"Okay, Cynthia, it's your turn!"

Diane grabbed the chalk and redrew some of the faded lines on the concrete. I put one foot into the first hopscotch box, and made my way down the path. I got to seven and eight when I felt myself losing balance, and my foot reached out of the box.

Embarrassed, I walked over to the side to let my other friend go, when suddenly I remembered that my mom wanted me home at a certain time. I tapped Diane on the shoulder, since she was the only one with a watch in the group.

"Diane, what time is it?"

"9:57 PM."

Crap, she wants me home at 10PM. I had just enough time to make it inside without being too late. If I waited any longer and my mom found out, she would kill me. I couldn't risk going past the curfew just to play one more round of hopscotch.

As I started to get ready to go back home, I heard a loud bang that was freakishly close by. We all looked at each other, trying to figure out what that noise was. After sitting in silence for a second, we heard one more. This time, I knew
what it was.

Gunshots.

And they were coming from the apartment complex besides us. Suddenly, I get a feeling in my gut that something was wrong. Very wrong.

"I think I'm going to go home... I'll see you guys later." I murmured, waving to all of them as I made my way back inside.

I made it back to our apartment, but was hesitant to open the door. The feeling in my gut grew stronger, and the last thing I wanted to do at this point was open that door. Something in me was holding me back from doing it. I get bad gut feelings a lot, and they're not usually right, but this time felt different.

It's probably nothing, right? You're just paranoid, Cynthia. Nothing bad is going to happen.

I repeat that in my head, and I convince myself to just go inside. What's the worst that could possibly happen? It's not like my gut feelings are always right, anyways. I slowly turn the knob with hesitation, and open the door to an image that I will never be able to forget.

"Dad?" I whimpered, my heart grew heavier as I waited for a response, but instead, the sound of silence filled the room.

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I walked closer to him, but I tried to block my mind from jumping to the worst possibilities.

Maybe he was just passed out? He's okay, right? Maybe this is all just a cruel joke.

I looked down at him lying stiff on the ground, covered in blood and bullet wounds. The worst possible scenario that I thought never would happen to me is happening right in front of my own eyes. I felt my heart shattering as I collapsed on to my knees. I nudged him, hoping he had some life still left in him.

"Please, please be okay, you're okay right?"

He didn't move, he felt completely cold to the touch. Someone or something killed my dad, and I'm left here having no clue what to do or even who it was. I felt so helpless. This was all my fault.

Maybe if I would've come home a couple of minutes earlier, he would still be here?

My throat gets tighter as the reality struck harder and harder. My voice is so shaky I can barely hear myself as I desperately tried to get a response from him. I know nothing is going to happen, I can't wake a dead person, but I can't help but try. My desperate attempts to bring my dad back are useless, and I find myself breaking down into an uncontrollable sob, screaming and wailing in a way I've never heard come out of my mouth before. It was the sound and feeling of true pain, a pain so unimaginable. The pain of loss.

I've never felt so broken and helpless in my life, I just want to wake up from this awful nightmare. I just want to sit here and tell myself that it's just a bad dream. But it's not, it's all happening right here and now. I didn't have the energy or the mindset to process what to do or who to go to, but my mom would be home soon, so I decided to wait until she arrived. I closed my eyes, slowing my hysterics, and crouched over him, drowning in my grief.

After what felt like hours of being lost in sorrow, I hear the front door slowly opening. I jolted my head up, sighing in relief.

Finally, Mom is home, somebody to help me do something about this disaster. Someone to grieve with me and tell me what to do.

Or so I thought. As soon as she stepped through the door, her eyes widened in horror. She saw me kneeling down in front of him, blood on the tips of my fingers. I couldn't explain to her that what she was witnessing was not what it looked like enough, she only believed what she saw. What she saw was not her ten year old daughter standing in front of her, it was a murderer. She pushed me away as I cried, anxiously begging her to believe me.

"Cynthia... what did you do to him? I can't believe you would ever do something like this. You're a Goddamn monster."

I tugged at her dress trying to grab her attention so she could listen to what I was telling her.

"Momma no, I promise you I don't know what happened, I just came home and he was there and-"

My frantic pleading was interrupted by her squeezing my arm and dragging me on to the floor. To my surprise, she didn't seem to be upset or crying at all. Her face was filled with more anger than tears. I know they didn't have a great relationship, but I expected at least some sort of empathy. What about him, what about me? Nothing I said mattered to her.

"I always knew you were a worthless piece of shit. Did it feel good knowing you killed your own father? Does the idea of rotting in prison excite you, you little bastard? Because that's exactly where you're ending up." She scolded, her hand gripping my arm harder and harder, slowly becoming more painful.

"But I didn't do anything!" By this point, I'm so desperate for her to listen I'm practically yelling.

"That's what they all say. Why didn't you call the cops then? Were you too afraid of getting caught?"

She finally lets go of my arm, leaving me on the floor, hopeless. She scoffs as she watches me lose my desperation and hope. I gave up in trying, and accepted the truth that she would never believe me. She makes her way back to the front door.

"You're on your own. I can't even call you my daughter anymore after what you did. I never thought I'd have to go call 911 on my own daughter, but here we are. You make me sick just looking at you, I can't handle all of this right now."

She turns away, slamming the door behind her, and leaving me alone once more. The one person that would ever believe me is turned against me. If I haven't felt any sense of hopelessness before, I sure did now. I had nobody. My own momma wants nothing to do with me anymore, and my dad is dead in front of me. If she didn't even believe me, who would? I don't want to go to prison, I just want someone to listen to me.

I hear sirens getting louder and louder, soon followed by flashing red and blue lights. My body starts to tremble in fear as I hear the police's footsteps getting closer and closer. My heart drops as soon as I hear them banging on the door, demanding I come outside with my hands up. I open the door and do exactly what I was told. The next thing I know, I'm being handcuffed and escorted into the back of the cop car. My mom is standing outside of the building, talking with an officer. As I was walked to the car, I glimpsed at her, watching me being escorted in disgust.

I don't know what I did wrong, or what even happened at all. But, for some reason, I feel so ashamed of myself.

Maybe I really was a criminal.

↞↠      ↞↠ 

After hours of being interrogated and searched, I was taken to my cell at the local city jail. It seemed like no matter what I said or told them, the police refused to believe me. Was it because I was a kid? Maybe it just sounded like the same old excuse they've heard from other criminals: "I didn't do it".

The cell was small and cramped, with only two small mattresses that barely passed as a bunk bed. Every wall and corner was filthy and covered in marks and drawings, and the floors were dusty and filled with random trash. Not one spot here has been cleaned since God only knows. And, don't even get me started on the smell.

A young, pale woman was huddled up in the corner, leaning herself up against the wall. She was reading some book that had clearly been used and damaged by other inmates. She looked fairly young and had short blonde hair down to her shoulders, although it would probably be much longer if it wasn't matted and tangled in knots.  She looked up from her book and watched as I was locked up in the room with her. She folded the corner of the torn page and shut the book.

"You look pretty young to be locked up."

Her voice was stern, but she seemed genuinely curious. I glanced back at her, my hands holding on to the bars. She gazed at me for a moment before saying anything, seemingly more surprised.

"Oh wow, you really are just a kid ain't ya? What did you possibly do to be thrown in here?.

I paused, avoiding eye contact as I answered in shame.

"They think I killed my dad."

She scoffed and looked at me up and down.

"You little thing? You look like you'd never hurt a fly. But now I don't know whether to be more or less scared of ya."

I didn't know how to respond, I was already uncomfortable and I didn't feel like talking about it anymore. I guess it showed on my face, since her expression and tone changed from mockingly to concern.

"Look, kid, I don't know your story, but if no one else does: I believe you. I won't be too rough with ya, now. What's your name, girl?"

"Cynthia." I felt a sense of relief at least knowing I wouldn't be eaten alive by my cellmate. I relaxed myself some after being tense for so long.

"Stephanie, but you can just call me Steph. Talk to me as much or as little as you'd like, Cindy. I don't bite."

I didn't even bother correcting her. However, I was curious.

"What did you do?"

She sighed, crossing her arms and bringing her knees closer to her chest.

"Many things, kiddo. I had to knock the life out of my own husband out of self defense, since he was about to erase me first. They didn't believe my side of the story due to my history of drugs and what not. It ain't fair, you know?"

So she was in a similar situation as me, but except she really did it. I felt bad for her, as she looked visibly hurt and distraught. She didn't want to, but had no other choice. I don't know much about that kind of stuff, but from what I know, things like that are not taken as seriously as they should. I think the look on my face made her more visibly upset, even though I didn't mean to make her feel worse.

"I won't bother you with the details, but I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable. It's a complicated story. I just miss my kids, ya know?"

She started getting choked up. My heart ached for her. She seemed fairly young, but had so much already. I walked over to sit next to her.

"You don't have to talk about it."

She formed a small grin on her face.

"Thanks, Cece. You seem like a nice kid."

"Cynthia."

She let out a small laugh, her grin growing into a smile.

"My bad, Cynthia. I know too many names to remember every single one."

We both laughed together, and I started to feel more and more relaxed. I don't want to be here, I don't deserve to be here, but at least I have one person to talk to that will believe me. Someone to listen to me, even if she's a complete stranger.

At least it's one for now.