This Is Worse Than Prison - A Short Story

Once I’d gotten out on bail, out of the orange jumpsuit, the first thing my lawyer had me do was redo my wardrobe. Out was anything that fit tight, revealed skin, or displayed any semblance of a grunge aesthetic. I’d grown out out my close-cropped hair to a more acceptable length. My counsel had assured me that a jury would respond poorly to more subversive styling choices. They would be normal people, simple people. Best not to look guilty to them. The safer I dressed, the more innocent I looked. Seeing as I was guilty, I figured looking innocent would be all I had.
I could act innocent too. Innocent Sara, who you wouldn’t think could harm a fly. That’s the part I played to the police, to the judge and especially to the jury. Not Guilty Sara, who had killed a man with her car, who could barely sleep at night.
Innocent Sara, sporting her long skirt, frumpy conservative blouse and perfectly blonde hair, sat in court, waiting for the jury to return with their decision.
“You’ll be fine,” my lawyer said, reaching over and briefly rubbing my hand.
I said nothing, but smiled in response and withdrew my hand to my lap.
I didn’t need to look behind me to know my mother was staring at the back of my head. I knew that despite the circumstances, she would be happy to see me dressed as I was. I’d finally, outwardly, reverted to the image of the soft, quiet daughter she’d raised me to be. She’d paid a fortunate to hire the man sitting next to me. He looked like a lawyer you’d see on television. Not one of the slimy ones on the commercials, but the ones starring in the courthouse dramas. Dark, well-groomed hair, piercing blue eyes, a square jaw and good posture. I supposed he was good looking, if you were into men, which I wasn’t. The jury would like him, my mother had said to me. She always spoke like that, never really entertaining the notion that I’d lose. Too scared of losing me, I suppose. I was afraid of prison too.
The courtroom was small, lit by harshly white light and filled with cheap furniture. Only a handful of people were there to watch the proceedings, not a crowd. I knew my case was not a high profile one, and had mostly kept its way out of the news cycle. The truth was that the man I’d killed wasn’t one who’d gather a lot of sympathy in the media. The washed-up alcoholic brother of a tattoo studio owner didn’t play as well as a helpless little white girl.
In the edge of the courtroom stood the police officer, ready to take me away if the jury came back with a guilty verdict. He looked a lot like my former boss at the tattoo studio, tall and almost grotesquely thick with muscle. Tony had spent time on the other side of the law, though. I’d heard a lot about prison from him. It sounded like hell, and I knew prison had only gotten worse. The nightmares I had that weren’t about me killing people with my car were about prison.
I knew prison was meant to be terrifying, as a crime deterrent. But I’d already committed the crime. My going to prison wouldn’t bring the dead back to life.
The prosecutor, a skinny man with a receding hairline, bounced his leg up and down under his desk. That was not my first sign of his deteriorated confidence. His struggle to make the evidence sound convincing in the court had been obvious. It wasn’t his fault; the closest thing the police had been able to find to an eyewitness had been an alcoholic homeless person. The police had been less confident than the prosecutor; news had come out that they’d reopened the case without even waiting for a verdict. The evidence wasn’t even enough to charge me with anything more than involuntary manslaughter.
The judge sat above us all, a white-haired old woman with thick glasses. I thought she looked like a librarian, in a good way. She tapped her fingers methodically, waiting for the jury to return. I myself was sitting perfectly still, my back straight against the chair.
As I watched the prosecutor tap his feet, I felt a sensation gathering in the back of my throat; the worry that the prosecutor had failed. It was puzzling. Did I not want freedom? I’d refused to enter a guilty plea. I hadn’t confessed while on the stand. But here was this feeling, fighting against all instincts of self-preservation, to confess.
Self-preservation. Cowardice phrased nicely. I was too afraid of consequences to admit to the horrid thing I’d done.
The door to the jury’s chamber clicked open, the twelve men and women who held my fate in their hands began returning. I watched the jury trudge back into the courtroom, blank looks on their face. Beside the noise the jury’s shuffling feet, nobody made a sound. Nobody actually wanted to be in the room, I knew. I saw nothing in them but the purest quality of being ordinary: button-up shirts, stiff collars, pastel colors. My own look wasn’t much different than theirs. The jury sat in their seats, and the judge looked at them expectantly.
As the foreman of the jury rose, I had the awful thought that I might go free.
“Has the jury made its decision?” the judge asked, her tone more rhetorical than inquisitive. They had not been gone long. Not only had they decided, they decided quickly.
“We have, your honor.” The foreman coughed to clear his throat. “On the charge of involuntary manslaughter, we find the defendant not guilty.”
My heart dropped. I felt like vomiting. Not guilty was a life sentence. Not one behind bars, but trapped in my own life, my own lies. Justice unserved. My attorney stood, and turned to me, hand outstretched. I tentatively did that same. His grip on my hand was firm, the handshake itself vigorous.
“Congratulations,” he said, smiling his too-white teeth at me. “I never had any doubts.”
“Thank you,” I said. I had rehearsed how to sound sincere. “Thank you so much. Really.”
As I walked out of the room my mother intercepted me. She was crying and she hugged me, neither of which was surprising. We stood there, embracing in the middle of the emptying room, for a good minute. Then she looked into my face and smiled through her tears. I hadn’t seen her look so happy since I graduated high school.
“Let’s get you home,” was all she said.
I followed her out of the room, and out of the courthouse, down the steps and into the parking lot. I sat in the passenger seat of the black sedan she’d bought herself when I went off to college.

I blinked my eyes open, staring up at the vast white ceiling as the last vestiges of my dreams faded from my mind. Waking up in my old room still felt strange to me. It would have been strange enough if it had stayed the same, but my mother had converted it into a guest room. The dimensions of the room were all that seemed familiar to me. The walls had been painted over with a sort of off-white, decorated with sterile paintings of flowers. The upside was that I was spared an embarrassing glimpse into my high school years.
After lying in bed for a long while, I pulled myself out of bed and wandered down the hall to the bathroom. Before I took my morning shower I stared at myself in the mirror, admiring the tattoos I so rarely showed now. After stepping into the shower I let the water run straight onto the back of my head for a while, letting the dull noise of it fill my thoughts.
I dressed myself and then begun putting on the mask I wore now. Before the arrest I had worn more makeup, but that didn’t feel like such a concealing act as this did. That was, if not a truer version of my face, than an equally true incarnation. This new makeup routine felt deeply dishonest. Restraint was not a technique that came naturally to me. But I felt that I needed to show this face. I had to look that part I was playing. I was Innocent Sara, falsely accused and found not guilty of murder. A wholesome girl who had lost her way while away from home, who had just recently come back to her senses. Innocent Sara did not wear heavy makeup. Innocent Sara did not wear black. Innocent Sara did not show her tattoos.
I barely recognized the face in the mirror before me.
Walking down the stairs, I heard my mother talking to someone below. The rest of the house was as dull as my room. The walls were all the same off-white plaster, broken up by the occasional wood accent piece. Upstairs, the floor was a white carpet, which thankfully ended at the foot of the stairs, where it gave way to light brown wooden floors. The walls were less garish in contrast to that flooring. I walked through the living room on my way into the kitchen.
I found my mother talking with our neighbor Donna in the kitchen, which was decidedly unlike the rest of the house. My mother did not like the kitchen - her crowning achievement was boxed mac and cheese - and thus she had not cared for it so meticulously. It was, however, the cramped nexus of the house, and so its ugly appearance had become something of a sore spot for her. She’d probably spent all the money she’d been saving to remodel the kitchen on my attorney.
My mother’s light hair was neatly up in a bun, while Donna’s dyed-black locks came down to just above her shoulders. My memories of Donna were not pleasant ones. She had liked to shout at me when I wandered onto her property.
“Speak of the devil.” Donna turned her wide, botoxed eyes to look at me. “We were just talking about you.”
“What’s there to talk about?” I said. I hoped I didn’t sound overly sarcastic.
“Don’t be silly, Sara,” my mother scolded.
“You must be very happy about how your trial went,” Donna said.
I felt my throat tighten, my body and mind acting in unified revolt at the idea of being pleased with the verdict. I already hated myself for participating in the deception; I didn’t want to be the sort of monster that was happy about it.
“We’re both very relieved, of course.” My mother spoke for me, like I was a child, not to be trusted to speak for herself.
“Bad enough what happened already,” Donna continued. Her eyes felt accusatory, and though I knew how ridiculous it was, for a second I wondered if she didn’t know the truth. I wished she did. “At least an innocent woman didn’t get punished for it.”
There was that word again. Innocent. I nearly flinched at the sound of it. For a moment, I considered correcting her. The idea of confessing, which had been echoing in my mind since the verdict, came to the forethought of my mind. But the sight of my mother’s face silenced my tongue. Despite the vastness of our differences, I loved her, and I knew she didn’t have anyone else in the world. My confession would destroy her.
I forced a smile but said nothing. I didn’t know what I could have said anyways.
“So, what’re you up to now?”
“I was going to get some orange juice,” I replied, gesturing to the refrigerator that stood behind Donna.
“Oh, don’t let me stand in your way,” she said, and stood aside. “But what I meant was, what do you do now?”
I paused. I wasn’t sure what to say to that either.

The man I killed was Oliver, Tony's brother. His alcohol problems made it hard for him to get work, so his brother took pity on him and had him work part-time at the, doing odd jobs.
Oliver started hating me as soon as he realized I wasn't interested in his ultra-macho act. I hated him for that act. We hated each other, sure, but hate and killing are two different things. Hate doesn't excuse murder. It barely even explains it.
The day I killed Oliver was a hot, busy day. The streets were full of cars, leaving no spaces open by the sidewalk. For me, that meant I had to park a half hour walk from Coast Tattoo Studio, where I worked. I parked in a lot behind a closed restaurant. Sunlight assaulted my tattooed arms and shoulders, carelessly exposed by my black shirt. Needless to say, I was in a poor mood when I arrived.
Oliver was there, and being his normal antagonistic self, and we got into an argument. It was different this time though. My mind fried by the heat, I laughed at him. Not at something he said, or something he did. I laughed at who Oliver was, and he knew that. Oliver was many things - alcoholic, abrasive, irresponsible - but above all else he was a man that took himself very seriously. At the time, I didn't think anything was different when he stomped off to the bar to get wasted. That was normal Oliver.
After I finished my appointments for the day, I took a seat on the chairs by the entrance, basking in the feeling of when a hot day finally cools down. Anson, a lanky man who worked at the studio with me, sank down into a chair beside me and sighed with exhaustion.
"I spent all day today working on this girl's back," I complained. "Three giant birds."
"Birds?" Anson repeated.
"On a fucking tree branch."
"Not your usual style." Anson said, putting his arms behind his head. "What's next, flowers and vines?"
"Fuck you," I said, with a grin. "Not my design. She drew it up herself."
"That explains it," he said. "You not even a little tempted to throw a skull in there?"
"It's all I can do to keep myself from making the birds on fire."
We continued to talk for a while, friendly banter between coworkers. In hindsight, the mundane nature of this conversation sticks out to me. I could not have been more unawares of how big of a mistake I was about to me
Our conversation was interrupted when Oliver staggered in. At first sight, it was obvious that he was incredibly drunk. He confirmed this a moment later, vomiting when he opened his mouth to speak. Again, I laughed at him. As Anson went to fetch Tony, Oliver glared at me.
"What do you think you're laughing at?" Oliver spoke, his words slow and blurred.
"Do I even need to say?" I answered.
"Fuck you, bitch."
He spat at me. Luckily, it fell far short of the mark. At that moment, Tony emerged from the back, Anson following shortly behind with a mop.
"Hold up, Oliver," Tony said, putting himself between us. "Sara, why don't you head home?"
"Way ahead of you,"
I grabbed my things and was out the door in under a minute. For a while, I walked alone under the orange twilight sky. The silence was broken only by the tapping of my heavy boots on the concrete. Before I reached the lot I parked in, I heard a shout from behind me. It was Oliver.
"Hey!" He shouted. "You think you can run from me?"
I was shocked - Oliver had never done anything like this before. What exactly was different I can't be sure, but something made him so mad and so unhinged as to follow me all the way from the studio.
That's not to say I was afraid. Oliver might have acted tough, but he was scrawny. I'm convinced his attitude was all bluster anyways. All it would take was for someone to call his bluff. I wasn't exactly weak myself - the arms I exposed displayed not only tattoos but more than decently strong muscles. I wasn't scared, I was pissed off.
“Fuck off, asshole,” I shouted back at him, quickening my pace.
When I got into my car, I pulled out into the street and drove back towards Oliver. He'd stumbled into the middle of the road. I don't know if he even noticed doing that. Stopping before him, I revved my engines a few times. He twitched in recognition. I pressed on the brakes. I thought it'd give him a good scare. As he tried to move out of the way, he fell to the ground. I saw it. I could have stopped. There was time, I know it, but I kept my foot on the gas until I heard a sickening crunch. My car shook like it was going over a speed bump.
I knew immediately what I'd done. My first thought was not to contemplate the horrific nature of my actions, or to call for likely-useless help. No, my first thought was that I didn't want to go to prison. Body and mind saturated with dread at the thought, I sped to a car wash and then back to my apartment. I was a coward. I'll never forget that.

After the conversation in the kitchen, I'd managed to slip away. I drove around town a bit before I started on my errand for the day. I needed to go back to my old apartment and grab the rest of my stuff. My mom had gotten me a new job, as I’d lost mine at the tattoo studio when I was arrested. I wasn't fired, Tony liked me too much to fire me, but I didn’t want to go back there and even if I had, I lacked the time for it.
My old apartment, on the so-called bad side of town, would no longer be suitable, both in practical and aesthetic terms. Innocent Sara did not live in the bad part of town. Even if she did, commuting halfway across the city every day was hardly feasible. My place had been a pre-furnished apartment, luckily, so I didn’t have to worry about moving furniture or anything else that large.
I parked on the curb in front of the building, and grabbed a couple unfolded cardboard boxes. I checked my phone before entering the building. There were a few voice messages I should have returned already. I had a text from Devon. She was trying to plan a celebration of my verdict. It seemed grotesque to me to plan a celebration - even if I had been innocent - but I couldn’t cancel. Innocent Sara did not cancel on things like that. I put my phone away and started climbing up the concrete steps.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the door from out of the stairwell. The barren hall seemed to stretch before me as I walked to the end of the hall, where my door was. My legs screamed with the urge to run, but I did not indulge them. Innocent people didn’t dash from place to place, like they were fleeing.
The familiar plastic numbers on the door of my apartment appeared before me at last. Hands shaking, I pulled my key out of my pocket and pressed it into the lock.
“Sara?”
My head snapped back, looking for the voice. I saw a man wearing a black Coast Tattoo Studio shirt. Anson, my former coworker and neighbor, had just stepped out of his apartment. The son of a bitch must have gotten the day off.
“Hey!” I said, as I turned myself fully around to face him. “Long time no see.”
“No kidding. I almost didn’t recognize you.” He said. I saw his eyes glance quickly over my clothes. “You look good though.”
“Thank you.” I smiled the obligatory smile. He was lying; we weren't extremely close but I knew his aesthetic tastes from working with him. “I just felt like changing things up. And seeing as I don’t really need to show off my tattoos anymore…”
“The studio isn’t the same without you,” he said. “You going to come back?”
“No, my mom got me a job at a restaurant.” I said. “I start next week. Its nice. French.”
“Hell of a commute.” Anson and I both were well aware that there were no nice French restaurants anywhere near this building. "New job better pay nice or you'll go broke buying gas."
“I’m actually moving to a new place,” I explained, lifting up the cardboard to illustrate my point. “Just grabbing what’s left of my things.”
“Need help?” Anson asked. “I was heading to get some lunch but that can wait.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to bother you.”
“It’s no problem.” he said. “Really, Sara.”
The door squeaked on hinges that hadn’t been opened for some time. I flicked on the lights as I lead Anson inside. The walls were covered with black posters of metal bands and prints of favorite tattoo designs. I felt out of place in my cream-colored sweater.
Anson and I unfolded the boxes I’d brought and went about gathering my things. While he gathered my art, I went into the bedroom. I’d already taken all my clothes away, mostly to donate them. There wasn’t much of anything else to deal with in the bedroom besides the sheets and more art on the walls. I'd also placed a poster on the ceiling. I had to stand of the bed to remove it. The last time I’d slept in this room was the night after I’d killed Oliver. I remember waking up and being started at the poster above me, my mind transposing Oliver's face onto the skeleton it depicted. I'd spent the next couple of days sleeping on Devon's couch before I got arrested.
I wanted to go back into the other room and confess to Anson, tell him that the reason I was leaving was because this was the apartment of a killer, someone I was pretending not to be. I sighed and packed away my sheets, and started taking down more art.
By the time we were done, we each had a full box in our arms. I set mine down in the hallway while I closed the door behind me. After it clicked, we walked down the hall. I had a strange awareness of how this would be the last time I walked the halls, once such a regular occurrence in my life. The old Sara walked that hall more times than she could count. Innocent Sara would just have the one trip in and out. I had been too preoccupied on the way in to consider it, but now that I was lugging my things away I couldn’t get the overwhelming strangeness out of my mind.
I followed behind Anson as he marched down the steps, careful not to let anything slip from my grasp. We emerged out on the street and walked to my car. The boxes barely fit in my trunk.
“You sure you ain’t coming back to the parlor?” Anson asked.
“I’ve already got another job lined up,‘ I said. “Besides, I can’t see Tony hiring me again.”
“Sara, you didn’t do anything,” Anson said. “None of us believed the cops for a second. Tony least of all.”
“How is Tony?” I asked. Of everyone at Coast Tattoo, I'd been closest with Tony. “I haven’t seen him since…”
Anyone who knew Tony knew how he was about family. Nothing was more important, more precious to him than family. It was the only reason someone as nice as Tony would have been so indulgent to an ass like Oliver. I was worried about him.
“He’s…” Anson paused. “He’s doing okay.”
The feeling of sickness, now familiar, returned to me.
“You should visit him." Anson continued. "I'm sure he’d like that."
“Really?” I said.
"Who doesn't like to see their friends?" Anson said.
"I suppose." I thought guilty of my desire to skip Devon's celebration. I slammed the trunk of my car closed. “Thank you so much for the help."
“Anytime,” Anson said. "You want to get lunch?"
"Sorry, I've got to get this stuff home," I said. My move into the new place was happening the next day. There was a lot to get figured out.
"See you around, then." Anson said before walking off. He called back over his shoulder, "Don't be a stranger!"
I almost laughed at that.

I had been thinking about visiting Tony for a while, but I felt unable to do so. Or, rather, I felt I wasn't allowed to. As the cause of his grief, I had no right to comfort him. Anson's suggestion liberated me. A few weeks later, I finally found myself free enough and set off to Coast Tattoo Studio.
Clouds had obscured the sun by the time I drove up to the curb outside the studio. It was a slow day for business, it seemed. I had no competition for parking, unlike that horrid day. When I entered, there were no needles humming, no radio playing, no conversation. Just total silence.
“Hello?” I said, my voice echoing through the studio. "Tony?"
I stood, awaiting an answer. After a few moments, the door to the back opened and Tony stuck out his head. There were deep circles under his eyes and he was now sporting a patchy beard.
“Sara!” He said, heavy eyelids widening in evident surprise. He walked over and hugged me. “What’re you doing here?”
“Just thought I’d drop by," I said. “See how you’re doing."
Tony averted his eyes. “I’m fine. I’m just fine.” Tony replied. “Sit. I need to finish closing up. Just a second."
Tony locked the register, turned off the lights in the back, and then came back with two cups of coffee in hand. I didn't like coffee but I accepted it anyways. Tony looked like he needed the caffeine. His face was uncharacteristically lean.
We talked, mostly about me. I told him about my new apartment, my new job, my new life, introducing him to Innocent Sara. He didn't make any comments on my different style, not like Anson had. The distinct was so clear that he would have noticed if he was paying attention. I wasn't sure if he just wasn't saying anything or if he was too preoccupied to notice how I looked. All the talk about me was exhausting, but I couldn't manage to turn to conversation to being about Tony. After a while he stopped asking me questions.
“Well, it sounds like you’re doing fine,” Tony said.
"Things seem to be looking up," I replied. It was the most truthful thing I could say - that was how things Seemed.
"That's good." Tony said. A tear gathered in the corner of his eye, and the sight of it was like a punch in the gut. “I’m glad things are getting better for someone.”
“Tony," I said. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
I wondered if I wasn't going to confess. The truth, hidden in me, throbbed in my chest, desperate to escape. If I told Tony, he would hate me. I wondered if hate would be easier for him to handle than sorrow. Then I thought, hate and sorrow aren't mutually exclusive. Hating me won't make him stop mourning Oliver. My confession wouldn't help him.
"You don't have anything to be sorry about," he said, not knowing how wrong he was. He was choking up, staggering his words out. “It’s not even like he was a great guy or anything.”
“Don’t say that.” I leaned in closer to Tony. "He was your brother."
I didn't disagree with what he'd said. Before the incident, I would have been overjoyed to hear such an admission from Tony. However, my distaste for Oliver didn't make me feel any better about his death. I wasn't sad he was gone, but nobody deserved to die like that. I hated the web of deceit and pain I'd created. I hated that Tony had to talk about his brother like this
“No, no, its true. Oliver was an ass. I know he was an ass.” Tony continued. “But he’ll never get the chance to be anything else."
“It wasn’t your fault,” I insisted. Tony didn't reply. “I know this is hard for you.”
“Hard? Prison was hard,” he said, a corrective tone to his voice. “This is the worst I’ve ever felt.”
I had nothing more I could think to say, nothing besides the truth. And I couldn't bring myself to say that. I hugged Tony again, said goodbye and went outside.
It was strangely windless, despite the clouds. I stared at my car, my instrument of destruction. I looked around at the streets. Far as I could see, they were deserted. Satisfied that I was alone, I kicked my car. I heard a headlight crack and a moment later felt my foot rage with pain. I limped back to the driver's seat, groaning with pain, and drove away.

The next day, I sat parked outside Devon’s place, reluctant to go in. There was a completely practical reason the party was at her house. Simply speaking, everyone else i knew lived in tiny apartments. That's not to say it was a large house, just that it was large enough. There was also the less literally practical reason of her being my best friend. I remember people in college would mistake us for a couple, which always made my girlfriends jealous. That wasn’t the sort of love I had for Devon, though.
After almost half an hour, I texted her, revealing that I had arrived. I watched Devon walk out her front door and left my car to meet her halfway. We looked like yin and yang. Her hair was long and dark, her clothes black, her makeup heavy. I was in a simple white dress. Devon hugged me in greeting.
"Why didn't you just come in?" Devon asked.
"I assumed you'd want to make a scene of it" I answered, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"That's happening no matter what," she said. "After all, we're all here for you."
I smiled in response and followed her inside. Everyone inside cheered as I walked in. Each of them came up to me independently, asking me the same things. Where was I living, where was I working, how was I feeling. My answers were all the same as what I'd told Tony the day prior. Everyone got to meet Innocent Sara.
Seeing the magnitude of my deception, I wandered over to what had become the snack table, located in the corner of the main room. Devon's house was old, built in a mock-Victorian style. It might have been expensive once, but it was severely in need of refurbishment. She'd been able to buy it cheap, and had done absolutely no work on it. An inspector from the fire department would've had a heart attack if they saw it.
"Better watch out for the punch," Devon warned me as I approached the table. It was a neon red. "For your dress, I mean. It tastes great."
"Oh, thanks," I said, grabbing a glass. "I'm just getting water."
"So, tell me the truth," Devon said. For a second, I panicked. "Does this thing feel like a wedding reception?"
"A little," I answered. "Not in a bad way. The last thing I'd want is something like we were back in college. This is nice."
I wasn't being dishonest. Against all expectations, the party had not been going nearly as terribly as I'd expected. The initial conversations had been uncomfortable, but once everyone had stopped talking about my innocence I'd been able to ignore the circumstances. I didn't feel like I fit in, but it was better than I'd expected.
"Speaking of college, I don't think I've seen you in that much white since freshman year." Devon said to me as we shuffled out of the way of the table.
"It's not really my color, is it?"
"You look great," Devon said, the obligatory flattery of a friend. "Different but great."
"Thanks! You look great too," I replied. "Not different, just great."
Devon laughed. "So, how about a little dancing?"
“God, no.” Neither real Sara not Innocent Sara liked dancing.
“Come on,” Devon said, grabbing my hand. “It’ll be fun.”
Just then, my phone started buzzing. My mother's picture was emblazoned on the screen. Her timing saved me. I waved the phone in front of Devon.
"Is there somewhere quiet I can take this?" I asked.
Devon showed me to a door to the backyard. It was dark, illuminated only by the occasional square of light streaming through windows. I sat on the wooden steps that lead out to the grass.
"Hello?" I said, answering the phone.
"Hi sweetie, sorry for interrupting your party." My mother's voice came through scratchily. "I was just watching the news and thought I ought to tell you."
"What is it?" My heart suddenly began beating faster.
"The police arrested a man," she said. "They say he killed Oliver. That they were wrong about you."
My hand started to tremble, and I started to remove the phone from the side of my face.
"Isn't this great news? It's over, Sara." I heard softly from the distant phone speaker. "It's finally over."
I dropped my phone, watching the glass of the touch screen shatter in a thousand little pieces. The lurking nauseousness I'd been fighting came to a head as I vomited on the lawn. I hadn't believed Tony the other day when he spoke of a feeling worse than prison. But now I was certain I was feeling one. I had been able to tolerate the deception, all because of the pretense that it was preventing another life from being destroyed. I couldn't pretend any longer. My life was being preserved at the expense of another.
I picked myself up and marched inside. Devon was waiting for me at the snack table, holding a cup of punch. She followed me as I passed by and out the front door.. I felt her grab my hand just as I'd gotten down the steps.
"Where are you going?" Devon asked. "You'll miss the cake."
"To the police, I think," I answered, having not given it much thought. "I think I have to."
"Is everything alright?" Devon sounded concerned.
"No, no it's not. They arrested someone for killing Oliver," I answered. "But he didn't do it."
Devon took a moment to process what I'd said. "How do you know he didn't?"
"Because," I started. The truth finally had its moment. It rushed out of me. "Because I did. I killed him. I killed him and lied. But I can't lie anymore."
I looked Devon firmly in the eyes. She had to believe. She had to understand I was telling the truth. My confidence in her was affirmed when a second later she threw her glass of punch over me, staining me red. I watched her march back inside. She'd never looked more beautiful to me.