His world was cramped and lonely. His cell reminded him of a shoebox, very small and confining. He blamed no one but himself for his living quarters or his current situation. He brought this all upon himself. His gray sweater reflected his mood, which was dark and dreary. "But, at least it’s finally all over, today." He looked in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, a pale and grave countenance and a generally miserable soul looked back at him. He was comfortable and familiar with his horrible countenance. The guilt of his mistake, knowing the humiliation his father had to endure, and the pained expression of his mother every time her eyes bored into his humiliated soul made him regret his mistake even more.

He wept, as all the pain washed over him. Wiry and spry, he wasn’t used to showing his emotions. He wasn’t used to running from his problems, just as he’d dodge opponents in soccer in his youth. Instead of recreation, he forced himself to remember the past; he felt that someday, maybe going through all this guilt would help redeem his rotten soul. He knew better than to weep for himself; all his self-pity died when he looked into the eyes of her family. He never realized that such an immature, one-time action could cause so much pain in people he didn’t know. He’d always hated being teased, and eventually, his hatred drove him to insanely violent acts. But, still, even though everyone he ever met teased him, it didn’t excuse what he’d done. People just don’t act that vilely towards each other. While he’d sat in this cell these long months, he had time to reflect upon what he’d done to his family, her family, and that poor girl herself. He realized that he’s not a very stable person; he’s dealt with issues of anger for many years, without resolving that anger.

Her death was proof positive of that fact; he’d taken his anger out on innocent people for so many years that he’d ruined his reputation. Out of some shameful whim, he simultaneously bared and buried his soul in poetry. He removed his mind from his morbid reverie, and sat upon his bed, removing a petite notebook from under it. The notebook’s cover’s color was as full of noir as was his soul. Taking pen to paper, he released some anguish with written words. Poetry was his only escape from the prison his actions had created for him.

Humanity is full of traitors

Their whole goal is to destroy your inner peace

But this is a morbid observation

My parents have always been there for me

Yet those my own age don’t care for me

They can’t look past my rage

They don’t know me

They won’t try to get to know me

They’re afraid of me

I’m confused

There’s only one thing I do know

Everything will be reconciled

And I won’t harm anyone, anymore

Two hours later he finally finished knowing better than to show his poetry to his psychologist. That hateful woman would publish it, while trying to show people his pathetic excuses for his bizarre rages. Her red hair reminded him of all the legends about Hell that he’s heard; surely, telling her of all the times his father threatened his mother’s life was his penance for his crime. He’s lost the respect of everyone, and surely, he’s suffered enough. His psychologist wouldn’t tolerate that kind of attitude towards his mistake. Her name was Sharon. With nothing better to do, he reflected upon the first time they met; just three short months ago. While remembering his past, he escaped the dreariness of the colorless, inanimate cell. He recollected things more easily if his eyes were closed; and there was no concern about light in the cell. His candle burnt out long ago.

"If I wasn’t paid for dealing with bizarre jerks like you, I wouldn’t even bother coming here. Let’s understand this right now. What you did was completely inexcusable, and I’ve noticed that you’ve pitied yourself a lot. You don’t deserve any pity, sir, just to make sure you understand that. You deserve nothing but punishment." Her sky blue eyes looked so beautiful to him . . . her flushed complexion attracted him almost as much as her anger. The man wasn’t even six feet tall, and Sharon was only five feet, four inches tall. Still, she grabbed the front of his sweater with ease. Those incredible eyes gored into his soul; and his tortured brown eyes couldn’t answer her rage. Her perfume assaulted his nostrils, disorienting and distorting his perception of what was happening.

"Do you have any idea of what her family has gone through? Their lives won’t ever revert to normal; and it’s all because of your rage-driven idiocy. You have a lot to atone for; and it might be easier if the court decides against you being able to return to society, or even survive this. You won’t suffer anymore, and neither will either of the families involved in this, if this works out the way we all want it to. You’ve got a lot to think about, and pray about."

She shoved him back into the unyielding, lifeless wall. Her gaze burned into his soul; and as much as he’d have liked to have avert his gaze, the sheer power of her anger kept his eyes on hers. His disorientation kept him unable to move; it seemed to him that they stayed in that position for millenia. Finally, she released her grip, looked at him disgustedly, and left. As she walked out the door, he noticed the simple black dress she’d worn; somehow, even with the guilt he felt he was able to note the irony of her outfit. He’d started thinking about all of the pain he’d caused; the first few weeks, he’d just been mad at himself. But after meeting Sharon, his thoughts turned to the others he’d harmed. Sharon had unknowingly caused him to cry for the first time since he’d graduated; and she’d also initiated the first serious poetry he’d written. Depressed, he slowly brought himself back to what passed for reality. He’d long ago forgotten what day, week, or even month it was, and he noted how little he cared.

He opened his eyes. While remembering his meeting with Sharon, he’d heard a rapping at his cell door. He met with her on Thursday, and today’s Wednesday. Wednesday’s the day he’s dreaded. It’s the day he’d officially meet with his victim’s mother. They still hadn’t met; she and her husband had wanted him to be mentally cured, or close to being cured, when they first met. His psychologist told them about his improvements, so they now felt comfortable talking to him. Lost in his recollections, he never realized that he was being escorted by offficers. It wasn’t until he sat down that he became aware of where he was.

He entered the visitation room with a thudding heart; he felt miserable, and her mother’s anguished, incensed visage didn’t ease his trepidation. He could only guess at how she felt, and how she must hate him. She, like Sharon, was dressed in black; however, she wore a black trench coat and carried an expensive black purse, as well. "It’s appropriate; it’s just another example of the kind of pain I’ve caused these people." He was used to being stared at by now; it was a consequence of being a killer and one of those insane people who incessantly muttered poetic nonsense to themselves. Across from him, Jessica looked at the man who murdered her daughter. She cried all of her tears long ago. She noted how horribly gaunt he looked; he looked so sad, so regretful. She almost pitied him; her tiny frame weighted down by an incomprehensible understanding of his suffering. She twirled her brown hair, and averted his gaze. It also unnerved her that he’d muttered something under his breath while sitting down; she wondered if he’d truly been cured of his rages. Finally, she motioned for him to sit. Her confusion rendered her speechless. She’s hated this man for the last two years; but she’s had time to come to grips with this. Still, her understanding didn’t dull her pain. She sat there for a while, uncomfortable and unable to express her thoughts. Finally, she decided to begin with a simple question.

"What’s your name?"

"Mrs. Stevenson, I . . . I can’t express how sorry I am."

"What’s your name, you pathetic little worm?"

"John."

"John, do you realize how important she was to me?" "Yes. Every day I see her in my dreams, and I wish to God I wasn’t so hot-tempered."

"That’s just it, John. I came to tell you I forgive you for your sin; it doesn’t mean I won’t hate you for a long, long time. But I can forgive you for your drunken rage. But you killed her, John. I can’t forget that. I honestly hope that you pray to God, because I do wish that you get the death penalty." John bobbed his head, reminding Jessica of one of those water-drinking toy birds she’s seen for so many years; and Jessica wondered if John’s as soulless as those birds. She’s just told this man she wants him to die, and all he could do was bob his head. They sat in another uncomfortable silence, and then Jessica simply couldn’t take it anymore. She released an explosion of emotion, something that felt as if it came from the darkest recesses of her soul.

"Didn’t you hear me? I just told you that I hope you die. Don’t you care?"

Jessica realized her voice became hysterical; the law enforcement officer returned, dragging the man who took her only daughter’s life back to the only place where he had any kind of refuge. She wished she could stop him from taking John away, but no words came. She felt as if she were an outside observer, callously observing the events of her life; and she couldn’t do anything but observe. Their eyes met one last time; and John mouths, "I’m so sorry." Jessica slowly sat back down at the table, and started to think about the last two years of her life. She’s cried too many times; but her heart shattered for John’s family, and for John. "He knew he was wrong; and I treated him like a cur. And his mother and father are heartbroken . . . How could he have been so stupid?" She removed a pen from her purse, as well as a notebook. She barely felt the pen in her hand; the failed confrontation kept ran through her mind rapidly, almost as if she were editing a documentary via fast forward. She was more frustrated by her inability to truly confront him than by her uncomfortable feeling about being near John. She sat there, unable to think about anything other than her failure, and finally, she became inspired enough to do something to cope with it. She wished she were talented enough to write a poem; the best she could do was create a chaotic, disjointed babbling. Don’t you see?

Don’t you see what she meant to me?

I faced you; showed you what her loss did to me.

And all you tried to do was flee.

The pen’s impact with the ground sounded as if a gong had been struck. Her ability to even fuction fled from her; she couldn’t decide if she was emotionally fatigued or so wounded she was no longer able to cry. Grabbing her trenchcoat, she somehow left, somehow kept from stumbling.

As she walked past the jail, she realized something; today was the day he was supposed to have been executed. She sat down on the sidewalk, her head seeking comfort from her knees. Her prayer to God was a prayer of emotion, not coherent thought. She hoped that God would understand. The prayer cleansed her soul, making her feel as if she’d absolved herself of whatever sin she may have committed. As soon as she thought this, images of her slain daughter returned to her mind, almost as if some malignant force pasted them there. Slowly, it began to dawn upon her that if her daughter hadn’t dressed as a vigilante all those years, being scorned at by those in authority, she might never have been able to confront the man who slew her heroic, inspirational daughter. Almost as if looking at a sacred remnant of Christ’s cross, or something equally holy, she examined the crumpled photograph of her daughter, dressed in full "superhero" attire, once again. She began to walk in a circle, if only to try and clear her mind. Strangely, seeing her daughter’s picture eased her pain, if she remembered the positive things her daughter had taught her. Disoriented, she spoke to herself. "God . . . why did you have to take her away from me to make me stronger?

Why?" In minutes, she’d exhausted herself again, so she sat down. Emotionally drained and weary, Jessica stared at the jail. Bizarrely, looking at the jail soothed her . . . for reasons she couldn’t understand. Her thoughts returned to John, and she could only wish that John wouldn’t suffer anymore.

John knew as soon as he was taken from the visitation room that he was finished. Knowing that he deserved what would happen, he relaxed his body and tried to clear his mind. He didn’t bother praying for himself; he didn’t feel that God’s grace extended to people who were nothing but pathetic wastes of skin.

Unaware of the physical world, John was busy trying to make his peace with her soul that he never felt the penetration of the needle. "Jessica must have prayed for me."

Finally, the rest of John’s candle, the only thing lighting his darkened cell, died out.