“Ramsey Dane Stalker, the Court finds you guilty under the accounts of arson and third degree murder of Elizabeth Katowski, Boyd Forrester, and Cameron Liu. You have been sentenced to 37 years in prison.” 

I looked next to the defendant my parents provided for me. His facial structure, lame crew cut, and dress told me he was no older than thirty-five. He had a huge vein that occasionally popped from the side of his long face. It always happened in frustration, and it was kind of fun to watch it throughout the trial. I’ve never seen the vein so clearly until this moment though. 

Sweat began to drip from the side of his face and leaked into the pale blue dress-shirt he wore. He was clearly upset, and I think I hinted at some nervousness. His feelings were not toward the fact I was facing prison of course, but for losing the case; maybe giving him that unexpected setback in his career. He might’ve been imagining the looks of the faces in the law firm when he would come trotting back. It could have been a mix of blatant disappointment and some “well, you tried” comments from closer friends.

I assumed he was above his peer attorneys. His approach was ferocious, and his arguments shut down the defendants a couple times (mostly by arguing that I was a sick alcoholic in need of “outside-prison help”), but the verdict was already being decided by public media. Regardless of the outcome, I was impressed and grateful for his efforts. He was an upfront guy with a determination to fight till the end, those are my kinds of people. Maybe in another life we could have become acquaintances, learning about the different and best possible ways to attack our problems. As friends do. 

He looked at me apologetically. I replied with a shrug and smiled softly. 

I had no idea why my parents even provided me with a defense team. To support a delinquent alcoholic was just throwing the little money they had right into the shredder. Even if I was able to escape the sentencing or receive a shorter one, what the hell was I supposed to do? The media and all of Boston would have the name of the woman who burned down the world’s most famous college bar engraved in their brains. Regardless of further investigation and verdict, I would have still been unable to live a normal life. Whatever the normal life is.

The Judge and jury said a few more words. Then before I knew it everyone in the courtroom stood up. I could hear whimpers behind me, most likely coming from my mother or my sister Addie. It made me want to turn around and mouth the words “I’m so sorry” but that wouldn’t do anything. A sorry can’t get me out of jail, can’t get rid of my family’s sorrow, rebuild the bar, or bring Lizzy, Boyd, and Cameron back. 

“Three people! What the fuck were you thinking!” 

The voice came from the opposing side of the audience. The raspy tweenager voice could belong to none other than Cameron’s little brother Travis. He squealed a couple more profanities before he was shut up by his father, grabbing his head a little tighter than he ought to have. 

“Release him,” I thought of saying. “Let him continue.” It was completely reasonable to me. I killed his brother. I killed his brother. 

My body made a jerking motion. 

“I respectfully call the court to silence in order for dismissal.” The judge said. Everyone stood still. I could hear my mothers whimpers even clearer now. 

The dismissal happened quickly, and everyone stood around to watch me get escorted out by the courtroom police. The cuffs that barred my feet to the table grounds were loosened, and I was temporarily set free. Floor cuffs in courtrooms were installed for the sake of the persecutor nationwide after several incidents of courtroom fights were recorded. It was also a way to make the audience feel in safer hands. 

I did not look back at my family. I couldn’t look back at my family. I couldn’t bear to lock eyes with my crying mother, my broken sister, and my disappointed father without reciprocating the feelings toward myself. As awful as it sounds, I had to stay tough and KPA (keep a positive attitude, as my ex would always tell me). It’ll at least carry me through the moment I walk into prison. What happens beyond that, I don’t know, but all I can do now is KPA. KPA. 

The tears slowly rolled down my cheeks, almost in a hesitant way. 

What the fuck was I thinking?

The microphones shoved into me as if I was a child getting force fed. I think one of them went entirely into my mouth, then ripped right out as the guards barricaded me from the hungry journalists. I could feel stinging from my two front teeth. 

I held my head up high, not in an arrogant or a “I have no remorse” kind of way, but it was more that I wanted to show the crowd my face. A public speaking workshop I went to, and utterly dreaded, as a senior in high school taught me that keeping good posture and looking up was the best confidence booster. I wanted to show them I was willing to hear their questions and cries of disapproval, while also trying to stop myself from becoming emotionally overwhelmed. This was really the best option; holding my head down and crouching the entire way to avoid microphones would only make me look more vulnerable, and susceptible to attack. 

A lot of the questions and statements I heard while walking through the crowd were repetitive: “how do you feel about your sentence?” “Go to hell!” “Why did you burn down Shoney’s?” There was a kid there with his dad in the very front of the crowd, on the right of the police car. His question caught me off guard, in a pretty disturbing way; “what did it smell like?”

I stopped walking and looked right at him. I felt hot tears roll down my face. The boy stared back in confusion for a moment, then shifted behind his dad in fear. 

A child asking me what burning bodies smell like, what’s going on? I was pushed along by one of my police-escorts. The boy was gone, but the question hung. I didn’t ponder about the smell of dead bodies, but I questioned the innocence of the younger generation. Lots of studies of child innocence were actually conducted during my time at NU. A longitudinal study conducted followed the lives of 3 year old’s who received phones, whether that be used for game play or emergencies, compared to the children of few parents who still didn’t allow phones. The outcomes were clear: the intensive media caused drastic measures in the loss of innocence. By the time the children turn 7, those with phones understood the concepts of drugs, death, violence, and sex, and could even go further beyond a simple understanding. The results became controversial. 

I guess I’m a part of a child’s loss of innocence too.

The questions and remarks became murmurs when the door to the police car shut. I shifted my focus to the interior of the police car. It’s pretty accurate to a movie’s visual description. Black interior with a huge cage like screen that separates the front and back of the car. What was new to me was the door locks and the double seat belt. Extra protection and extra precaution. My amusement subsided as we drove away in silence. 

I returned to the monotone state I felt in the courtroom. I took in the final sceneries of Boston, while wondering what the city would look like in the next 37 years. What the children would think and talk about. How much the media would influence ideas and morality. 

I remembered I had a family. I cringed at the thought of seeing them for the last time without a glass screen and phone. I could feel my heart beating faster, just thinking about the things they would say and the looks they’d give me. And I knew they would continue visiting me for the next 37 years. My parents have always lived by an “unconditional love” parenting process, and I appreciate this deeply, but another part of me wishes that they’d forget I existed. As cliché and depressing that sounds. I hate sounding like that. 

I also hate thinking about the things I “could’ve” done. What job I could’ve gotten, which graduate school I could’ve gone to, who I would’ve stayed friends with over the years, who I would’ve married and have children with. That future is gone, and the mere thought of it is yet another reminder that I screwed up, big time. 

37 years.

 I had to take my mind off of the sentence and my wasted potential. The next several decades of my life belong to prison, and the only accomplishments I’ll be achieving are those within the walls. The best accomplishment would obviously be parole, but maybe I’ll have some fun there. I can get to know the really fucked up people, and become friends with the not-so fucked up people. I could lift like crazy and become the women’s arm wrestling champion. And in a couple of months or years I’ll get used to the prison system. 

But I killed three people. I burned down Boston’s most famous bar and killed three people. I won’t get used to that idea. 

The second I walked into the station I was handed a plastic bag and dragged to a small changing room you find in the thrift stores. A gray box with a curtain. 

“Put everything you have in the bag. Everything.” The officer commanded. I got the idea they meant “everything” when I was brought to the changing room. I took out my 3-D printed money clip, which held a series of $2 bills, my credit card, and my IDs. I took off the necklace Addie gave me as a graduation present. I took off the cheap rings I bought with my sorority sisters on our trip to Cabo San Lucas. Finally, I took my phone out of my pocket. 

This was my last chance to text somebody. A final note before I would be forgotten by almost everyone I knew 37 years later. It was overwhelming and hard to realize. I turned on my phone and skimmed through my notifications. My social media apps were blowing up, text messages pouring through by the second, and I was getting tagged in posts announcing my sentence. 

After scrolling through my notifications for a couple of seconds, I found a text that caught me off guard. Derek Truss. My guy “best friend,” who I spent every moment of college with, sent me a text after almost no communication for two months. 

Don’t drop the soap. I’ll miss you. 

I was trying to hold back both tears and a laugh. It was mostly tears by that point, and they won. A flashback of memories hit my brain and it reminded me of our good times, and all of my happiest moments throughout my life. I pulled myself together quickly, opened the text, and typed out a reply. 

Can’t promise anything :D, and you’ll be missed more. Come visit me once in a while.

“The hell’s taking you so long? Hurry up.”

The guard wasn’t happy with my texting. I was about to put my phone in the bag when I got another text from Derek. 

You have my word. You won’t be forgotten. 

I threw my phone in the bag right then and there. I loved him, but I couldn’t look at that text longer without bawling or getting harassed by the guard. I quickly took off all my clothes and handed the bag to the guard outside. The second it happened the curtains opened, and a lady with gloves strolled on in. 

“I think you know what’s about to happen. You’ve seen the movies?” She said with an almost sinister smile on her face.

After getting fully searched, given the classic orange jumpsuit, and  drug tested, I was taken through a series of hallways that led to a room that looked like a hospital waiting room. My heart jumped when I saw my family through a small window, and I soon made eye contact with them. I was in shock, I began to shake, and I started to stumble. The guards continued to guide me through and took off my handcuffs before opening the door. 

“Ms. Ramsey Stalker, you have 30 minutes to say goodbye to your family.”

The door shut immediately after the announcement. In front of me stood my crying mother and sister, and my sulking father who was slumped down in the uncomfortable metal police office chair. He looked at me with a dead stare, and tears welled up in his eyes. 

I fell to the floor. The emotional toughness I had hoped to maintain was lost. I spent the last moments with my family in sadness and regret.