Immortus

COLD FAMILIARS

COLD FAMILIARS

I remember how the dull sounds of the cell door closing and the sharp click of the lock seemed to echo in the tiny enclosed space. The cell itself was clean, and smelt clean- the bleach was burning my nose as I breathed in- and was a pale blue colour. There was even a small window of frosted glass that let in the outside light. It was almost taunting me, telling me that I could at the outside world, but I couldn't touch. As cells went, I thought it was probably as nice as they got. At least I was on my own and not having to share with another. The downside was that I was locked in my cell with no human contact. Solitary confinement. I was too much of a target to the other prisoners to be allowed to roam free. I remembered the chilling non-verbal threats from behind the cell doors a si had been brought in. even from behind the locked doors of the prison cells where I knew they could not harm me, the fingers being dragged across their throats was still a clear and present death threat. In the eyes of the other prisoners, I was as guilty of being a child-killer as Ian Brady or Myra Hindley. Nobody likes a child killer. In their eyes, I had killed one of their own: an up and coming 'young officer'. That made everything a lot worse. In their eyes, I was a dead man walking.

"You MUST find him GUILTY."

The cold order issues by the judge to direct the jury still haunted me. The conviction and certainty with which he had commanded them was absolute. It was almost a direct order. He believed my guilt to its fullest extent. So did many others. It hurt me deep down inside to know that I was facing the blame for circumstances beyond my control. I had sunk down in the box as the verdict had been read. My life had ended the second he had read it out.

"GUILTY of VOLUNTARY MANSLAUGHTER."

I shivered. The memory and the coldness that was seeping in the cell now that the sun was setting had left me cold to the core. I pulled the thin threadbare excuse for a blanket around my shoulders, hoping that it would give me some form of warmth and comfort, and brought my legs up to my chest.

She had come to me when she had needed me the most.

"Help me!" she had cried in desperation, tears streaming down her young face, her knees buckling as she struggled to keep a grip on her emotions.

She had been just sixteen years old when she had begged me to help her. Just sixteen years old. I remember how the tears had clung to her long and mascara free eyelashes. Wisps of her red hair had caught in the tears trails and stuck to her face. Her blue eyes were muted by the sadness, greyer and red rimmed, swollen. I remember how fragile she had felt, how much she had shaken in my arms as I had caught her when her knees finally gave way and she fell.

We had spoken for a long time. She had told me how sad she was, how alone she felt now her brother had died and her parents had rejected her, how much she hated herself for encourage her brother to follow his dreams when it had been his dreams that had gotten him killed. I had sat and listened to her every word, letting her speak completely uninterrupted for as long as she had needed to, until she had told me everything she wanted to. I had reminded her of how there was more to life than the affairs of others, and more to life than the guilt from the circumstances beyond her control. I had kept on making her feel safe and wanted, and kept on talking to her until her tears had cleared and she had smiled.