A short story I wrote at the tender age of 14.
"I knew what I'd done as soon as I's closed the door. I'd raced down the stairs. "Raced" - what exactly was I racing against? Time? My conscience?
My heart pounded and I could feel the cold of the wall I was leaning against. I flinched as the light of a passing car flashed through the window. The darkness had become a blanket, protecting me, keeping me out of sight. I was close to tears. Tears of sadness? Guilt? Fear, I think.
My heart followed the pattern of my fear fiercely; I could feel it hammering against my chest, throbbing inside my ribcage, as I carefully tiptoed out of the front door. I still have no idea why I tiptoed; she wouldn't have heard me, not then..."
I looked up at the young journalist, hanging onto my every word, desperate for a story. I shook my head in disappointment, in utter disbelief that something I had lived - no - struggled, through was just a pay cheque for her.
"Mr Carter?" her prying voice instilled disgust in me. I guessed the readers would be the same. They didn't actually care, just wanted something to read, someone to pity whilst drinking afternoon tea, to make their own lives seem somewhat rosier. But I had to do it. I had to prove my point. I had to justify myself to the world, myself, the journalist, and her ...
I sighed and carried on;
"I stumbled out into the street, no idea what to do next. I ran my hands through my hair, clenching my fists around clumps of it, hoping it would help me think clearer. The cold wind raced down our street, in between houses and shaking up trees and grass. It's icy cold slap hit me square on, whipping my face and neck. My hands were clenched into tight fists. I was so cold that I wouldn't have been surprised if the tears escaping my eyes turned to icicles, freezing in their tracks instead of completing their journey down my face.. I could see my breath as I panted, exasperated. Desperate for clarity, I knew I had to take one of two options; I could go and face up to what I'd done and also face the consequences, or I could run ..I had no idea where I would run to."
I looked up at the journalist and paused as her phone rang. She really did seem to have absolutely no interest in me or my story, which showed when she answered her shiny pink mobile, flicked back her blonde hair and proceeded to chat to the anonymous person the other end of the line. I obviously made my impatience clear as after a while she made her excuses and hung up and gestured for me to carry on.
"I ran, but I ran back. I just couldn't go. I knew I had to see her again. Just one more tim. My desperation had made me weak but reckless. I sat on the bed and ran my hands through her soft, chesnut hair. My tears decided to spontaneously defrost and poured drom my red rimmed eyes. My sobs racked my body and I felt like they's never stop.
This, unfortunately gave me time to reflect, and think - torturous. I should have just run."
The journalist, whom I'd learned was called Lizzy, took a sip from her glass of water and gestured for me to stop for a moment as she gets it all down on her pad. She told me to carry on and recall exactly what had started all the misery that had lead to this moment - that she was earning from.
It all started with the argument ...
"You're being irrational!"
"No, I'm really not!"
"Well, I can't back out now, I've already said yes!"
"Don't even consider my feelings then! Hell, I'll just up and move, quit my job, move away from my family and friends!"
"Don't be childish, Jenny. It's a great opportunity for both of us!"
"Childish?!"
"Yes, lots of people re-locate to different countries, but I guess it's generally when they're both grown up, so maybe we should wait a while, huh?"
"PULL OVER! Stop the car. This conversation is over. Over."
And it was over, just like that. The screech of brakes, my screams, her screams, the crash of metal ...
I felt a jolt of pain in my left ankle, but apart from that and a couple of cuts and bruises, I had escaped unscathed.
"Jenny, Jenny, are you OK?" My voice was barely audible.
The reply I was anxious for did not come.
"Jenny?" I repeated, panic setting in.
I turned my head slowly and carefully to the right. She looked so pale, her eyes closed, and a substance that instilled a stab of fear in me trickled down her forehead.
I tried to get out, but it was impossible, we were trapped. I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted and took her hand.
"It'll be OK, Jen, they'll come soon."
I heard sirens and saw the flash of the blue lights that symbol help through the fog and a wave of relief washed over my tired body and I rested my head on my seat.
They got us out - me practically unharmed... Jenny on a stretcher."
The journalist hesitated and stopped writing. She looked up at me as if seeing me for the first time, newly found emotion in her eyes - I couldn't decipher whether this was pity or whether she understood me at last. It was a surreal moment, abruptly cut short by them, marching me out by handcuffs. I wasn't too fussed, it would carry on tomorrow, but then, I had another night to reflect.
She returned the next morning, a look more of kindness and understanding replacing the old one of care-free and uninterest in my case. I carried on ...
"I waited and waited in the white clinical room.
"Mr Carter?" I was called in to where she was lying. She looked so fragile and pale. My heart missed a beat, this couldn't be Jenny? My strong, independant, fiery Jenny? That woman, lying there unconscious and helpless? What had I done? I was about to find out.
"Your wife has suffered severe brain damage due to the impact of the crash, I'm very sorry ..."
The journalist hesitated again, and took another sip of water. I wondered what was going through her mind right then, which is ironic as this is what a nation of people are wondering about me.
They soon found out. Tears again haunted me as I read the article the following Monday. It read:
"Jonathon Carter, 31 years old, jailed for life."
The title:
"My name is Jonathon Carter, and I killed my wife ... twice."
