I did 23 years for a crime I didn’t commit and got released after she told the truth
Twenty-three years. Eight thousand four hundred and some days, and I counted a lot of them on purpose, because counting was the only thing in there that belonged to me.
I missed my mother’s funeral. They let me watch it on a tablet from a room with a camera and a guard, and I remember thinking the flowers looked wrong, like someone had picked the cheap ones.
A NOTE FROM BIKERS BYTE
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My father stopped writing in year six. I don’t blame him. There’s only so long a man can keep believing his son when twelve strangers already said otherwise.
The thing nobody tells you about being innocent is that it doesn’t help. It doesn’t keep you warm and it doesn’t make the nights shorter. It just sits in your chest like a stone you can’t put down.
