People seem to think that it takes a special kind of person to commit a murder, a criminal, a psychopath, someone with no emotion, someone who is sadistic and cruel, someone who truly does not care about human life.
But is that what it really takes? Do you really have to be that special to stop a heart? To draw out a person's last breath? Maybe it's the opposite of what everyone thinks, maybe it takes someone who feels too much, who is too in touch with every single spark of pain within the world, who cares so deeply, so truly, about human life that they like to remind themselves and everyone else of it's importance, of the power that it can hold over us all.
Maybe that's not the case at all, maybe we over-dramatize it, over-think it. Maybe when it comes down to it I'm just a person who took it a step too far.
Handcuffs hurt, I come to that conclusion quickly. Their metal bites into my skin as I sit and glance around the small empty room. A table is sitting in front of me, a tape recorder sitting on top of it, the words that had just flowed from my lips encoded in the dark strips inside the plastic casing. It had been a statement uninhibited by lies, by self-preservation. Each word was as honest as I could physically manage, and the policemen had listened in horror, their mouths hanging open, their eyes wide. There was a sympathy behind them though as they heard my motivations. There was some twisted logic there, a sense of justice that they could appreciate.
"Excuse me?" I glance up, my face expressionless, drained of any emotion. It was all gone - the anger, the upset, the outrage, it had vanished, leaving me as an apathetic shell. I raise my eyebrows as I see a man in a suit, with speckled grey hair and frown lines.
He narrows his eyes, "Miss Nakamura?" I nod slowly as he steps inside and closes the door shut behind him, walking around the desk and sitting down across from me. I am a sorry sight, and I can see my appearance is throwing him off, his brows furrow as he studies the blood caked onto the skin of my arms, drying into the fabric of my t-shirt. He clears his throat, attempting to ignore the vacancy behind my eyes and the scratch marks on my neck, "so, you waived your right to an attorney."
"Yes," I nod towards the tape recorder, "I just told them everything."
He nods in reply, obviously having been informed of this before he came to speak to me, "Well, your case will probably be a difficult one then..." I frown, not following, "an impossible one..."
"Of course it's impossible. I did it," I tell him, "That's it. The end."
"It's not that cut and dry, we could get you off with manslaughter -"
"Whatever they charge me with, I'm pleading guilty to." I cut him off with a dead certainty to my voice.
He shakes his head, his dull, blue eyes suddenly filled with desperation. My crime was brutal, it was bloody, I am wearing the evidence of my own violence all over me, and yet this man sitting in front of me wants to save me. I do not want to be saved.
"We can get the jury on your side," he is refusing to listen, he taps the surface of the tape recorder adamantly, "Once they hear your reasoning, your testimony... you might be able to get a reduced sentence, maybe an insanity plea, we could possibly clear your name - "
"I'm tired." I interject, and the evidence is in the tone of my voice. He purses his lips together, meeting my eyes which are wide with insistence, "I killed a man. A man who deserves to be dead. People may sympathize with me, they might even agree morally with what I did, but I broke the law, and I deserve whatever I get. I deserve to go to prison. I don't want to fight. I just want this to be over."
He nods again slowly, taking in my words, assessing my competence in silence. He then lets out a sigh, and I know what is coming next, "You want to go to prison..." He mumbles, and runs a hand through his hair, leaning against the table. He knows the problem now, he knows that despite my guilt, despite my compliance, this is going to be the furthest thing from straight forward, "That might be a little more difficult than expected."
I catch my reflection in the window of the bus, and I flinch. I look haggard, I look too thin, the circles under my eyes betray the countless sleepless nights that have passed over the previous months of court appointments and jail cells. And my hair. I want to reach up and touch it, and instinctively I move to do so, feeling the handcuffs fighting against my flesh as they tug on the chains connecting me to my seat, preventing me from moving my limbs. I sigh, and study the cut in the murky reflection. I had flinched as they dragged the electric razor across my scalp, leaving me with nothing but a buzz cut, and now as I look at it, I know that it's changed me. I am no longer myself, I am a character, a criminal with a Y chromosome.
I feel the bus rattle to a shaky stop and glance through the window this time, seeing the large wire mesh fences, the old, brick building which I would learn to call home. The guards in the front of the bus stand up, pulling keys out of their pockets to free us long enough to get us to our prison cells. "We're here," one of them calls, "You'll be kept in handcuffs until you're processed, you'll be assigned to your cell block and shown to your new luxury accommodation." He announces, going through the passengers and removing the chains connecting them to their seats.
I sit up straight, trying to remember the correct posture, the body language, mentally recalling the gruffness I'd assigned to my voice so I would be able to melt into the background and call no undue attention to myself. The guard hesitates in front of me, his eyes scanning my frame, and a twisted smile forms on his lips, "Well, they're gonna love you." He snorts as he undoes my chains. I quickly retract my hands, freeing myself, my jaw clenching as I glare up at him through narrowed eyes.
"What the hell you getting at?" I spit out, I have learnt that aggression is the quickest way to erase suspicion, to remove any sort of hint that underneath the binding, the shaved head, the hollow cheeks, is a vulnerable little girl.
"I mean they're gonna eat you alive." He laughs back. He is unaware of what I am, and grabs me by the arm, raising me to my feet. "You're skin and bones and half their size, do the math." He snarls as he pushes me towards the front of the bus. I try and find my footing, stumbling slightly as I make my way down the steps of the bus and out into the crisp Illinois air.
I turn and see the wire mesh fencing that borders the yard, and the fear that I feel is palpable, it has spread through each of the new arrivals, their muscles tensing, their breath still in their lungs. They can see what I see, the men surveying us, leaning against the fence with their eyes studying each of us in turn, deciding who is a threat, who might be valuable, and who will be easy to take advantage of.
"Nakamura!" my surname is called and I turn to see another guard standing a few feet away, motioning for me to follow him. I clear my throat, shuffling towards him reluctantly, "You got a meeting with the warden, he wants to see you before you're processed." He explains. I nod slowly, understanding. The guard starts to walk towards another entrance, a small wooden door set in the thick stone, and he turns to give me another glance, frowning with confusion, "You're not a snitch, are ya?"
"No." I growl defensively. He raises his hands, letting out a laugh.
"Sorry, sorry, just askin'. It's rare that a prisoner gets an audience with the governor before they're even in their prison blues, that's all I'm sayin'." he explains, but it does nothing to reassure me. He takes me inside, and I take in the winding corridors and sliding metal barred doors with wide eyes, this place is old, it is filled with the shouts of angry men, and is not welcoming in any sense. I feel my body tense again as I take a seat in a small office which I assume is the waiting room for the Warden. A woman sits at a desk opposite me, flashing me a smile as she picks up the phone and starts pushing a few numbers. She nods curtly before hanging up.
"The Warden will see you now." She tells me, and I am on my feet again, walking into a respectable looking office, filled with tall book cases and antique furniture.
"You can leave us," I hear a voice say and turn to my right to see an older man with a white mustache speak to the guard who stands by my side. The guard nods, throwing me a warning glance before retreating out of the room. I let out a sigh as the Warden motions to a chair seated across an old, mahogany desk, "Please, sit."
"Thanks," I mumble as I step forward and take the weight of my feet, feeling my stomach turn in apprehension as he takes the seat opposite me, his face gravely serious.
"So, Miss Nakamura, you've put us in an awkward position." I nod, feeling an odd sense of guilt, "But we do understand that you can't be kept in Belleview... and for similar reasons it's difficult to transfer you out of state," he tells me, and I nod.
"My sister has ongoing appeals," I explain, my voice retreating back to the comfortable softness that I am used to, "I'm the state's key witness, they prefer me to be close at hand in case I'm needed."
"And you're okay with this?" The Warden asks, his eyebrows raised, "You're okay with staying in Fox River, considering all of the risks."
"It's kind of my only choice," I admit reluctantly, and his face softens. Not many women would willingly incarcerate themselves in a high security male prison, being locked up with rapists and murderers, "There are risks... but to be honest I'm much more comfortable with the risks here than the risks in Belleview, and the prospect of my sister being released... I need to stay here. I need to be here," I tell him decisively.
"Well, I can't argue with that," He admits, "you're a brave girl." I try and smile, but I'm aware that it's not bravery that I'm showing, it's a warped delusion of justice, of the greater good, and a profound lack of concern for my own safety, "Now, there'll be some security measures we'll have to implement. You will not have a cellmate, for obvious reasons, you will also be given a seperate shower time to all the other prisoners, and I'll also choose a specific handful of guards - who I can trust - and inform them of who you are, your situation, and they will keep a close eye on you," I could see him chewing gently on his bottom lip as he opened a file that sat on the table in front of him, producing a slip of paper and pushing it towards me. I raise my cuffed hands and take it from him, reading the words which seemed to swim together into one huge pool of legal terminology, "I know that you are stripped of a number of your rights as a prisoner, but this here just covers all of our bases, so you're aware of the risks that come with your stay here." I nod slowly, seeing him offering me a pen, and take it from him, scrawling my name across the bottom.
Kurea Nakamura.
"Thanks," I mumble, handing it back over to him. He glances down at the page, nodding, satisfied, and places it back in the file.
"So, I suppose the last thing you need to decide is on a name," he tells me. I raise my eyebrows.
"A name?"
"Kurea might be uncommon enough to fool a number of inmates, but the majority of them will probably pick up on the femininity." I nod slowly, before shrugging.
"I don't actually go by Kurea usually," I admit. "So it shouldn't be a problem." I tell him as I rise to my feet.
The Warden frowns, "So what do I call you?"
"Ray." I say simply, "Call me Ray."