I write psychological thrillers focused on mental health, identity, and the consequence of actions-or inaction. My novels are often character-driven through unreliable narrators and internal conflict that lead to moral ambiguity.
Does anyone ever plan to get arrested for murder? Is it possible to forget, to block out, the act of killing someone? These questions circled Gary's brain, his head lay down on a cold, steel bench. He spent the night in a holding cell, at best a couple hours of sleep here and there. Turns out a holding cell isn’t exactly quiet, or comfortable. You feel the cold, frigidness of everything creep through your skin, into your bones. All of the concrete, steel, clinking—it all seeps in deep. Talk about discomfort.
Gary didn’t know what to expect, unsure if any of this was even real. Maybe it’s all one big dream that he’s about to wake up from. It felt real and that’s what scared him. The guards seemed real, the other people around him appeared to be real—especially when you factor in the stench of the community toilet in each cell. But something still seemed off, the situation felt both real and imagined.
The steel door clanked open, a guard appeared and called for one of the inmates. Gary sighed with disappointment. A few of the other inmates shouted and groaned. Everyone wanted their turn, their moment to shine and get outta here. Assuming they got out of here and not sentenced, then transferred to the prison. His gaze fixed upon a few of the ones walking about, he wondered why they were here. Murder, DUI, drugs, an abusive asshole, the list could go on for eternity. A rush of fresh air flew into the room as the door to outside closed. The rest of the overnight arrests were filed into the holding cells, landing Gary a roommate now. He moaned internally—Great, how fun.
Sitting opposite him, the man kept his head tilted down. Every few minutes, Gary casually turned his head side to side, trying to catch the man’s face. He even whistled a few times. Normal social situations were never his strong suit, nevermind inside a holding cell. A sudden flashback, if that’s what you could call less than 24 hours ago, popped into his head. He remembered laughing—hysterical, maniacal laughter—as the officers placed him in handcuffs. Huh, that probably isn’t a good look. His new roommate coughed, catching his attention. Gary looked and this time, they locked eyes.
“What are you in for?”
His raspy voice carried in a low, cold tone. The rasp almost sounded fake, forced. Like if someone wanted to seem more intimidating than they actually were.
“Murder,” Gary responded, deadpan, then added. “Allegedly. I don’t remember doing it.”
“Sounds like what they all say.”
“Yeah, well, what about you?”
“Murder.” The raspiness made it hang in the air, before he continued. “Allegedly.” The man let out a chuckle.
Gary shifted his weight side to side.
“What’s your name?”
The steel door ground along its tracks as it slid open, interrupting their conversation.
“Gary B,” an officer shouted.
“Right here,” Gary answered, raising his hand.
“Walk over here, hands above your head. When you get to the door, turn around so we can cuff you.”
The man spoke, “Bye for now, Gary.”
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