/graces-website-9425/fotor_2023-6-1_19_25_34.jpg)
Stream of consciousness
The bass beat shaking the bathroom floor beneath me. The rhythm of the sound echoed in my thoughts. ‘Decide… Decide… Decide.’ The feeling continued, ‘Ba dum... Ba dum… Badum’ my heart felt like thunder in my chest, synchronizing to the rhythm on its own volition. The cold tile of the dark bathroom put me at ease as the surrounding air grew thicker. The drumming persisted in my head methodically, ‘Decide… Decide… now’ I felt the room spin around me as I attempted to gather my scattered thoughts. It became increasingly disorienting, and yet I sat completely still, completely apathetic. The cry in my head persisted, ringing in my ears, but I nearly felt comfort in the sound. Absolute silence is what terrified me, alone with my thoughts to consume me, but I had the sound. Should I go back downstairs? Back to the crowd, alcohol, and blaring music… Somewhere I don’t belong, or stay here stuck in my own version of reality. ‘Choose… Choose… Choose’ the voice hissed as it ate away any of the conscious sanity I had left. I was bitter; Left with an animosity for the pressure of decision making. Whenever I did make a choice I was always left wondering if I had made the right one… would my life have been better if I did, said, or was something different? I felt as if I was being closed in on, the all to familiar feeling of claustrophobia consuming all remaining hope. Drowning in a sea of opinions and stares not knowing where I belonged, but isolation frightened me just as much. Left forgotten, unimportant, a fading memory in the lives of others as they moved forward and I stood still. I’m not exactly sure what I liked about being here at this moment in time, but I wanted it to last forever. No eyes to judge, no thoughts to degrade me, and no quiet to make me feel small. I felt disconnected from my own body as my consciousness drifted away. I looked at myself from an outside perspective... who is that girl in front of me? What makes her any different from anyone else? Nothing. She isn’t unique or special she is merely herself. She sits on a bathroom floor unmoving, her muscles becoming increasingly tense. I re-entered my own mind as each of my senses slowly returned. I stared back at the abyss I threw myself into, with very little perception of reality left. I’ve lost focus on any meaning or purpose I previously had. What’s the real reason I’m here? Why did I bring myself to somewhere I don’t belong? I suppose it’s what I thought I was meant to do. Time only seemed to move when I did. The standstill oblivion I’m in keeps both time and myself frozen. I choose because I have to. The voice all along was my own, pressuring me as I remained quiet. Slowly I slip away from my reality never to witness this self again, as I came back to the cold tile of the bathroom floor.
Telling Versus Showing
The stakes were high for this trial. It was the first time I had ever defended someone I genuinely thought of as guilty. As a public defense attorney, you’re typically not given the opportunity to decline clients as it goes against the sole purpose of our work. Everyone, even the guilty, have the right to counsel it just so happens that I have the job of defending Canada’s infamous serial killer Tristan Smith. The news coverage of the police chase leading to his arrest was broadcast across the entire world as everyone watched in anticipation. I can honestly say that through my years of defense work I have seen one consistent discrepancy that distinguishes the guilty from the innocent. The truth is, innocent people don't run. Mr. Smith had been charged with five separate counts of first-degree murder that all occurred over the course of the past four months. The police had been relentlessly searching for the culprit until they finally found Mr. Smith along with enough evidence to have him stand trial in a court of law. The investigation was called off soon after Mr. Smith was caught, as the police had tunnel vision, insistent on getting a conviction to put the families who had lost loved ones at ease. I sat at my desk with a straight face, stern while focusing on the rings within the mahogany wood wall ahead of me. I desperately wanted to appear composed and cool so that the jury, and the public wouldn’t know of the abounding doubts that were racing through my mind as Crystal Evans, the prosecution's third and final witness approached the stand. Ms. Evans was the prosecution’s key eye witness proving the case for them by placing Tristan at the scene of the most recent murder. She was dressed in a white wool sweater two sizes too big with a long pearl necklace around her neck that made her already slight figure appear even smaller. Her straightened blond hair had been put up into a clean tidy ponytail with not a single strand loose, accentuating her high cheekbones and clean natural face. Crystal had managed to encapsulate innocence itself which was no doubt a calculated move by the prosecution. I knew I would somehow have to find it in me to cross-examine the petite woman that sat ahead of me with such vigor that she’d crack under pressure making her testimony seem unreliable to the jury. I was already on thin ice when it came to my reputation as a defense attorney. Those who work alongside me know that I had no choice in the matter of defending Mr. Smith, but in the eyes of the public, I made that decision myself. I had no idea what the public would say about me after I had finished the cross but I knew whatever it was, it wouldn’t be positive. The problem with participating in such a high profile case was that it was extremely easy for news outlets to typecast the defense attorney as the villain. The more publicity I got, the worse it would be for my career. With a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders and approached the witness stand unaware that the cross-examination I was about to begin would be talked about for years to come.
Guided Creative Writing Activity
The road was cracked and damaged, accompanied by faded white lines revealing its age. Heat radiated off of the abandoned pavement, void of any sign of life. Far off in the distance was a light brighter than the desert sun, curious I began to move toward it. The dry dirt crumbled underneath my feet as I walked, the entire atmosphere consuming any and all moisture around. My vision was blurred, a sign of my dehydration but I kept my momentum toward the light. Squinting at my surroundings I could tell I was completely alone. The dryness in the air seemed to take all of my energy away yet I still kept going, the light becoming more visible the further I walked. Sounds of crackling filled my ears reminding me of summer nights at my campground. It was then that the light had registered in my brain, an all too familiar sound, and crisp smell; flame. The blistering sun now at its full potential nearly blinded me as I pushed forward toward the burning shack. My breathing became more and more labored as my feet continued to shuffle. If I wasn’t to find somebody soon I would die from the heat and dehydration. The fire though alarming, gave me hope that somebody was close by. I made it to the shack and nobody was there. From what I could tell the wood was already deteriorated and broken long before the fire had started. The shed looked as if nobody had been there for a long time. My heart sank as I notice there was no water and no person to save me. I dropped to my knees, ready to give in when I see through the dry grass, something that told me I had reason to keep going. A cigarette laid in the dirt, used and discarded. Though my hope was not in the cigarette itself, but rather in the red ashes and smoke lingering that told me, someone was here not too long ago.
/graces-website-9425/Screenshot2023-06-01222914.jpg)