Young Writers Society

The cell they put me in is many words.

Small. Quiet. Blank. Peaceful.

One it isn't is home. Happy.

No matter what I try, I can’t make the square happy. I can’t make myself satisfied here. I can feel It snickering at me from deep within. I tell the others here about it and they chuckle.

"You're crazy.” One says, laughing.

The others say things about me. Some I hear and some I don’t. but the most I hear say I’m crazy. Unlike the others. Mentally unstable. The one word they don’t say is guilty. They don’t say anything about that day. If I say something, they shush me and hand me a glass of water with a pill. I don’t know what it is, but it makes my head feel heavy and I usually sleep for a while after. Sometimes when I wake up, I pretend to sleep for a while to listen to them. They talk a lot of what I’ve said about It. It's prowling inside me. I feel them trying to break the surface. If they break free now, it doesn’t matter. I’ve caused enough damage. A man starts coming everyday to listen to my thoughts. He says he’s a mental recovery occupation. A therapist. I tell the man all this and he writes it down and leaves. He comes everyday to ask about It. I tell him about it. He writes it down and leaves. Everyday.

One day, three men come in. They tell me I have a trial, which I knew, but I didn’t know I was pleading guilty. They want me to plead insanity and be sent to a mental hospital if all goes well. If all goes well. What a funny set of words. Meaning that they are hoping because they can’t secure this is. I could be sent to jail. They tell me this on the way to the court house. My hands hurt from the handcuffs. I don’t remember them being put on but they’re there, so I must be going crazy.

I know I’m crazy. I’m the boy who went bad. The boy who broke families without knowing it. I didn’t do it! When I tell the men It should be going, not me, they look at me and talk to someone in the front. A couple minutes later, they hand me a cup of water and a pill. I swallow the pill and gulp down the water. My head feels like a brick and I slouch against the door letting the darkness take over.

˚˚˚

The trials today. I shouldn’t have gone. But when I stepped through the threshold of the entrance, I stopped and turn around. I walked back outside. I walked two minutes back to my car. I stepped in and turned the key. The gas pedal wouldn’t go down. I tried to push it, but it wouldn’t move. I couldn’t leave. I had to stay here longer. I got up and closed the door this time sure I was going to the trial. I hate this.

As soon as I sat down, I knew something was wrong. The jury talked in whispers to each other and the lawyer from the other side started crying. What had I missed?

The next hour was a blur. The defendant wanted him jailed. They said he was a menace, a terror. His lawyer sat quietly not objecting to it.

He looked like he was in a different world. I wish I was away from here.

When the defendants lawyer finished, his lawyer got up and pleaded insanity and asked for him to be sent to a mental rehabilitation center. He didn’t react. He already knew this.

“Levi Grayden do you understand the consequences of this.” The judge pressed.

He stood up a bit shaky, “Yes Ma’am.” His voice was soft, smooth, not a serial killers voice. “I understand what will happened.

Guards grabbed his shoulders and lead him out. I wish I could leave this mess as easily as he did.

After a while, I’m the only one in the room. It was silent except for the hum of the air conditioner above me. Its silent. I hate it. The silence hurts my ears. I scream to break it.

An officer comes in and shoos me out. While walking back to my car, I looked up mental rehabilitation centers nearby. I know he isn’t crazy. There’s something that just isn’t crazy. I have to talk to him.