The story is everything

old fort jail

I sit in a dim, windowless room, on a cold metal chair, at a battered wooden table. A fresh, yellow legal pad is laid out in front of me, a pen sits sideways on top. It’s a plain white pen with a blue cap. It’s an appalling shade of blue, nothing I would ever wear. How do they expect me to write anything of substance with such mean means.

The air conditioner labors under the mistaken assumption that it can cool the room. All it does is stir the stale air and wheeze like an asthmatic old man. Others who have sat at this table etched their names into its sticky surface. I shuddered to think about what noisome amalgam went into that varnish.

A perfect, greasy profile is imprinted on the two-way mirror opposite me, left, no doubt, by one of the room’s former occupants. Handprints on either side of the silhouette give the impression of someone, their ear close to the glass, straining to eavesdrop on the conversation on the other side.

I imagine the men observing me through that greasy glass are speculating about my motives. Trotting out tired, scorned woman tropes or some revenge rubbish, when my truth is far more constructive.

Research will take you only so far. There are times when you have to dig deeper, you have to test your hypothesis to ensure complete accuracy. Those carrion critics will pick you apart otherwise.

The idea was never to get away with murder, it was to confirm that my methods would indeed achieve my desired result.

I’ll let the lawyers and psychologists sort out all the other details. For now I need to get all of this down on paper. The story is everything. I hope they let me keep a copy of this, I’d hate to forget it all without the chance to write it out before they send me to wherever I am to be incarcerated. I should have researched that better.

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