We are the Gray- Prologue

Summary

Alana, a wrongfully convicted serial killer, recounts her haunting nightmares and the society's bias while painting a vivid picture of the emotional turmoil accompanying her unjust incarceration.

Abstract

This poignant prose piece introduces Alana, a woman on trial for serial killings over five years, a crime she insists she did not commit. The courtroom scene is set against the backdrop of whispers and hardwood benches, while Alana, bound by cold steel, faces the prejudices of a society that disbelieves her due to her gender. Describing nightmares as indelible marks on her psyche and comparing them to scars, Alana invites readers to understand her pain and the permanence of her traumatic experience. Despite her circumstances and the physical discomfort caused by her restraints, she maintains her plea of innocence.

Opinions

The author conveys an underlying societal bias by highlighting the crowd’s reaction to a woman being convicted rather than a man.
It is suggested that the emotional impact of wrongful incarceration is deeply scarring, akin to a physical wound etched into the memory of the accused.
The narrative hints that the justice system may at times be flawed; the protagonist is positioned as a victim of unjust circumstances beyond her control.
The essay reflects on the nature of nightmares, underscoring their power to affect one's life even when awake. It suggests that the memories they leave behind can be haunting and indelible.
There's a sense of hope that by sharing her story, Alana might still be able to correct a wrong, emphasizing the importance of voice and advocacy in the face of injustice.
The mention of Alana's love towards the real murderer—a love she wishes could be erased—gives insight into the tragedy of being victimized twice, once by the legal system and once by an individual.

We are the Gray- Prologue

“It is not our nightmares that haunt us, but the decisions that hold us hostage.”

We are the lost here,

Scraping our feet against searing black cement,

Crumbling our hope as our feet run dry.

Deploring our quench for the mundane,

Like fish swimming in the oils of man-made fuel,

I write these words on a creaky old stained bed,

Wondering about the type of nightmares that haunt you,

Because I know the ones that haunt me,

Hide behind little White lies.

A nightmare is like a punch to the ribs. We wake up sweating and shivering at the same time as we try to shed the images out of our heads. Except we can’t. The images are stained behind our iris like a scar. Waking up or sleeping through the nightmare makes no difference. They become drawn like permanent markers into our memories.

“All rise.” Cold steel kept my hands behind my back and I could not face the crowd. Thirty days in prison have done a number on me. Worst yet, none of this was my fault but to the judge and jury, I looked guilty. “We are here today to trial Alana for convicted serial killings over the course of five years.”

A gasp crossed the crowd as if it was more surprising that a female was the one being convicted and not a man. Trying times for a world that still favors men. The defendant in this courtroom; me. The plaintiff of this courtroom; the people. Hardwood benches, cold, and whispers that were all I knew of the courtroom. Yet, the real murderer was in another country. If it was up to me, I would erase ever loving that man. If it was up to me, I would have never fallen in love.

The cuffs around my hands hurt as the steel dug a tiny bit tighter into my skin because the police believed me to be a sick human being. Sick human beings don’t deserve pity according to them. Before I stand to plead not guilty, I think it best you read my story.