This is my entry for the #constrainedwriting contest hosted by @svashta
Rules:
-Write a story that either starts happy and ends sad, or starts sad and ends happy.
-Raise at least 1 existential question in your story. You can have your characters straight out ask it, or you can be more profound and conceal it within your story.
-The story must be at least 250 words long and in English.
IMPRISONED
Bzzzt. The cell door opened.
The two guards gave him a change of clothes and he was so eager to rid himself of the orange uniform that clung on him like ass sweat he almost ripped it off his body. He knew he needed to calm down, but he’s been waiting in anxious anticipation for this moment.
Twelve years of waiting to be exact.
The guards stood watching as he gave the dank room one last glance. The place stench of cholera and piss. He wanted to spit at its walls, kick the bed and set it on fire.
Twelve years of his life wasted and he’s not even sure what for. For crissakes! He can’t even remember what happened that snowy night in December.
His recollection of the events was as foggy as his car windshield that time. That’s all his fuckin’ memory afforded him, an image of his foggy windshield.
The doctor said he developed amnesia. The jury said he killed the girl. How can he fuckin’ say he didn’t when he can’t even remember?
That was twelve years gone. He will have to start over and reconnect with family and find himself a job. I bet they wouldn’t mind hiring a 40-year-old ex-convict with retrograde amnesia. He smirked, this place sure made him dubious about everything.
He went on quickly with the usual release process and they gave him a small bag. It must have been the personal effects they took from him twelve years ago. He just slung it across his shoulder and didn’t even give it so much as a peek.
He saw a black sedan parked in front of the gate. That must be his wife waiting for him and that made him excited. His brain may not remember her but other parts of his body sure does.
He approached the car but went to a halt when he saw a man on the steering wheel instead. He was wearing a leather jacket and a straw hat. A leather jacket in this sweltering summer weather, that man must be a nut job.
To the left of the man’s car was another black sedan. Yes, that’s his wife right there leaning on the hood.
He gave her a long passionate kiss before he went inside the car. She started the engine and drove away. Finally, freedom. He was lost in reverie just thinking about the future.
His wife was chatty as always and was just as excited as he is. She must love him so much for sticking with him for twelve years. He’s a lucky man after all.
She noticed the bag on his shoulder and asked him about it. Maybe he’s got his old wallet inside with money in it. That would be dope.
He reached inside and pulled out a gold watch. Good, he could sell it.
A t-shirt.
His wallet. No money, only restaurant tabs from twelve years ago.
Then an empty pill box.
He froze.
That pill box, that’s all his brain needed for an avalanche of memories to come crashing - rumbling slowly at first, gaining speed, until images from that December night buried him in disbelief - the truth masticating his being.
That twelve years in prison was no punishment, he can see that now. He was imprisoned but he was guilt-free - he slept well at night knowing he was the victim.
He was a writer, he already knew that because his wife told him years before and showed him his works hoping it would help him remember. But what she didn’t know was the state of mind he was in that fateful night.
He was on the verge of committing suicide. He tried for months but he can no longer write stories the way he used to. For a writer like him, it’s the deadest of deaths.
That man in leather jacket gave him the pill box. He calls him Sal and he met him through an acquaintance. Sal said the new pill will trigger ‘brain respiration’ and he could write stirring stories again. That’s all he needed to hear.
The pills were untraceable once ingested, there was no drug test for it; the police doesn’t even know they exist.
He remembers he popped five that night and drove in the snow despite his wife’s protest. He wanted to reach his writing cabin in the woods while he’s high on pills.
Sal was right, his dead brain came back to life. He can see the words trickling now like small streams converging into a river, the sentences flowing, the lines rushing. He can see his novel materializing before his eyes.
He tightened his grip on the stirring wheel, his hands itching to write. He was driving like a madman.
Before he reached the last curb he saw a young girl, around twelve, standing on the side of the street waving him down, signaling him to slow down. He did. He even went into full stop, not because of the girl but because of the wooden cart in front of him.
The cart, half-filled with an assortment of fruits, has one of its wheel lodged in a small pothole right in the middle of the road. The wheel look busted. Apples were scattered about on the snowy street.
The girl run back into the street. She picks one apple with one hand and another with the other, and carefully puts them back in the cart.
There were too many apples, she was taking too long. This sudden change of pace was making him tense.
He honked at her.
He was getting more agitated by the second, his brain's gushing out words. He needed to write them down. Now.
Why can’t the girl hurry along?
The snow starts to gather on his car, his wiper isn’t working well, it’s making the windshield foggy.
He honked again.
The words are swirling around him now. Some were slipping before he could even touch them. He needed to write them down. He needed to hurry.
Write.
Write.
Write.
The thought consumed him.
Write. Write. Write.
He couldn’t wait one more second.
He stepped on the gas and saw her bewildered eyes right before his car hit the cart and crashed into her frail little body. He didn’t even flinch.
His wife lightly touched his shoulder and asked him if he was okay. He looked at her, his face drained of blood.
His wife always believed it was an accident and, for twelve years, he thought it was, too.
The only punishment is the guilt we live in.
Thank you so much for reading! Link to the contest here.