The Unmarked Journal

A wicked cackle wakes me at 2:15 a.m.

From my cot, I see no one in or outside my prison cell. I walk to the bars of my cage and, in the dim light of the corridor, I notice a small, unmarked package on the floor just outside my cell. I reach through the bars, pick it up and peel off the plain brown paper, revealing a small, spiral-bound book. No markings there, either. But when I open it, the first page is full of hand-printing that reads like a journal:

Oct. 30

A wonderful night! Just the right chill, and clouds obscure the moon. Reminds me of the evening long ago when you threw eggs at your neighbor’s new car as he parked. The driver panicked and hit another car. You ran. The eggs come before the chicken. :-)

Oct. 31

Remember when you wore a ghost costume on this night? Who knew that little kid would make a ghost of the driver of that other car. And you thought no one saw you.

Nov. 1

I love courtroom scenes in movies. Real-life, too, especially when you smirked at the judge who sentenced you this afternoon for embezzlement and grand larceny. You also should have blown him a kiss like you wanted to.

Nov. 2

Stop writing! Don’t apologize to your ex-boss. Do you really expect your jailhouse letter will make him say, “Duh, I forgive you for robbing me blind”? Stay strong.

Nov. 3

Don’t be a weakling! You should have pushed that book right back at your visitor. Instead, you accepted it, even after the guard thumbed through it with his grimy hands. Throw that thing away!

Nov. 4

Don’t get soft on me. Don’t XXXXXXX You are the man! You laughed at that weak, crying inmate this afternoon. You make me proud.

Nov. 5

Why the hell did you go back to that inmate and read him some verses out of that book? No need to answer, man; I saw the semblance of shame creeping into your mind. I don’t need to remind you—but I will—that you agreed to eliminate that emotion when you threw in with me.

Nov. 6

Awww, today you cannot find your book.

Nov. 7

Couldn’t find it in the prison library either. Heh-heh.

Twelve Noon, Nov. 8:

It pains me to write this, but it will pain you way more. This morning, I saw you in your cell, on your knees with hands folded. This is a mortal violation of our agreement. Tonight, you will see the penalty. This is the thanks I get for recruiting you?