I am losing motivation to tell my story. When I began writing, it was something new and excited; a way to escape the life that I have to lead now. But, I have come to close to real life and it hurts. I can't go on writing, but I have to - it'll only annoy me if I don't finish.
There was my finger prints all over the two bodies, and I knew some of the victims so it looked like I did it. Obviously I did not. The evidence, however, was stacked against me. I was in prison for a week before my court date. Everyday I hoped John Jones were out there doing something. I still don't know if he was or not. Either way, I went to that court date, I stood trial and got sentenced - life for pre-meditated murder.
As they took me from the court room, I turned and I saw him at the other end of the room, watching on. John Jones, the Detective. He looked angry, but more meloncholy than anything. It was over, I could see it in his face. I'm still not sure if that face believe me or believed them. Either way, there was no point anymore.
When other inmates asked what I was in for, I would say, "Nothing." I even had a friend in the first three years. His name was Brad. We did everything together really, we were in the same cell. But then I found out what he was in for and I had to beat the shit out of him - prison politics.
It's been only a year, but writing this down has made me a little bit better. I'm not sure if I'll ever get out. Sometimes I wonder if I did kill those people and repressed it.
Anyway, my story is over now. Maybe the death penalty isn't too bad; stops me from being in here.
THE END