am I here?
The opening of the door distracts me from drawing possible conclusions. A man, dressed in dark green, the color of The New Government, comes through the door, walking in and stepping on the food that I never planned on eating. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out black handcuffs that he locks around my wrists, my hands pulled behind my back. They’re cold against my skin, but I try not to wince when they’re crushed hard in the man’s hands as he pushes me out the door.
Two men accompany us down the hall, walking on either side of me, hands behind their backs, their large boots hitting the stone floor with an echo.
“Where are you taking me?” I stutter, desperate for an answer. But instead I receive a slap across the face, the ringing sensation stopping me from hearing my surroundings, and I realize that talking is on the long list of things forbidden to do in prison.
I want to go home.
We walk, going down many hallways, through many doors, making it seem like a maze no one could ever escape from, until we reach a large room, a room that I’ve seen before back when my cousin was accused of stealing. Who would have thought the courtroom, a public place where many are invited to judge the guilty, would be connected to a prison, the one prison in our sector filled with murderers and thieves waiting to be executed for their crime, the prison I was sent to for a crime that is still unknown to me?
I don’t realize I stopped moving until the men around me thrusts me forward until I’m kneeling on the floor before the judge’s bench. The man behind me pushes my head down so that I can’t see the people crowding in, so that I can’t see who is screaming and crying behind me, shock and despair hidden behind their voices. The good reputation that I used to have is now fading into nothingness along with my amity with the people.
If we still had a jury I might have had a chance at pleading innocent, but I know this new judge, this judge appointed by The New Government has no mercy and no patience. Even the tears that fall to the carpeted floor won’t change the fate that’s already decided for me.
The sound of the judge striking his gavel makes me look up, the tears stopping momentarily as I wait for the dreaded words of my crime to be spoken.
“We are here today,” the judge speaks loud and clear, his hand sweeping through his dark hair as he says the words, the black cloak he wears to show his power swaying as his arm moves, “to decide the fate of this accused murderer.”
He places reading glasses on his nose and reads from a folder that is no longer laid on his bench. “Tabitha Ward: charged with the murder of Edward and Charlotte Ward. Date of murder: November 24, 2243, the eighteenth anniversary of the accused’s birth. Evidence: the security cameras placed on the Ward property, as well as the security cameras placed on the street of the crime.”
I don’t even know what to think about this. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to wish this away, pray that this is a dream, hope that my parents would walk through the door, laughing at my scared face, telling me that this is all a prank. But pranks aren’t allowed anymore, and my parent’s would never hurt me this way. They would never hurt me like I hurt them.
No, I don’t believe it. I would never hurt my parents. I would never…kill them. I love them. I…
“Honey, what are you doing?” She stares at the knife in my shaking hand. I’m trying to drop it, trying to pry my fingers open so the knife would be gone from my touch, but I can’t. My hand won’t let me. My legs advance forward, my brain not in control anymore.
Mom picks up the bottle of pills on the counter. “Honey, how many of these did you take?” I can’t tell her, I want so badly to tell her that I took a few extra because I couldn’t sleep and that I felt a little dizzy after I took the fourth pill, but my mouth won’t open, my lips won’t move. My legs still do, though, getting closer to the only woman I’ve ever loved, the knife still tight in my hand.
She finally calls Dad in, but as soon as the name escapes her lips, the knife goes in her throat and she’s gone. She’s dead.
And all I want to do is cry. That, and tell Dad not to come near me, but it’s too late.
“Tabitha, what’s wrong?” he says, seeing the fear and pain in my eyes. But then he sees Mom on the floor behind me and the knife in my hand, blood dripping from the blade, forming a stain on the kitchen tile. “Tabitha.” He has pity in his voice, pain and…fear. My own father’s scared of me, and even the agony I feel from that can’t stop me from killing him.
I hear the sirens, and the shouts outside, but before I’m able to run or cry or show any sign of emotion, I’m thrown into darkness.
All I can do is break down and cry as the memory fades away. I killed my parents. It doesn’t matter that I had no control, or that the sleeping pills made me feel odd, or that I didn’t want to. I killed my parents and I deserve to die.