To Kill A King
Description
"Sometimes I wake up and I'm me, and sometimes I wake up and I'm someone else. And the worst part is we don't know who came first. So tell me I don't know about loss, tell me I have no idea. Because every morning I wake up I lose myself...and that's the worst kind of loss."
My name is Charlie Karras and I didn't kill anyone. But who believes the crazy girl? Who would believe the girl who argues with herself because there's more than one of her? Certainly not a court. And so here I am in a mental institution where the food tastes like bleached cardboard and the entertainment is even more bland. If I wasn't crazy already, being here certainly would have made me so. I have one visitor, though. I don't know him and the only reason he visits me is because he pities me, but he's going to be my way out. I'm going to escape and I'm going to set things straight. I have to find out who framed me and why.
"Get out! And get gone
This town is only gonna get worse"
Charlie was framed for a crime she didn't commit. Desperate to clear her name, she escapes from the mental institution she was sent to instead of prison with her one and only visitor. But who is he? Is there some other reason to his interest in her that isn't pity? And why does she feel that, with every step she takes, she's getting further and further from the truth that could save her?
Foreword
I stared at the corner where the west wall of my room met the south wall. It looked just the same as the corner where the east wall met the north wall and every other corner in the god forsaken building. As I stared, my eyes glossing over, I raised my arm above my head and brought it back down, letting gravity do it's worst. A dull, metalic clang resounded in my ears as my wrist met with the metal of my bedframe. Staring still, I raised my arm again and let it fall again. I repeated the motion dully, my eyes refusing to focus.
I don't know how much time passed of me staring and banging my wrist until a nurse came in to tell me that my visitor was here. He came every Monday at noon exactly and talked to me about nothing in particular. I didn't know him; my guess was that he visited me because he pitied me. Me, the crazy murderer girl.
I stopped my banging and staring to stand from my cot. It must've been a long time because my joints cracked when I moved. I followed the nurse out to the visiting area, sitting in front of my visitor and placing my arms on the table. He looked at my bruised wrist and I too looked down to see the blossoming purple and blue with a soft outline of a sort of yellow-ish color. It looked like a watercolor painting that the artist had given up on and splashed their leftover paint on.
Slowly, I peeled my eyes up from my wrist to find my visitor staring at me fiercely. I stared back at him and let a question that had been burning in my mind fall from cracked lips.
"Am I real?"
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