I was practically skipping with giddiness down the prison halls, which is strange, because I’ve never done that before. Everyday in jail was a monotonous routine. All I could remember were the dim, repugnant, cells and the nightmarish inmates that surrounded you at every turn. I used to wish for it to be over; I hoped, prayed that someone, ANYONE, would realize my innocence. At my trial, the lawyers, dressed in clean pressed suits and arrogance, told me to take the deal that would reduce my sentence. “You’ll be found guilty either way,” was all I ever heard. I never took the deal, I wasn’t willing to confess to a crime I didn’t commit just to please a jury, despite the fact that there wasn't anyone who believed I was telling the truth. I would never do what they had accused me of. I saw someone else there on the night of the fire that claimed four lives. I don’t know who that person was or why they did what they did. When I was dragged away in those cold, metallic, handcuffs, the only emotion I could feel was heartbreak. Not anger or regret, simply pure sadness, a sadness that ached inside of me, like something had been taken from me, something I could never get back. Taking away my freedom caused a fifth life to be lost that night. I was a normal person living a normal life, and I didn’t do anything to deserve being shut away. Twenty two years ago, I swore to myself that I would get out of prison one day, and show everyone who I really was. I would prove them wrong, show them that I am a good person, a great person, with a life and a family that loves me dearly.

I could barely think as the lawyer pointed at different lines on the paper for me to sign. After twenty two years, I was going home. Feeling such a heavy weight being lifted off my chest was a tremendous relief. With the resounding smack of the gavel that proclaimed my release, I breathed my first free sigh in over two decades. I was quickly ushered out of the cramped jail courthouse and into the prison yard with the burning hope of redemption in my heart. The towering metal fences squeaked and groaned as they were pulled apart to make a path for me to the outside world. Relaxing in the parole officer’s car almost tricked me into thinking that my jail time hadn’t happened, and my jeans and cotton t-shirt differed so starkly from my prison uniform that I could barely recognize myself. Eventually, the car reached the small starter home that had been set up for me in my old town. As I stepped inside, I noticed a man about my age jogging down the street. I beamed and raised a hand in greeting. He glanced at me alarmingly, almost as if he had seen a ghost, then furrowed his brow and swiftly crossed to the opposite sidewalk. The man was now pale and began to lengthen his strides to the point where he was almost sprinting. Well, I thought to myself, that’s not very welcoming to a new neighbor.

The first week in civilization was a unfamiliar and tumultuous adjustment, but that’s what all the therapists and parole officers had told me to prepare for. I found a job at a local construction company and attempted to settle into normal life. My parole officer was astounded at my reinvolvement in the community, and life was better than it had ever been. As weeks passed, I became more outgoing and adventurous. Bowling, hiking, and volunteering became my frequent pastimes. I was thrilled with the opportunities and excitement that were hidden around every corner. People were finally starting to see that I was an upstanding citizen who deserved to be treated the same as everyone else. Those years I spend in a cell, surrounded by people who didn’t believe in me, were long gone. I took yoga classes in the park, donated at the food drives, and went to church every Sunday, without fail, promising to myself that my second chance at life would not go to waste.

My parole officer suggested that I should try to be consistent in my everyday life. This was supposed to help me “maintain control” so I didn’t feel helpless now that I had been tossed back into society. I decided that I would join the local neighborhood watch. I attended the weekly meetings and volunteered to patrol on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Linda, the wonderful woman who was in charge on the watch group, assured me that we were very safe. “You know, Officer Barklen lives just down the road,” Linda boasted one night on my patrol, “so really, if anything were to happen, he would be there to save the day.” She patted my shoulder convincingly, as if to tell me that nothing bad could ever happen. “That’s a relief,” I responded thoughtfully, “you said he lives just down the road?” Linda nodded adamantly, “In that blue house right there,” she gestured to a towering two story house. “Wow,” I breathed in fascination, “what a beautiful home.”

“Linda, I’m just going to double check the street corners,” I called to her one Thursday night. “Ok, but you should get home soon! It’s almost pitch black out here.” I waved her off, “I’ll be fine,” I replied confidently, “have a good night!” She shrugged and went inside. Strolling down the moonlit pavement, I surveyed the area, and found that my eyes had drifted toward the navy blue house that Linda had pointed out earlier. I admired the home of the Barklen’s. It was an old victorian with a stunning wrap around porch and detailed molding around the railings. Through the wide front window, I could see a little girl scampering around the living room, giggling as a tall man in a police uniform chased her. As he ran past the window, the man abruptly stopped. Peering out into the darkness, he noticed me standing in the road, staring at him. Officer Barklen’s eyes became very far away, as if he had suddenly remembered something that he had forgotten long ago.

I picked up the last of the bins off the street, “Linda! I think we’ve got the last of them!” I yelled to her one evening on patrol. A group of kids had decided it would be fun to knock over every garbage can on the street, so that left me and the rest of the neighborhood watch to clean up their wreckage. As I returned to my house, a fragrant scent caught my attention. I breathed deeply, and the warm, comforting smell of burning wood flooded my senses. I scanned the block for the home that was giving off this smoky aroma. When I found it, I was almost drawn towards it, like a moth to light. I arrived in the yard to the man who was burning this wood and stopped, entranced by the elegant wisps of flame. Officer Barklen lifted his head and his eyes widened, stunned into silence. “I knew it,” he whispered, his ghost-white face plastered in fear, “I knew it was you the second I saw you.”

I laughed bitterly, “It’s been twenty-two years, are you sure? Did you really know it was me? Because I don’t recall you looking at me very much. You avoided eye contact from the day you arrested me to the day in court when I was sentenced.” I slowly started forward, reaching for a wooden board. “You burned those people,” he cried, “They were never sure of it, but I was.” “Yes, I did. But it wasn’t my intention. Sometimes there must be casualties in order for one to experience true beauty.” Tears streamed down Barklen’s face, “You monster,” he choked out. I calmly dipped the tinder into the fire at my feet and continued to get closer, “You shouldn’t have tried to stop me. To burn is to be free, to let go of all the pain and suffering and to simply feel the heat.” I closed my eyes, taking in the fierce warmth and soothing crackling of the fire blazing at my feet, “It’s just so...perfect.” With that, I lunged at him and shoved the flaming wood into his chest. As the scorching fire raced across his skin, screams filled the night air.