9/11 Descriptive Writing

The rain mocks me as I ease my frame into the parole van. I mutter, trailing off my thoughts as an officer disapproves of me in the rear vision mirror. A month of numbing cell beds, restless nights and tormenting words was starting to take its toll, though as the countryside begins to blossom into township, I find the energy I urgently need to defend myself. While reminiscing, I study the raindrops as they chase each other down the windows, hurtling at speeds at which I can only hope my life will pass at while I'm in prison. Clandestinely, water decides to pool on the roads, adapting to the controlling drainage systems. Aren’t we all a part of a system? Everything is simplistic, yet unimaginable, like my charge. I am lost in society.

The disapproving officer draws me out of the van, triggering a sharp pain up my arm where the handcuffs meet my skin. My skittish movements don’t seem to match the person which I have been described as for the past month. A killer? A liar? I am none of these. The stairs towards my destiny seem to last forever, again making me question society. Aren’t staircases supposed to symbolise going to heaven, not hell? I enter the courtroom, overflowing with faces that I

I have killed a couple who usually rule the media. It seems natural to assume I have now taken their place. I am made aware that this event occurred during the night, though my only witness is that of god, and the couple who I believe are now six feet below the earth. There is no one else left to testify against me, from what I have heard. Yet still, all of the evidence is not in my favour. In my head, I watch my slim chance of freedom wash away with the rain water, down the drain and into the system. The lawyers become heated. Clearing his throat, the Judge smacks down the gabble, ordering silence. It all means nothing. I have slipped away with the nonsense words of these people. I will