The sharp taste of bile and metal clung through my throat to my tongue as I shuffled through the dimly lit room. The taste reminds me of my troubled past: the day I first heard the dreadful news. My unkempt beard scratched against my chin as I stumbled toward the washroom.
"Blargh, Blargh, Buff"
Sweat dampened my hair. Gripping the sink and breathing raggedly, I stared into the mirror—past memories swirling in as the present faded.
I regret abandoning my passion. Since the incident five years ago, pain and suffering have followed me. As my body worsens, my hand trembles over a worn-out bike model in the basin but never touches it. I once built things. Now, my tools gather dust, and my spark for ideas has faded. Regret claws at me, leaving me with nothing truly mine.
Thinking back to high school, when life was simple, I remember my brother and I sharing a passion for building small engineering projects, sometimes misusing them for pranks.
We rigged the sprinkler system at the corners with a microcontroller and motion sensors. When someone crossed, the sprinklers went off. Once all students were in classrooms, we activated them to soak teachers—ingenious in design, foolish in purpose.
I still have a vivid image of Mr Wright entering the classroom, his face and coat drenched in water, glaring towards the students. That comical look had brought me laughter, even in my times of distress.
When we were caught, the scolding from the principal and our parents stung for a moment. But we mostly laughed it off. Those days were bright. I had a brother who understood me, supportive parents, and a passion for creating things.
At eighteen, I studied Electrical and Computer Engineering at a top institution. College was filled with friends, projects, and after graduation, I built air defence systems at a defence company. Back then, depression was unknown to me.
In early adulthood, during my job, deadlines were relentless, but I enjoyed the work—until it all crashed down.
Five years ago, the company embezzled government contract funds. When a cabinet member learned of this during an audit, he struck a deal with the Vice President rather than launch an investigation. They claimed senior officials knew nothing and blamed two people: my department head and me. I was named because, as a self-righteous and pompous bastard, I refused to wrongfully implicate my senior, unlike my colleagues.
The investigation quickly unravelled my life. I was fired and arrested, fear and disbelief crashing in. In the holding cell, as a lifelong nerd, I cowered among rough, sturdy men. My brother promised to help, briefly soothing my nerves and restoring hope. But everything changed once the press found out, dread instantly surging back as my photo—and my seniors'—appeared everywhere: news, social media, newspapers.
When I knew my photo was in the newspapers, I thought, "Who even reads newspapers in these times?, Did the world go back a century in time?" I smiled in desperation at the idea.
I was wrong. Newspapers are the only items allowed in holding cells. Many detainees read them to pass the time. The legal system here is slow; while some countries process detainees quickly, people here wait months for hearings.
My case drew nationwide attention, so my first hearing was scheduled six weeks later. It was a tough period. There was no order in the holding cell, especially for someone accused of embezzling government defence funds and branded a traitor. I was seen as evil by detainees and officers. Others, charged with serious crimes, still considered me the worst among them.
Only my senior, also locked up, brought any light. Even amid cruelty, he joked with officers and detainees, even when mistreated, laughter ringing where dread ruled. His jolly spirit contrasted with my fear and helped me endure each day.
My brother visited daily for the first three weeks, each visit steadying my nerve. For a time, his encouragement calmed my anxiety and helped me hold on to hope. But as that routine became my anchor, the shadow of uncertainty still lurked, just behind his reassurance.
But three weeks later, my brother's absence hit like a blow. Uncertainty gnawed at me. I tried to convince myself he was busy with my case, but hope slipped further each day. With my only support gone, surrounded by four locked up for assault and three for homicide, I felt both vulnerable and oddly invisible. Hope gave way to resignation, cold and steady.
My senior wasn't as lucky. His cellmates beat him daily; I saw new bruises at meals but kept my distance, hoping to stay unnoticed after the publicity made me a target.
Time in detention was marked by fear and uncertainty. On the day of the hearing, I was taken to court by bus. I saw other detainees headed to hearings, but not my senior, likely on another bus.
On the bus, I overthought every scenario but trusted my brother, who promised help. I had met my lawyer once. He discussed the case details with nuance. His words, posture, and gait showed confidence that the trial would be easy. At the time of my arrest, my position was low. Blaming me for embezzlement seemed unlikely.
After arriving at the courthouse and passing through security, I waited an hour. Anxiety and fear dominated as time dragged on.
As I entered the room, my eyes went straight to the judge at the bench, reading case files. The guard made me sit. I saw the prosecutor, smirking at me. I searched for my lawyer and my brother, but they weren't there, which made me even more uneasy.
After a minute, a lawyer entered the room wearing spectacles and with a small scar on his cheek. He strolled across the room and approached the bench where I sat.
His eyes met mine as he introduced himself.
"Hello Richard Evans, my name is Thomas Brown, and I will be your representative counsel on this case. Due to some personal reasons, Mr Jones couldn't come to the trial, and the firm has decided to appoint me as his replacement."
I was shocked. My nervousness spiked. The sudden switch in counsel left me more uncertain.
Still knowing my brother out there, I calmed myself down. After ten seconds, I asked him, "Are you prepared for the case, and where is my brother?"
"Yes, sir, I understand this case in detail," Thomas said quietly as he adjusted his spectacles. He took out a paper from the folder. His fingers drummed the paper before he slid it towards me. "These are the audit logs."
I scanned the page, confusion and panic twisting inside me. "But... those numbers can't be right. Benjamin handled the purchases."
He didn't look up. "The records show otherwise. Requisitions for critical components, invoices approved by two signatures... yours and Mr Ford's."
"That can't be; I've never seen these documents," I said, gripping the bench. "Some of these components have no use in the anti-collision system we were building. Why order them?"
"According to these logs," he said, voice flat, "funds went missing on those parts. The money trail ends in Mr Ford's account."
He opened one of the folders. "These are statements from your teammates. Their statements are consistent, which states that only you two were involved in procuring critical components, making them oblivious about this fraud."
My throat tightened. "But I wasn't involved in—"
Before I could finish, he snapped another folder open. "Statements from suppliers state that you were present with Mr Ford every time such dealings were made. This makes you a direct accomplice."
'This is a setup, there is no escape, only one that can save me is Mr Ford, if he takes all the blame, then I can come out of this situation.'
He pursed his lips and looked away. For a split second, all sound in the room seemed to vanish. My ears filled with a dull ringing. The floor felt unstable beneath my feet, a strange pressure building behind my eyes as my vision closed in at the edges. The lawyer's voice broke through, oddly distant, as if underwater. "Mr Ford committed suicide last night in the detention centre. With him gone, there is no way out for you."
My breath caught. "He... what?"
He didn't react. "My suggestion is to confess to your crimes. That can help me request the judge to show leniency and grant you a shorter sentence."
After a short pause, he continued. "Your brother has given me a letter for you".
The shock of my senior's death struck hard, blotting out thoughts as the lawyer's words struggled to register. Numb, I took the letter he handed to me, the sting of fresh loss blurring everything else.
"Dear Richard,
I am sorry I couldn't help you. The media has painted you as a traitor; helping you or even being associated with you now threatens my family. Luna told me that if I ever contact you, she will divorce me. I spoke to our father—his response was even colder. He says we must cut off all family ties to you to avoid the scorn of society. Do not expect any help from us. This is the last time we will speak. Once, you were my brother; today, you are a stranger for my own survival."
As I read the letter, my hands trembled—anger stabbed first, then sadness suffocated. Helplessness lingered as the clerk announced my name and case number.
The guard brought me to the witness box.
My eyes hovered over the prosecutor, who grinned at my counsel, who nodded. I knew there was no way out.
My mind went blank—shock froze me, despair surging as I realised the weight of helplessness settling in. Every thought was swept away by the tide of defeat.
The judge read out basic details of the case.
After which the judge turned towards me and asked: "Do you plead guilty, not guilty or remain silent?"
Voices around me were hazy, and a constant ringing in my ears made me unable to comprehend what was going on around me.
A sudden bang of the gravel brought me out of my trance.
Judge repeated the question, this time slightly louder, "Do you plead guilty, not guilty or remain silent?"
I tried to gain my bearings, but it was proving difficult, with despair the only thing on my mind.
Knowing I had no way out, I took my lawyer's advice and turned to the judge. I tried to steady my voice, not to let out a sob. "Ya, ye, yes, your hon, your honour, I plea plead guilty."
I gulped my saliva; I couldn't comprehend whatever was going on around me.
Further proceedings went like a flash.
The judge sentenced me to three years in Fort Vile prison. The guard led me out for processing. After many checks and unpleasant procedures, I was placed in cell 56Q for three years.
The endless rows of cells under weak, flickering lights were terrifying. My cellmate said little, a convicted fraudster who seemed almost gentle compared to my fears. I lay awake, replaying the choice I made back then. If I had given a statement like my colleagues, putting the onus on my manager, I would not have ended up here. My family's desertion has broken my spirit.
'The only plan of action now is to stay invisible, obey every rule. I have to pass just three years, it can't be that hard'
However, the next morning, those plans went down the drain. After the court hearing, the press covered the story and stated that the main culprit committed suicide, and his partner was sentenced to three years in jail. My face was known in prison, as many read the news article in the newspaper. At first, people just stared and cursed at me, but slowly and steadily, those hateful words turned to beatings. Prison guards used to come after the fiasco, and their usual remarks were along the lines of, "You deserved it."
Things took a darker turn when Tango, one of the inmates' leaders, took an interest in me. Initially, they were just forcing me to act like a minion, doing the tasks they assigned me. It did stop one-sided beatings, which I used to get before from other inmates. However, this didn't improve my situation; it made it even worse.
Tango had an anger issue, and when something displeased him, he needed to take out that frustration on something or rather someone. He used to thrash me all over. One day, things got too bad. I decided I could not stay in this group.
That same night, the day I left the group, I was jumped by five inmates, two of whom were from my gang. They covered my face with a bedsheet, and five of them punched me, kicked me all over the body. I struggled to escape, screamed, but no one heard my voice, or rather, they ignored me.
The pain, this time, was not just unbearable like before, but it carried a sense of finality, that this is my last day on earth. Tears were falling from my eyes, making the sheet wet; my voice had already died in my throat. The darkness overtook my vision, and I lost all of my senses. I was left unconscious on the floor.