Diary 1 (A man who robbed a bank)

** Today I’m starting a new category called Fiction and Fantasy! I enjoyed writing this and I hope other’s find it enjoyable to read! **

My Counselor told me that if I started writing some of my feelings down on paper it might help me sleep better. Mostly I think the reason I can’t sleep is because i’m afraid my bunk-mate is going to stab me with the shiv he keeps in the spine of his bible, but that’s just me.

Every time I close my eyes I can see myself loading the gun. The sound the bullets made when they slipped into the magazine; the subtle grind and click. The sound grates on my eardrums every night. I can’t remember anyone’s face as I yelled for them to get on the ground; I was trying to act angry when I was just as terrified as them. but the way the bullets looked as I loaded them into the gun. I’ll never forget it.

Funny, isn’t it.

I loaded nine bullets into the cartridge. I only ended up shooting three. Straight into the air just like i saw in the movies. I bet the bullets are still lodged in the ceiling.

Until that day I never shot a gun before. Never had to in the office. I never want to shoot another one again. I feel like I can still smell the gunpowder on my fingers. Even after months of washing my hands I still feel like I smell it. And the ringing in my ears still hasn’t faded away, but maybe that’s not from the gun. Maybe it’s just because of how quiet this place can be sometimes.

You don’t feel like you exist on earth when you live in this place. Instead of waking up to the sound of birds, you wake up to the sound of echo’s through the cells as the lights turn on. No more traffic or the noise of life outside, just the buzzing of doors and the sound of God over the P.A. system.

It’s not hell, but it doesn’t feel like any other place on earth. . . It’s just here. . . I’m just here.

My mind doesn’t know if it’s been months or years. Time has a way of moving both slow and fast here. . . I asked Helen to send me a calendar last time I wrote her. Maybe it’s coming soon?

I don’t even remember hearing the *BANG* you’re supposed to hear from a gun. But when I shut my eyes I still hear the slamming of the gavel as the judge proceeded with my sentence. Fifteen years, with a chance of parole at eight. . . I think I wore a suit to court. My best suit.

That reminds me of the other man who comes to see me in here. The man in the suit and sunglasses. He’s from some government agency I can’t remember. He always tells me every time he visits, I just can’t remember. He introduces himself like we’ve never met every single time, even though he’s seen me once a week since I got in this place. He’s the one who recommended that I start seeing the counselor. He must think something’s wrong with me. The way I talk, the way I can’t remember things. He worries about me.

I saw him yesterday. Don’t remember what we talked about. He asked me again though; I remember that. “Where’s the money Fred?” He asks me. . .

He says it every time, that’s one thing I remember.

They brought my son in again as well. . . He just looks at me. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. Neither do I. . .  I can’t even seem to give him hope, or tell him that everything’s going to be alright. All I do is whisper how sorry I am.

And I am.

I’m so sorry.

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