The Pale Visitor

18.

The cold metal of the handcuffs bit into my wrists as I was guided into the back of the police car. My mother's cries pierced the air, echoing my own numb disbelief. The reality of what I had done began to sink in

The ambulance speed past the cop car and I see the lights turn off 

She's dead

I killed my best friend

The ride to the station was silent except for the muffled cries that escaped my lips. I couldn't bring herself to speak or to look out the window. Everything seemed surreal, like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. Processing was a blur—a series of forms, fingerprints, and statements that blurred into a haze of bureaucratic procedure.

_________________

3 months later

The courtroom was a sea of judging eyes and hushed whispers as the judge's voice echoed through the room—guilty. The weight of guilt pressed heavily on my chest, knowing I deserved this.

"Murderer!" I hear Kayla's mom scream behind me. I turn back and mouth I'm sorry

My life is over

So is Kayla's

They escorted me outside, to a waiting van, past a throng of cameras and shouting reporters. Some called me names, others held signs proclaiming "mental health matters." The news of my crime had spread far and wide, sparking debates and judgments across the community.

Journalists sending letters asking to interview me. The letters flooded in—hate mail, messages of condemnation, and a few scattered words of support urging me to seek help and mend what was broken. My lawyer had tried to argue for a reduced sentence, citing my mental health struggles. But the fact remained—I had chosen to stop taking my medication, and now I had to face the consequences.

Locked in my cell, the days stretched into an agonizing eternity. The room was a stark reminder of the consequences of my actions. It was smaller than I had expected, with a narrow bed and a small toilet in the corner. I traced the edges of my life through the photographs that adorned the walls—images of my mother, kylo, and of Kayla, frozen moments of a life irreparably altered.

I don't think I can ever forgive myself

 Why couldn't I have controlled myself?

Two weeks later, I heard the heavy clank of the cell door opening. A guard appeared. 

"Pack your stuff, you're moving."he instructed 

I urgently took all my pictures down, grabbed my stuff and followed the guard suit. 

Where could they be taking me now?

We walked down a series of hallways until we reached a new cell—a slightly larger one with a bunk bed.

Inside, another young woman sat on the lower bunk, her demeanor calm and composed. "I thought I wasn't supposed to have a roommate," I muttered, confusion evident in my voice.

The woman smiled faintly. "Guess they changed their mind," she replied cryptically.

I eyed the woman cautiously. "I'm Azariah," I introduced myself tentatively.

"Emily," the woman replied softly

I hesitated, uncertainty gnawing at me. "Why are you here?"

Emily's gaze met mine, steady and unwavering. "Same reason as you, I imagine," she said calmly.

I frowned. "No... I mean... why are you really here?" I pressed, my voice trembling slightly.

Before Emily could respond, the guard's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. "Yeah, I think her meds stopped working," he muttered to someone on the other end.

I froze, my eyes widening in realization. Emily's presence suddenly felt more surreal than ever. Was she real, or just another figment of my fractured mind? I couldn't be sure anymore.

The end?