A cool breeze on my face, the distant trickle of a muddied stream, the whisper of dead skeletons of leaves. This is all I know. A bird calls in the distance, my eyes flutter open, for no apparent purpose. The grey film that covers the sightless blue is the only thing I have been told about myself.
I sigh, and my thoughts drift to others. The other condemmned. The bridge of Sighs in London. Prison in America. These thoughts fly around my head, taking violent turns and dislodging thoughts I would rather not think. You will be executed tomorrow.
My hand slides onto the rock, and by its warmth I guess it is almost sunset. The rust on the chain that shackels my wrist scrapes an already raw area. Memories pour into my mind. Chaya, my sister, gagging, crying out. Hannah, my mother, shrieking in agony. The crashing of bells and the harsh yell of my captors.
I deny these thoughts admittance into my greater mind, and toss them into a wet, moldy box in a dank corner of my mind. You killed them. The thought rips free and threatens what is left of my sanity. I imagine the raised braille of my favorite book. The darkest chapter is all I can grasp.
I shudder. The sun no longer warms my face. The accusation takes a clutch of my mind. We found your fingerprints on the weapon in question, barks the harsh lawyer. You were the only surivior. All of my men can add two and two. I laugh out loud, recalling my lawyer's respose. How is math relevant to this case? The wind whispers on the cliff before me.
I remember loud footsteps and a gruff voice. The real criminal had been heavyset. The court could not tap into my senses, and it was pointless to have the only evidence supporting my story as a sound. A single, hot, salty tear crawls down my face.
I try to sleep, but the heavy smell of sweat lingers in my memories. I remember my mother, next to my bed, as I was sick, reading me a story and feeding me hot soup. I picture my sister Chaya holding my hand when I scraped my knees. My soul yearns for those moments. I realize that when I die, I get to see them again. The prospect brightens for me. Except for that dying bit. A small technicality.
A tiny droplet of water lands on my face. And another. Soon it is pouring rain. I cry to no one in particular, yelling at the land around me How could you take them from me? Why are you taking my life from me, too? This continues until it stops raining, and I am out of breath anyway.
My wet clothes cling to my clammy body, and my hair is matted to my head. I am uncomfortable, and misery is partered by mourning. I sob quietly to myself. On Wednesday I had become 13 years. People expected girls like me to be brave.
I straightened up. Footsteps approach. It could not be morning already? You've been pardoned. A male voice says, and my shackles are yanked gruffly forward. I bite my lip as the rust tears at my soft, wet skin. I am glad that my fate will not be met at the cliff. A lingering fear remains, but I am glad that I will get to go inside.
I step into Juvenile Jail, shivering. The door squeaks open and a blast of warm air hits me. My holder stops to have a quiet conversation, then he shoves a waterproof case into my hand and yanks me back into his car. I immedeately long for the warmth, but I heard the man say that my father was waiting for me, and had saved my case.
I thank God for Dad, and realize that I should spent less time worrying about losing Chaya and Mom, and spend the time relishing the fact that I still have Dad.
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For 2 years, the girl lived with her father whom had divorced her mother before the murders. A person passed away in a car accident, and she was given the eyes, as the person had wished for his organs to be donated. The girl lived for some time with her father until he was shot in a back alleyway of NY. Miserable, but bold, the girl pushed on and went through college, and went on to own a very important company. She saw, for the first time, a greater world. A world in which criminal punishment had developed into more merciful forms. A world in which she belonged. She lived until the age of 89, when she came down with cancer. For 74 years, she spent every day the way that she would have lived as though it was the last.
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Author's Note: This story is a fictitious account, nd to my knowledge, no such thing has happened. This story is meant to inspire you to live every day to its fullest. Much love,
Echo
