Vindicated

• Anjie Wang, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2009

You have been locked up for five years, wrongly convicted for the murder of a colleague. Prison has taken away what remaining trust you had towards the justice system, and a part of your soul. You can still remember the first time you arrived at prison – you told your cellmate you were innocent.

“We all like to think that,” he had jeered and you were spat at, hissed at, bullied. Then you learnt to deal with it. You have learnt to not trust easily, to hide whatever emotions you feel. You have become an empty shell.

Your lawyer comes around occasionally – he is the only visitor you have, your family had long abandoned you – each time with grimmer news, so you refuse to see him. Your business went down first. A few clients were suing you. Then your mother was in hospital.

Today, he is determined to see you. Now, as he sits across from you, separated by a glass window, you stare down at your calloused hands. You refuse to pick up the phone that allows you to talk to him. Your lawyer hammers against the glass impatiently, his face resembling something close to glee. You are weary.

The moment you pick the phone up, and he exclaims in his own, “You’re going home, Will!”

There is a mixture of shock, disbelief and exhilaration exploding in your chest. You look at him with wide eyes, trying not to feel too excited in case this is all a joke. He holds a document in front of the window so you can read the tiny print.

“There is enough evidence to support that you were not involved in the murder,” he says, excitedly.

You let out a breath, and when he leaves and the prison guard leads you out, you cannot stop the smile spreading across your face. Tonight, the stiff bread for dinner tastes a little softer and you even attempt to make small talk with a guard, who looks at you as if you have finally lost it.

The next day doesn’t seem to come fast enough, and the moment there is movement in the hallways of the guards changing shifts, you start packing and changing out of your uniform. Your cellmate looks at you with undisguised distaste, but you could care less.

A guard lets you out of your cell, and you take one last look before continuing on into the halls. You hear hissing and booing from other cells, but each step you take, each gate you pass out of, your heart rises up higher into your throat. Once you are out, you want to make up for the time in prison; you want to rebuild your business, visit your dying mother, and fall in love.

Finally, your feet crunches over the gravel of the exercise yard, and the guard pulls open the last gate. He offers you a small smile, and you try to smile back. Now you are free. Now you can start another life.