How long has it been?

I looked to my wall, long mutilated with marks of others and mine, something steady in this world of insanity.

I ran my hand over the tally marks, counting them silently.

Twenty years.

Has it really been that long? The number by itself scares me, whether I spent in prison or lived it out – that’s seven thousand three hundred days.

I didn’t understand their logic – much like Cockroach over in cell C-3. Surprisingly, there are innocent people in Alcatraz, and Cockroach was one of them.

All of those days, spent – no, wasted – incarcerated in here for a crime I didn’t commit.

I remember it vividly.

It was sunny out; the school was bustling with children.

I remember standing outside whilst it was engulfed in an inferno of ochre flame – I remember the screams and the bodies.

I remember the stench of burning flesh and charred hair.

I remember the police reading me my rights and cuffing me.

Why would a mother possibly blow up the school that housed her kids?