Pro.
     As I stared into his eyes, filled with tears, I felt the same pain as him; I was at one with him. I was him, but he wasn’t me. How could either of us think of being me at that time? The only thing that I could think of was his fate and, feeling as though I were him, I was afraid. I was afraid in knowing what was to happen to me, but I was also hopeless. What could spring up in this hour of hopelessness? Who could bring evidence of my innocence? It’s been months and no proof has come up for me. I feel weak; my arms are heavy and my head is hung. I feel nauseous; my throat is so tight and I feel as though I’m on the verge of vomiting. But, then, what rights have I to feel as he does? As I stand here in front of him, my eyes drenched, I can’t entirely feel what he does, because I am not where he is; I am on this side of the bars and he is on the other. How do I know what it feels like? Pondering, waiting for what is soon to come to him: Death. I am not him, I am only his, but I can’t help but to feel the way I do. Being me, I would think, while alone, of only him and how he must feel. Now that the time is near, our emotions coil together as one and we both decide not to oppress it. We hold each other’s fingers through the bars for a distant time; for forever, we hold on to whatever we can and whatever we have left. We never let go, even after they took him away.
                                    1
As I laid on my bed, I saw the clock’s green light radiating 7:00 at me. The sun’s rays beamed on my face and the sound of the alarm gave me a headache. I stared at my hand and imagined his in mine for the longest time; I could still see his hopeless face in my state of lethargy. I looked at the calendar and realized that it was the sixth of December; that was the day an innocent man died in a pool of false accusation. That was the day I died and now, I live on with this false body, this generic smile. Though he did leave me, I clung on to what I did have left. I clung to my friend; who could be alone in the time they needed someone the most? My friend loved me, and I loved her, but never once did I ever consider having someone else to take his place. The three years that had passed since then had only been bitter ones; Time hadn’t started to heal my gash that continued to bleed; there wasn’t even a scab beginning to form. I couldn’t continue to work until the shock passed me, which took around five months. I stayed in therapy and only got out once I acted like he wasn’t the only thing I could think about, but he was, and he still is. I sat up in my bed and stretched, looking at the playground out the window nearest me. I saw only one child sitting at the top of the largest red slide. He sat and thought about something; He was probably deciding which way he would go down it. After a couple of seconds, he disappeared from sight and reappeared out of the bottom of the long tube. He walked over to a swing and sat there, not even moving his legs. I watched him and I felt sorry for him. I wanted to run across the street and push him in his swing; I wanted to see him smiling. I wondered where his parents might be at this time, but I couldn’t see past the limitations of my window. I walked downstairs and slipped on my coat and scarf; I walked out the door and headed across the empty street to the park. When I arrived, the boy was still sitting on the swing with his head hung. I walked over to him and said a simple, “hello”. The boy raised his head and looked me in the eyes, but quickly glanced over to somewhere behind me. His eyes were a bright shade of electric blue and they were very large. His orange freckles resembled the color of the dirt and his brown curly hair protruded from the ends of his hat. “Hi”, he spoke in a shy voice. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?” I asked. “Swingin’” He replied. I walked over and sat in the seat next to him. I see-sawed my legs back and forth just a little and looked at the ground in silence. I thought of how we wanted to have a child; we were saving up our money. I was thinking about all of the efforts we had gone through, but then I was interrupted by a voice. “Miss!” The boy caught my attention. His finger was pointing in my direction. I turned around and saw that he was pointing to a man walking down the road. He was wearing a tan overcoat and he seemed pretty merry as he swung his head when he walked. “Yes?” I asked the little boy. “Why is that man crying?” He asked me. I was confused. What did the boy mean? The man looked pretty happy to me, so I asked, “That man looks happy! What do you mean by asking that?”
“He looks happy? The man is crying loudly!”
“I don’t see that! What do you mean?”
“The man over there!”
He continued to point in the same direction and, even though the man walked on, the boy pointed in the same spot. He wasn’t following the man in the overcoat. I asked him again, “Who are you talking about? I only saw the man in the overcoat.”
“Can’t you see him? He’s standing right next to yo-“He stopped. I looked around, but saw nothing. “I don’t see anyone there. Are you playing a trick on me?” I asked. When I looked back at him, he had his head down again. When he didn’t answer me, I repeated myself only to hear, “I’m not supposed to say anything now.” I was angry and confused so I walked back over to my house across the street. I had a coffee when I got home and my anger subsided while my confusion turned into curiosity. The little boy didn’t look like he was joking around. He looked a little sad and it made me wonder; was there something mentally wrong with the child? Did he see things? I thought of what had happened the whole day until I laid down to sleep.