In Your Head

twenty

The cool breeze brushes against my face as we step outside, my lungs filling with fresh air. My feet are light on the cement stairs like the sensation of being free. Shackles once locked tight on my ankles break away the further I get from the police station, like if I raise my arms and tilt my head back I could blow away in the wind.

Is it over? Is it finally done with?

The same two thoughts repeat in my head on a loop with every step I take. But I think I know the answer now, it isn't some unknown weight crushing me. My chest loosens, the weights crumble, and now I'm ten times lighter than when I was first brought to the station hours ago. Like a part of me is leaving something behind in the interrogation room, but I can't put my finger on it.

What is this feeling? Freedom? A sense of happiness? Relief? Hope? Maybe.

Detective Morgan and Williams wave through the glass windows of the door, those sad smiles still stuck to their faces, keeping their eyes on me. As if this is the last time I'll be seen. But that's ridiculous, insane to think so, I'll be back tomorrow in the day for that press conference.

I stand here for a moment, waiting for Mom who's still inside talking to the detectives, the way she always does when I give interviews. Although this time it isn't to push for details on what I said, maybe more on what happens next and how tomorrow will go. Honestly she isn't alone with that thought, my own nerves overrunning with the thought of how the next day will turn out with the conference. But hey, it can't be worse than how it's been for the past month, right?

Shoving my hands into my jacket pockets, I stand on the top steps next to the doors, letting myself breathe in the crisp, fall wind as the sky falters to hazy colours. How long have I been here? All day?

But I don't really care, it doesn't matter anymore, my story is finally told, finally heard. The police see the truth. I'm not the liar in town, not to them anymore. And as much as I would like the rest of the town to believe me, as long as the police do, I'm okay. I can get through it. But hopefully the conference tomorrow will switch everyone's minds, turn towards me instead of against. They'll all see the truth, they'll know what really happened. Because I'm not a liar. I'm really not.

The sun settles behind houses in the distance, the swirling dark sky of purples and pinks dancing above us. The moon beams, the stars twinkle. The same stars I glanced at every night in the cabin through that tiny, dirty window, holding the little flower prisoner.

You don't have to think about that anymore. It's over, you can finally breathe, you can finally let it go.

The memory feels weird in my mind, different on my chest this time. It isn't so fresh, it isn't heavy. It isn't an unhealed wound splitting open. It isn't carving images in my head like cave drawings burning in fire. No. But I sit with it for a moment, examine the feelings within. Accepting, lingering, and then I let it go. The red string tied between the past and present is starting to loosen, fray, so weak I can pull apart the two pieces that no longer connect like hands that are now unbound. Even if these two pieces always stay with me, always shape me, I think I'm ok with that now. I think I can accept it.

Peering towards the street that lies open, the trees whistle in the wind. Dried leaves scrape along the cold sidewalk. Lamp posts brighten, porch lights flicker on, and the pot lights staked into the ground by the station light up the sign 'Winslow Police Department' , a glow in the dark.

"It's over, isn't it?" Mandy's voice emerges behind me as she steps closer, our shoulders side by side. And as I glance towards her, she meets my gaze at the same time, a small, gentle smile inching across her face.