The Only Murderer in Raider Shore

149 DAYS AFTER

One thousand and fourteen – sorry, one thousand and thirteen – people live in the small town of Raider Shore and about as many have heard of it. It's enclosed in miles of forest and doesn't have a "Welcome to"-sign, which is probably because you aren't welcome here. The people of this town never welcome strangers with open arms, and they never warm up to anyone either.

Here, everyone knows everyone, and now everyone knows me as the girl who turned Raider Shore into a newspaper magnet.

'Girl Murders Best Friend'

'Ex-Boyfriend Confirms; "She Wanted Veronica Dead"'

'The Last Night of 17-year-old Veronica Davis'

The journalists feed off of my story like leeches. Although, after twisting and turning the story around, they might as well be fanfiction writers. They've managed to turn Veronica into the self-righteous, goody two-shoes that her father always wished that she would be. The ugly truth is that Veronica was a bitch who smoked pot and dated several guys at once and dressed like she should stand on the corner of a street, not in a school choir. She probably couldn't cross the threshold of a church even if her life depended on it.

Meanwhile, media have portrayed me from my worst angles and over exaggerated every single one; I'm now a drug- and sex addict with vengeance issues. If parents would allow their children to read about me and ask what they thought, the children would describe something of nightmares, and probably draw a horned monster with red, blazing eyes.

There is no photo of me in the newspaper, and they haven't even mentioned my name, yet everyone knows that I'm guilty. I know this because every afternoon the guards bring me the latest news on my food tray.

"There is an article about you on page eleven."

"... on page six."

"... page fourteen."

"Front page."

It's mostly front page material as it's exceedingly the most interesting event that has happened in this town since Judith Price switched the apples for raspberries in her famous pie.

Before the guards hand the newspaper to me, they always ask, "Do you want to read it?"

And I always answer, "Yes."

There isn't much else to do but read the newspaper. There is nothing to see, nothing to do, and there is no one to talk to. The cell I was given is stripped of any objects that might harm me in any way. It's a four by four concrete box with a rounded sink, a mattress covered in a plastic sheet and a drain in the middle of the room. When I was getting clean from heroin and morphine, I went through horrible muscle spasms and often threw up over myself. The guards used to come in and hose the mattress off every day. Anyone could go crazy from sitting here for more than thirty minutes and I have the luxury of spending the majority of my days here.

To pass time, I solve the numerous crosswords and sudokus in the newspapers and use every minute of the breaks I'm allowed outside of my cell. I never thought that the silence outside differed from the one inside a room, but the feeling of serenity when standing in the courtyard where the wind brushes through the trees or the rain softly paints the asphalt a deeper black is nowhere to be found in my room. Inside the walls, the silence seems to have a sound; it hums angrily like an old and rusty motel sign that welcomes you to stay in hell.

I watch as the months roll by in the newspaper, and what felt like April is suddenly September. On the seventh of September, a bulky guard enters my cell, but he isn't carrying a food tray and I've already gotten today's newspaper.

"Jamie Redsky," he announces. "Please stand against the wall with your arms up."

Unsure of how to navigate this new situation, I raise from the bed and do as I'm told. I focus my gaze on a darkened spot on the wall as he pulls my arms down and cuffs them.