Murders Represent 3.2% of Prisoners

During the winter, the cold seeps in through the walls like saturated fabric. It creeps in through the windows and doors and hovers over everything. I try to push away the cold with every puff of my cigarette but it doesn't work. So I light another. And another.

I shiver. My shivering is echoed by my phone buzzing incessantly on the messy coffee table. It's sitting under an old newspaper so I can't see the dim screen displaying the caller but I know it's my sister. She hasn't stopped calling me for a while now, but that's not important right now.

What's important is the cold. The horrible, unceasing, unstoppable cold. The way it attacks every bit of me. I try to pull my clothes tighter around me but the cold keeps biting at every inch of skin. I rub my numb fingers against my boney shoulders and the rough fabric of my t-shirt feels like sandpaper.

The smell of fake roses hangs in the air like poisonous gas. It's the only thing stopping me from smelling the smoke of my cigarette. It's a smell that will cover anything, my mom used to say. She thought the air freshener was lovely. Pity what it's used for now. Or perhaps not. I rub my eyes with the back of my right hand. My clean hand. What she thought isn't important now.

I put out my cigarette on my jeans and barely feel the slight burn of the tiny flame. I light another after a second. I need warmth. I need to move. I need to pull myself out of here. I need to look at something else other than this. But I can't.

The living room is a mess. But that isn't new. There are pencils and papers thrown about on the table and floor, dirty dishes are left in poorly organized stacks on every available surface. The dried food would be gross if I could smell it. The newspaper flutters as my phone vibrates again. I can't look at it. I can't pull my eyes away from the floor below our old Vizio TV. It wasn't on when everything happened, and now it will never work again. The screen is shattered in what looks like a spiderweb. A vast web marking what happened here.

I know I need to leave.

I suck in a deep breath of my cigarette and shut my eyes as the end glows softly. The only light in the room. I cough as I exhale, and I feel a deep sense of home.

The feeling surprises me, and for a second, I forget where I am. This isn't my home. But I look around, at the dirty and broken kitchen counter. At the old, stained window drapes. At the ticking grandfather clock. No, I realize. This is my home. It's him that's new in this setting, not me. My vision blurs and my phone vibrates. I start to question it all. Why was he here? What happened tonight?

I suck in more smoke and, in a fit, I reach forward and snatch my phone off the table, the newspaper slides to the floor and rests half under the couch I sit on. For a second, I take a glance at the newspaper and read a few words of the title that had caused this all. I tear my eyes away before I can finish the sentence. My phone is still buzzing repeatedly. The candid photo of my sister takes up the screen. Her name is written in white at the top. Emilia. The photo is her at a museum I took some years ago. She's imitating the solemn face of a bust of William Shakespeare. We used to be so close. We still are, I suppose.

I answer the phone finally, but I can't bring myself to say any words.

Emilia cries out, "Are you alright? What happened? Tell me nothing happened, God! Tell me you didn't- "

I cut her off, though it's not entirely a conscious choice I make. It feels like I'm watching this all from above. Like I've become the cold that hovers over me.

I say, "I'm sorry." I cough. My voice sounds foreign. "I'm sorry you will have to deal with this." I look at the floor in front of me, at the carpet that's stained so badly it will never be fixed. "I couldn't just let him-"

I hang up the phone. I don't know why. After I do it, I question it. I stare at the blank screen for an eternity of seconds. My cigarette's light dwindles and for a moment, I stop shivering. I don't know why I hung up. But I did. I just couldn't hear her speak. I couldn't hear her regret what I did. I couldn't bring myself to explain what I did. I barley even remember it. And I don't regret it. But that's not even important right now. What she thinks doesn't impact anything anymore. I fill my lungs with smoke again and cough as it dries out my throat. I know the liquor cabinet is empty. I know because I spilt the last of it earlier today.

Why did he come? I suppose it doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now.

The TV is broken, the carpet is stained. The air smells like cigarette smoke, old food, fake roses, and metal.

I'm still cold.

My teeth shake and my fingers are numb and my toes curl up in themselves.

And the siren, if anything, gives me a sense of closure.