by J.R. Vaineo
I find myself behind the box with bars, wondering, How’d I get here?
It all started with a dance. A dance at the club. Should’ve been nicknamed the clubbing club, though. For that is what it ended up being. People hitting and screaming and then running around. Dancing all through the night.
I don’t mean that it started out with people hitting flesh. No, no. Hitting a joint. Smoke rising and swirlin and stinking. Reeked like grandpa’s stale house on that little corner lot. Yellow brick, it was. Why would anyone paint brick yellow? Are we in the Wizard of Oz? Rather than a yellow brick road, it’s a yellow brick house? Why not white? Don’t really have to worry ’bout matching the paint color, years down the road, when the little neighbor brats graffiti your brick.
His house is like a yellow paint’s disease. Mismatched colors. It amused one of my friends enough, she actually took a Selfie in front of that wretched place. Tagged it: “ugliest home front, in the state.” Oh well!
The man never much interested me. Hardly spoke more than five words together. Most answers were: Don’t know; don’t care; please leave. Ha! Grouchy old man. One like a younger he sat in front of me at that club. Got grabby. Then testy, when I clawed into his skin. The man was drunk, that’s for sure. And high. I should’ve left right then. But, I was dumb. And I didn’t. Now, I’m staring at the warden filling out paperwork. I gave him my statement: I didn’t kill him.
He didn’t believe me . . .
My writing prompt:
Start a scene, in a jail cell. Go from there.