Charles Freer - Convicted of Murder

I wasn’t ready. No. I can feel her pain mixed with mine. She isn’t ready. Not now. I don’t think she will ever be ready. My eyes wander around the small white room. I see the people in white gowns – the doctors – sitting there and talk normally as if this was any ordinary day – as if they killed people on a daily basis.
She sees me sitting here. Her eyes, they’re so small, yet so strong. They don’t seem to want to look away. I wish they would. Even through the dark glass I can see them. They’re always staring, always portraying her true thoughts. I always read, “Why are you here in jail daddy? Why are you leaving me Daddy? I love you Daddy.”
God, her eyes break my heart. And her little round face. It matches mine – just like mine. Oh how I wish I could have seen her grow up. Oh how I wish I could see her little smile one more time. But those days are over. My life is over. I hope this experience doesn’t cause her, my little precious daughter, too much pain. I don’t think she knows how much I love her. How much I would do for her…how she will always be daddy’s little girl. I hope she knows that if I could go back in time, I would.
If I could go back in time, I would have changed so much of my life. For one thing, I would never have shot that woman. Never ever would I ever shoot that woman.
If I could go back to my childhood, I would not be a bully, but I would stop them. I wouldn’t be mean to poor Kathy Linton with the Lisp. No. I wouldn’t push her around in class, spit spit-balls at her hair when she’s answering a question. No. I would be her best friend and then I would be at her wedding - her glorious million dollar wedding.
Her husband was Freddy Goosnip, a computer genius, who I also happened to bully. I remember I used to steal his lunch money – hang him upside down and let all the change fall out. He never resisted. Who would, against me, head of the wresting team and Captain of the football team? No one would dare. Karma I suppose you could call it. He who is smart always wins in the end whereas he who is mean always loses.
If I could go back in time I would never have done what I did to that dog on Friday morning. I was desperate to fit in, but that doesn’t justify my actions. I shouldn’t have hurt that poor dog. That poor little, helpless thing…

It was a sunny day and my first day of junior high. Of course I was excited, my brand new back pack hoisted to a comfortable place on my back and my junior high books piled neatly under my arms. I smile a giant toothy grin and walk confidently towards the school, its doors open and almost whispering for me to cross over into the land of the unknown. It was as if the God’s of Knowledge were beckoning me towards their halls of learning – until a large boy blocked my path, a large leather jacket cloaks his giant arms and many rings grace his fat fingers.
Billy Jones, the most horrible boy in the whole junior high wants to be my friend. He smiles at me in a way that a best friend would smile, his eyes showing sincerity and truth. I take this as a sign that he doesn’t want to hurt me, so I follow his beckoning hand, and walk trustfully to the back of the kindergarten building. He was talking the whole time about pointless things, such as girls and football – things I don’t really care about, until we reached the destination of the walk.
Billy stops walking and turns towards me, his face finally showing his true emotions. His eyes portrayed a madness I, being only 13, had never seen in a person before. I knew something bad was about to happen and my legs began to shake with terror. Although we had only walked ten yards from the school I felt as if I was eons away from it, and that Billy and I were the only people for miles. I could feel the sides of my face becoming moist with fear and perspiration from the heat. My mother had warned me about kids like Billy Jones.
“Terrible sorts, they are, so stay clear, ya hear?” She said. I wish I hadn’t looked like a new student – maybe Billy wouldn’t have noticed me and then I wouldn’t be here. But it’s too late now. I'm here with him and there is nothing I can do about it.
Billy leans against the wall and pulls out a cigarette. He lights it and begins smoking, blowing his regurgitated smoke right into my face. I cough, wishing I could run away from this hell, but my feet seem stuck to the floor.
“What’s your name, Kid?” Billy asked roughly, a smirk on his face as he looked at me. What do I say back?
“Err…My name is…err…Charlie Freer.” I manage to stammer out. Billy chuckles.
“Charlie…interesting name; Very common. How ‘bout I call you Freer. That’s much cooler.” Billy responds coolly through cigarette puffs. I look up and I see he is making fun of me. I want to run more than anything, but I know that Billy isn’t done tormenting me. Faintly in the distance I hear the bell for the beginning of school. I was skipping class on my first day. My face shows my worry and Billy begins to laugh, and then to cough – a thick scary cough that reminded me strongly of my dead grandpa who smoked cigars.
“Freer, come here and look around that corner. You’ll see a dog tied to a post.” Billy paused as I look around the corner. “I want you to put this ciggie out on its fur. No, scratch that, I want you to stab it right on its eye. Then you’ll be cool and you’ll be popular. If you don’t…” Billy took another long drag of the cigarette, “you’ll wish you were never born.” He smiled at me – not a nice kind smile but a cold evil one that sends shivers down my spine. I don’t want to be his friend. He hurts poor innocent animals, and he is pressuring me to do the same. I gulp, praying to God to forgive me for this horrible crime, but I think, what’s the dog’s sight to my life? I take the cigarette bud and walk towards the dog. It knows something is going to happen – something bad. It whines and moves backwards – its eyes staring innocently at me. I feel tears begin to prickle in the sides of my eyes causing my vision to become blurry. I can’t see. I take the still hot cigarette bud and ready myself to do it. And then it happens. The animal let out a loud squeaky scream and I fall backwards, tears streaming down my face. I try to take the dog into my arms, but it moves as far away as it can from me, blood gushing slowly from its injured eye. I wipe away my tears and turn to face Billy. His face is showing total astonishment at what I had just done. That I Actually hurt the dog in order to be liked. Billy’s expression then changes into a wide grin and takes my hand and shakes it.
“Congratulations. You are now popular.” This was supposed to make me feel better, but it didn’t. I had just hurt a small animal – something innocent, just for own personal gain. I couldn’t believe what I had just done – I had turned into my father who is always only out for himself.
Billy takes my shoulder and leads me away from the site of torture towards school, a fake note in his hand saying that we were both at the doctor’s office. He continues on about girls and wrestling, but all I can think about is that poor dog and how I must have ruined its life.
A week later I walk out of school and turn the corner to see the dog lying dead on the street, one eye covered in blisters. It had been killed by a car which it was unable to see. I turn and run away as if its spirit was chasing me away from the horrible sight like I was unworthy to even look upon the dead animal that I had practically killed. I run and run till I reach the lake. I sit down on the dock and look out into the horizon thinking of how much I wish I could turn back time and not go with Billy, my new best friend, or even back to the time I was born. I would kill myself at birth to prevent this poor animal from dying in such a terrible way again.

Even though I am in this chair of death I feel as if I am 13 years old again sitting on that dock thinking about the poor animal I had killed. I hope it is in a wonderful place; A place where stupid little boys don’t hurt it for popularity.
I bet it‘s in doggie heaven, as she would put it. She. Who is she? Do I know her? Yes, I know her. I know her very well. Well, I knew her. She was my wife; my beautiful, loving, amazing wife who did anything I asked. She would have saved a fly from a spider if she could have. How much I loved her, till he killed her. Till I killed her. Why did I do that again? Oh yes, I remember. I remember like it was yesterday.

“Honey, are you home?” I ask as I walk into my suburban house. I hear scrambling in the back and a muffled “oof” and “hide, hide quickly!” My wife appears, looking as beautiful as usual, but I don’t notice that. I look behind her and I see messed bed covers. My eyes narrow.
“Hello Charles!” She says sweetly, but I could hear the sounds of panting and distress hidden in her velvety voice. I move towards our bedroom, and she jumps to block the way. This adds to my suspicion.
My eyes, I knew, had already gone into their scary mode – the mode I used to take when I faced my father’s blows to my body and face. Cold and hard so that I would not show him that it hurt me when he would hit me over the face with his massive fist. I push her out of the way, careful not to hurt her too much. Walking to our bedroom – my bed room – I see clothes – my wife’s clothes and male clothes – not mine - thrown all over the floor. I pull open the closet and there is a man, half naked hiding behind my expensive Hugo boss suit. I pull him out by his neck and throw him across the room. He hits the side table with the sharp edges. I hear a loud click and I know he just broke his arm against it.
I smile grimly as my wife screams and runs to the man, tears streaming down her face. She yells out his name as she caresses his arm tenderly. My grin disintegrates. Reaching into the closets that I had just emptied of the man I grabbed my pistol. I cock the gun and hold it out aiming towards the man on the floor.
I yell at my wife to get away from him, to let go of him, but she didn’t listen. She was telling me to put it down, that I would regret it the minute I did it, but my body and mind were out of control. My animal instincts to kill had taken over my entire body and I pulled the trigger.
A scream erupted in the silence by my small two year old daughter who had been awoken by a scary dream and wanted to be held by her father. Her little face was covered with tears. Her nose dripped a little and I wanted to hold her more than anything, but my hands were covered with blood. I hear sirens and she cries again running to her room. She’s dropped her little stuffed bunny she’s had since she was a baby. I pick it up and it becomes covered with blood and my tears as I fall to the floor weeping for my dead wife and my scarred child.

Tears stream down my face. Just remembering how she looked at me after I shot her mother broke my heart. How could I have killed the one woman I ever loved? How could I have destroyed an innocent’s life? I move a hand to wipe the tears away and all the doctors sitting in the room turn to stare at me to make sure I’m not trying to escape. As if I can try with the amount of security around the place; not to mention all the drugs they pumped into me before I came in here.
Why did I have a gun in my closet? Oh yes, I remember. My abusive father gave it to me on my wedding day, saying, “If someone tries to rob ya’, geet ‘im wit’ ‘his.” He did not know how to speak. A Hick and a drunk, that’s what he was from the boon docks – or boon dogs as my brother called them. I wonder how my brothers doing right now. I know he got married – I didn’t attend the wedding for he was marrying a spoilt brat. My wife agreed not to go as well, so it was settled that we would spend the time together on holiday in Morocco. I wonder if he’s in that little room right now…staring in to here thinking about what a disgrace to the family I am and how I ruined everything. How I was a terrible brother. How I beat him up rather than hug him. How I helped bully him at school rather than prevent it.
My brother and I were brought up in Alabama and I used to have a very southern accent till I moved to New York at the age of 20 to escape my horrible life in Alabama. I met my wife in an artists shop, she was painting a picture of a little girl holding a doll. It was love at first sight. We married two years later. We then moved to the Suburbs of New York. The suburbs of New York were pleasant looking and in a convenient place for both our works. My wife was an artist and needed inspiration from nature whereas I am – was – a lawyer for crime in the city. It only took me twenty minutes every morning to commute by train from our petite house.
My wife and I, we liked the miniature house at the end of Shellion Street. I remember telling her that the suburbs in New York all had strange names for streets. One street that I know of is called Gina’s Street. I remember my wife laughed politely, obviously not thinking it was funny.
The house on Shellion Street was quaint with large windows in the front parlour and a pretty garden in the back. There were three bedrooms; one for us, one for our future children and one for a guest. The house was very attractive and we thought we would be able to live wonderfully and everything would be fantastic. We were wrong.
All of our neighbours were friendly, but Thomas Junk, the single man who lived across the street was, in my opinion, too friendly, always offering to look after my wife when I was away on business trips. I didn’t believe him, but oh well, I guess they had a good time when I was gone.
I move my hands, and the white gowned people turn again. They nod at each other speaking in body language that was obviously practiced and organised. I laughed suddenly. My life was over. A rather funny thought. When I was ten I used to stay up late and talk to my little brother about what I would do when I was thirty; how I was going to be a doctor or maybe in the FBI. Well, guess where I am now, barely 35 and on my death bed. I bet my brothers laughing right now at my stupidity, or he’s crying at my loss. Well it’s not really a loss. I deserve to die. I’ve ruined lives and I killed my wife. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth I always said.
My eyes wander slowly around the room and focus on the point where I sense my brother’s body. He is bent over, a piece of paper in his hands. How I see these things I don’t know for this glass is meant to be a mirror, but I suppose God, on my death bed has granted me the gift of seeing through objects. Thanks, God, for giving me something so useless at a time like this.
The doctors in white dressing gowns are strapping me down now. Death is leering ever closer. Please, I beg them; let me hug my daughter one more time. They don’t reply. I close my eyes and I feel them place a small piece of plastic into my mouth. It’s cold and taste weird – of chemicals and sugar and salt. Funny, how when you’re about to die you savour these tastes the most.
I reopen my eyes and I see nothing. The doctors have tied a dark black cloth over my entire head. I can feel my tears making the cloth become soaking wet. Good bye life. I'm sorry I wasn’t any better to the world. I’m sorry that I couldn’t make the cure for cancer and I’m sorry if I caused my daughter problems. I'm sorry if I’ve ruined peoples lives.
Please, Forgive me.