It's started snowing outside, bringing its shiny white blessings to the proverbial men of goodwill. I try to sleep, but it's too hard, so I think instead. My suit's too uncomfortable to sleep in. My red suit, the colour of dried blood.
Papa's blood.
Did I kill him?
I must have done. I threw the gun. He said it was the bailiff who killed him, but everyone knows he was covering for me. Even Wright knows. He may call me innocent and say he's going to defend me, but I know he just doesn't want to lose another role model. Not so soon after Mia.
I'm sorry, eight-year-old Wright. I didn't live up to your expectations. I didn't live up to anybody's.
The bailiff who dragged me in here said I looked like Santa Claus in this getup. Ho ho ho. It's got a horrible irony to it. I didn't bring cheer to anyone. Only pain. Death. Despair. How many people have I killed? By ruthlessly chasing down the criminals, I became a criminal myself. Every criminal earns his punishment... including me. Maybe I should just confess. Get it over with. At least I only have one person to convince of my guilt. But then again, maybe I can embellish a few details for the non-existent jury. What's the harm in filling in the blanks to some extent? It's for the greater good, after all. Ha... I remember when I used to say that about other people's trials. Evidence forgery... my father would never have stooped to that.
What have I become?
A criminal, that's what I have become. I knew that already. I must be going mad. I've started repeating myself.
Pain.
Death.
Despair.
How many people have I killed? I force myself to remember. I recall every face, some with the air of a carefree child who sees the whole thing as a big Punch and Judy show, others where you knew they were dying to say: "And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for you meddling kids!"
And, of course, the ones who were innocent. I witness the pain on their face, the sudden loss of hope as they realise they've been blamed for a crime they didn't commit, and this time around I feel pity. Sadness. I feel my own hope slipping away. Perhaps it's for the best that I'm in here. I will never be a man of goodwill, just a puppet with broken strings. There's no hope left for me. I'm a broken man, and everyone knows it.
I'm sorry, Papa.
I'm sorry... everybody.
