Free ALL THINGS PRETTY PART TWO by M. Leighton Page A

oblivion and the
desire to resist it lessens with every passing minute.
    Some time later–minutes or hours, I don’t know–Sig
comes.   I don’t get up.   I can’t.   My legs, my arms, my head, they’re so
heavy.   So, so
heavy.  
    He waits for me to move. When I don’t, he leaves for a few
seconds and then comes back to an electronic click and the opening of my cell door.  
    He walks slowly into my little cubicle of hell.   He says nothing. I say nothing. He watches
me for a few seconds and then gently picks up my feet, sits on the end of my
tiny bed, and sets them softly in his lap.   Immediately, I feel his warmth seeping through my jumpsuit like he’s the
only source of heat in a thousand miles.   It almost scalds the skin of my calves.   He doesn’t touch me for the longest
time, like he’s afraid to.   But
then, as he relaxes against the cold concrete block of my cell, I feel his hand
fall on my leg and he begins to trace imaginary shapes on my ankle.
    That night, he comes back again.   I pretend to sleep. He watches me
without a word.   Like
a carbon copy of the night before.
    The next day, the DA returns early.   He shows me all kinds of papers and reads
me all kinds of laws.  
    Basically, what the M.E. found corroborates my story. My
brother was killed with one blow to the back of his head. He died instantly.   Strangely, that gives me great comfort.   I close my eyes. Squeeze them tight,
fighting off another bout of tears.   It surprises me to feel the burn and prickle of them.   They seem to be the only thing sharp
enough to penetrate my fog of late.   But it doesn’t last long.   Afterward, I’m merely apathetic as the DA talks to me about a confession
and what it would mean, about the deal he would recommend to the judge and the
implications of it. And his hope, not
his promise, that it will go as
planned.
    All in all, despite the fancy terms that make it sound as
though I’ll be a free woman if this works out, he still treats me like a common criminal, right down to the way his lips curl up in
disgust when he looks at me.  
    I can’t blame him, though.   When it boils down to it, I am a criminal.   No judge will be able to wash that away,
no matter what they decide to do with me.   It’s the way the world will see me.   The way Travis will see me.   And Sig.   The way I’ll see
myself.   I’ll always be a
murderer.   A girl
who sold her soul to the devil.   A woman who’s more a liability to the people around
her than a help.   Somehow
bringing it all out into the light like this makes it seem more real.   Uglier .   Less escapable.   I’ll never be able to leave the past
behind.   Because I’m the past.   I’m the black stain on our lives now.
    It occurs to me, on more than one occasion, that it might be
better if they’d just put me to death.   There are two people I love who would be so much better off without
me.   I bring nothing good to their
lives.   Because I am nothing good.
    They’ll be fine.   Great, even.   Sig will make
sure Travis is taken care of. I know in my heart that he will.   They’ll put Momma in a facility where
she can be better cared for, by someone smarter than me.   And without that to worry about, the two
things that I’ve worried about for half of my life, there’s nothing keeping me
here.   I will only bring hurt and
embarrassment and shame to those I love if I stay.
    I wrap my arms around my waist, drawing my legs up and
turning my face into the musty County pillow.   The hollow ache, the soul-deep
pain–I don’t know how much longer I can suffer through it.   I only want to be put out of my
misery.   And if the State of Georgia
won’t do it, I wonder if I will have the courage to?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - SIG
     
    Eight days. That’s how long it takes the law to realize and
accept the things that I’ve known all along–Tommi isn’t a felon. She’s a woman who grew from a girl who reacted in fear to a