"Get off me!" I shouted, kicking and flailing at my assailants as they dragged me down the hall. They ignored me and one guard took a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked a cell, sliding the door open. I dug my heels into the ground, trying my hardest to resist, but it was no use. I was flung into the dark and dingy cell and the door was instantly slammed shut. I flew up against the bars, rattling them and screaming as the guards departed.
"I'm not crazy! You can't do this to me! Let me out of here!" I was half-sobbing by now, though I expected no one was listening.
Eventually I tired of yelling and sank down to the floor, running my fingers through my long blonde hair and feeling the hot salty tears cascade down my cheeks. I couldn't be here. I made a mistake. This seemed no different than a jail cell down at Blackgate Penitentiary. Why had I chosen this again? Oh right, because my lawyer had told me it would be better to plead insanity. I drew my knees up to my chest and let out short, broken sobs, feeling my heart beating rapidly in my chest.
A few months back, my brother and I had been walking home together from his football practice. He was only a freshman in highschool, and I usually met up with him on my way home from work and we walked together. Most evenings it was uneventful. We'd talk, laugh, maybe run into the occasional person that we recognized on the street and stop to have a conversation. Life was good, up until that day.
My brother had been going on about something unimportant that had happened at school that day and I'd been texting my friend Sarah, barely listening to what he was saying, only giving the occasional "mhm" or "yeah" to make it seem like I was listening. Only now do I wish I actually had been listening. It would be the last conversation I would ever have with my brother, after all.
In the middle of his story, a man had waltzed out of the shadows, a gun pointed straight at me. He had wild tangles of dark brown hair matted to his face and a raging fire in his black eyes. He looked like a murderer.
"Give me your money and no one gets hurt," he'd growled, adjusting his grip on the pistol and glaring at me, his eyes occasionally darting back and forth between me and my brother.
My breath was hitched in my throat, my hands were shaking, but somehow I managed to slip my purse off my shoulder and shakily hand it out to him. He snatched it abruptly and emitted a low chuckle.
"Now you die." Before I could speak or even think, I heard a wild yell and my brother leapt at him while the man's attention had been focused on me.
"Jeremy!" I screamed, fearing for my brother's life. I was rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do.
"Run, Cara!" He'd grunted as he wrestled with the man. My brother was big for his age, and was actually seeming to hold his own against the man. My body unfroze, but I still didn't run, not wanting to leave my brother behind.
"CARA I SAID RUN!" He screamed, and that was the last thing I heard from him as I turned and sprinted, my shoes pounding against the concrete. I couldn't see anyone in sight, and I cursed myself for walking along one of the backstreets where few people ever ventured save for crooks and criminals.
I got halfway down the street when I heard it. It reverberated off the surrounding buildings like a firecracker. I'd never heard a gunshot before. Not until now. I turned briefly to see my brother's limp body falling to the ground in the distance and the man standing up with the pistol in his hand. A bloodcurdling scream left my winded lungs, but I couldn't stop running, for the man had seen me and was now after me.
I tried not to think about Jeremy as I ducked into an alley, sprinting as fast as I could to get the man off my tail. I glanced behind me periodically, but I didn't see him. I didn't stop running until I arrived at my house, banging on the door with my fists since my keys had been in the purse taken by the murderer.
My mother opened the door after a few moments, looking shocked to see me in the state I was in.
"Cara what's--"
"They killed Jeremy!" I shouted, tears pouring down my face as the reality sunk in. They had killed my brother. He was gone.
For months after that incident, I was so shaken that I couldn't eat, sleep, or go to work. My mother convinced me to see a psychiatrist, and I was put on medication to stabilize my moods and get me back on the right track again. I had started seeing the murderer everywhere after my brother's death, so I was also put on heavy doses of antipsychotics and anti-tremors for schizophrenia. The murderer had been arrested, of course, but the GCPD could find no evidence that my story was true. My purse was gone, of course, and so was my brother, but they never found his body, and the man apparently had a clean record. He was released on parole, which infuriated me beyond words.
My brother was listed as a missing person and the case remains open to this day. However, I wasn't going to sit idly by and let this murderer get away with his crime. It was my word against his, and I knew what he did. So I took matters into my own hands.
The police had released his name to the public, so all it took was a quick search to find out where he was staying. Long story short, I plotted his murder and snuck out of the house with a kitchen knife from my mom's cutlery drawer. My hands were shaking and the knife felt like a beacon in my pocket the whole way there. Once I reached the apartment complex that the man, Charles Bondeau, was living in, I sat and waited. The sun was setting, and I shivered a bit beneath the hoodie I had on, but not once did I second-guess my decision. I wanted this man to receive the same punishment he gave my brother. If the police wouldn't give it to him, then I most certainly would.
At about midnight I saw the man exit the building. I was sure it was him. He had the same hair, the same complexion, and that same, murderous look in his eyes. I crept out from beneath the shadows and pounced on him before he could know what was going on. Through my rage, I stabbed him. I lost count of how many times I sunk the knife into his flesh, but I didn't stop until his yells died out and his body went limp beneath mine.
His yelling had apparently drawn attention, and as I sat there crying with blood on my hands and a knife in my grasp, I felt someone haul me off the body, knocking the knife from my bloodied hand.
Everything was a blur after that. I heard the sirens, felt the cuffs being locked around my wrists, and saw the red and blue flashing lights through my blurred vision.
I was a murderer, and tried as such in court. The lawyer I'd hired had looked into my records, noting that I was on heavy doses of antipsychotics and anti-tremors, and convinced me to plead insanity. He told me that I'd end up in Arkham Asylum, but that I may have a better chance of being discharged than if I were to be sentenced to jail at Blackgate Penitentiary. I had agreed, and now here I was, stuck in an insane asylum crying my eyes out for giving a single man the punishment he'd deserved for taking my brother away from me.
As I returned to the present, I sniffled a few times and wiped my eyes with my sleeve, letting out a slow, ragged breath and trying to wipe the memories from my mind.
"Done crying yet?" A voice drawled, sounding as if it were coming from the cell next door. I nearly jumped out of my skin from fear.
"W-who's there?" I called out, my voice shaking. The unknown person began to laugh, a loud, cackling sound that unnerved me even more.
"Haven't you ever seen a horror movie? You're never supposed to say 'who's there'." The voice was distinctly masculine, but the words he was saying seemed to frighten me more and more by the minute.
"Fine... who are you, then?" My voice was considerably less shaky this time, but I wrapped my arms around my knees nonetheless, rocking back and forth in fear.
There was a pause, and for a moment I wondered if the man had decided that he was done talking to me. Then he spoke. "The better question is, who are you? You put up quite the fight when the guards brought you in, if I do say so myself. Haven't seen a fight like that in a while... So what's a beautiful face like yours doing in a place like this, hm?" He cackled again and I winced, hating the sound of his laugh.
"How do you know what I look like?" I asked, ignoring his question just as he ignored mine.
"The guards dragged you past my cell. But you still haven't answered my question." He had a hard edge to his voice, giving me the impression that he wasn't someone I'd want to disappoint.
"My name's Cara. I'm in here for murder." The words sounded foreign on my tongue. Me, a murderer. I never thought I'd hear myself say those words.
"Murder, huh?" There was another pause. "Interesting..."
"So who are you then? Why are you here?" I asked, starting to get more comfortable speaking with him. I wasn't sure if any other prisoners could hear us, or even if there were any other prisoners in this cell block, but at the moment I didn't care.
"Me? Well, I've been in here more times than I can count for a variety of reasons... but yes, I guess you could say I'm here for the same reason you are." He laughed at the end, a low, ominous laugh that made my skin crawl. I got the feeling that this guy hadn't murdered to exact revenge, like I had. No, this guy had to be one of the more insane ones. "I wonder why they put you here," he continued, interrupting my thoughts. "I'm the only one in this cell block, it's been that way for a while. Nice to finally have some company," he drawled, making me shiver. Well, at least that answered my earlier suspicion. We were the only ones here.
"Where are the guards?" I asked hesitantly, thinking that maybe I should stop talking to this strange man.
"Oh, them? They're posted outside the double doors. Usually only two or three at a time, though. Poor security here, if you ask me." He giggled again and I clenched my jaw, wondering why this lunatic thought everything was so damn funny.
"You still haven't told me your name. I told you mine," I protested, finally deciding that if he was the only person I would speak with for a while, I'd better get well acquainted with him.
"My name? Hm... you can call me J," he responded, an edge to his tone. I got the feeling that wasn't his real name, and I instantly felt stupid for telling him mine.
Our conversation was interrupted when the double doors burst open. I stood up and pressed my face against the bars, craning my neck, but I couldn't see anything save for the shadows the newcomers cast across the floor. There was a thick cement wall separating my cell from my neighbor's, and severely obstructing my vision.
"Come on, time for your therapy session," a man called out, and I heard the jingling of keys. My neighbor's cell was opened, though I still couldn't see it, and I heard the shuffling of feet as he was led out.
"See ya later, Cara," my neighbor's voice said, and I could tell he was smiling.
"Shut up and move, clown," the guard scolded, and I heard a grunt that sounded like my cellmate had been kicked.
The double doors opened again and then slammed shut, followed by the sound of a buzzer as they locked themselves.
I got up and walked over to the small cot in the corner of my room, laying down on it and trying to get some sleep. But the longer I laid there, the more awake I felt. Every time I shut my eyes I heard the man's voice, accompanied by his maniacal laugh. See ya later, Cara.