The Main Character

Everyone in here has their story. Not many call us survivors. More along the lines of murderers. But when you put us all together, we need to survive at the hands of the other inmates.

My story goes like this:

My mother had died six weeks prior to me committing my crime. I was mourning! My heart didn’t know how to go on and survive without her guidance. I bought a gun from the nearest store; my plan was to fire it into my own head and end my suffering. My earbuds were blasting, but I couldn’t tell you the song for the life of me. I absently walked the streets, the fog setting in.

I do remember the sun disappearing; almost like the light in my life also slipped out of my grasp. My mother. I carried the gun in my backpack, so passers-by wouldn’t feel threatened. It isn’t about them at all. My pain is overbearing.

These weeks have been hard and the toll my liver has taken is also causing pain. I need a more permanent solution. Put a bullet or two in my head.

Seeing the sun drop below the waterline in the distance felt like a good time to stop walking and finish what I came out to start. The temperature in the atmosphere had already started dropping significantly. I gave myself to breath in my final deep breath before slipping my bag off my shoulder. I took note of anyone around me who could be a witness and slowly unzipped my bag.

I said I was a murderer, so what went wrong?

Everything was going to plan. My grief acted as a cloud of my judgement and this man appears almost out of nowhere, resisting the gun. I turned to him, and my grief quickly became anger. How dare he try and keep me alive! I have suffered enough.

He spoke slowly and calmly the words that made me stop in my tracks, even letting the gun sink to my side.

‘Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.’ He also went on about wanting to sit me down and talk it out. He genuinely wanted to help me get better. I had a plan, and this dickhead has ruined everything.

I zoned him out, except his words about survival. He must have had his struggles too and he survived. I fucking hate him for that because he wouldn’t care as much as he does.

Bang!

His reaction times were too slow. I pierced his brain with the bullet, ready to reload at any movement from his corpse. I had a plan and if he chose to interfere, he pays the consequences that would have otherwise been me.

Sirens rang out and I knew they were heading in my direction. This guy stalled and now there were witnesses. I had a plan and he fucked it all up. Now the police are coming and since there was at least one witness, they know it is me. Fucking fantastic!

The whirling became louder, the blue and red flashing over my face. It is only in that moment the anger clears and I realise that I should have given him the chance. I can only remember him now by his words. Words that I’m sure will replay in my head for the rest of my life.

‘Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.’

Once I get out of prison, I want to do what that man was trying to do for me; help people hold on to life. I don’t believe in reincarnation, but my mum would have liked him, said he would have been a good influence for me.

So that’s my story. I survived my own guilt and now I have to survive the rest of my sentence. Then I have the rest of my life to live and help other people see themselves as survivors.