A Sort of Freedom

Cold. Constricting.
Well, the mental choke that happened restrict me from speaking was.
Shh, don’t tell a soul.
It’s our secret, remember?
Except, in fact, there was no secret at all.
Everyone could read it on my face.
They knew what I had done…at least, what I had been accused of.
I couldn't utter even a whisper.
Not as all eyes latched their accusatory glares onto my fear-stricken face.
Chills went up my spine; wrapped around my conscience in wispy streaks like a soft caress of the dead…or the guilty.
But it was him.
I just knew it.
He was here.
Although, he could not be seen.
Only I could recognize his presence.
Calling to me, ever so softly.
I ended him, so they thought.
It was my fault, they thought.
He could not be at rest until I spoke up for him.
But I was innocent.
I tried to save him.
And maybe he would save me too.
It was either agree to the false and be imprisoned for eternity….
Or deny what was the truth and be put to death.
I will die innocent.
“I did not end his life. I will be bound to the truth until death itself clutches me, placing my soul with the angels. Take me away.”
As everyone gasped, appalled, I marched to my death, only leaving behind fear and a pair of silver cuffs.