Day Two of Who Knows

By Anonymous 

CW: Murder, Violence, Drug Addiction

I stood alone in a room full of people, each absorbed in their own thoughts, each holding their own view. Never had I faced such scrutiny. Then again, never had I killed a man. So to be scrutinized was exactly why I stood alone in that room. For days on end, I held this position, and for days on end I faced scrutiny—accusations and assumptions alike, speculative theories, fragments of fact, and minor testimonies. Not once did I deny taking his life. However, the unfortunate realities of society’s darker side mean things happen—both intentional and unintentional—so I faced the room as those within examined the case.

More than anything, though, I watched the twelve members of the jury. I watched with bated breath as each piece of evidence was presented. I searched for subtle signs—unvoiced opinions, loathing, disgust, anger. I looked, too, for sympathy, sadness, and that fatalistic acceptance that reminds us all that sometimes people make mistakes. I was facing the trial of my life, and the outcome would quite literally determine what remained of it. I had been charged with murder, and the twelve members of the jury had been charged with determining my guilt. To this day, I do not know whose burden was heavier.

I remember checking my watch in the darkness of my cell. Sleep—so desperately desired—would not come. The watch told me I was fifteen minutes into the day, day two of who knows. I lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of prison life at zero-dark-thirty—things unnoticed in the cold light of daytime consciousness: the mechanical hum of air moving through the extraction ducts, the low murmur of a television left on somewhere in the unit, its owner blissfully unaware of the effect it had on my mind. Not to mention the irregular gasps, snorts, and grunts of the other man occupying the six-by-twelve concrete box with me.

The air sat close. In a space like that, you could almost feel the grains of sand embedded in the concrete around you. I was suffocating in my own despair—entirely of my own making. It felt as though even the darkness didn’t want me there, as if there wasn’t enough room for both of us, yet we were locked together all the same. Beneath me, the man in the lower bunk shifted—the prick, I thought. That had been my bed for weeks, but when I returned from court that day, he was on it. Too late to argue. Besides, I wouldn’t be there long—at least, that’s what I told myself. That’s how I ended up on the top bunk, wide awake in the early hours, with nothing to distract me from the truth: this was only day two of who knows.

To me, sleep is a period of time lost, accompanied by a vague recollection of strange adventures and a feeling of revitalisation. However, upon checking my watch, I noticed the hours passing as if before my eyes—but the absence of those vague recollections, and the heavy lethargy that clung to me, left me to conclude that sleep would not be forthcoming with her gifts this night. I couldn’t begrudge her for it. After all, today is day two of who knows.

You could look at this tragic experience and say, “good job,” and if you knew the reason why sleep was spending the night with everyone but me, that would be one way to see it. Karma is another. However, today is still day two of who knows, and if you knew what I knew, then sleep would avoid you too.

It feels surreal in hindsight—nothing like the vague recollections one has upon waking after a good night’s sleep. No, the recollections I was having were anything but vague. I was stone-cold sober, yet despite my rational mind being fully aware of my situation, I could swear that at times throughout the night I was standing in the driveway again, pistol in hand—the same exchange, the same knowing look, and the same fate-filled sound of the bike hitting the ground, never to rise again.

What I would give for the vague to blur the vivid.

Moments such as these take me back in time, a hostage to my own conscience—forced to witness, unable to look away from the heinous nature of a rampaging drug addiction. They push me to explore the self, to confront the uncompromising depravity that comes from depriving oneself of the most fundamental human functions: sleep, food, and wholesome social interaction. All things considered, it makes a morbid kind of sense that, in the absence of such things, a person can become less than human—almost animalistic, primeval.

It is no consolation, but it makes a grim kind of sense that my drug of choice has murderous origins. This substance was literally designed to turn a man into a heartless, relentless, savage being—free of the morality that governs any sensible, reasonable, civil society. It stripped away all inhibitions, silenced every voice of reason, and replaced them with an all-consuming desire to destroy anything good in the world.

What is the substance, you ask? Amphetamines. Methamphetamine, to be specific. And I’m talking about us—deranged souls cursed by its consumption.

Did you know it was chemists in the Third Reich who synthesized it to transform ordinary civilians into what became stormtroopers—an unstoppable legion of chemically enhanced soldiers who helped take Europe by the throat? If you did, then my tale should not surprise you. I was consumed and at war. I believed it, too. Insane, aye?

Another morbid detail: the first man I ever saw manufacturing methamphetamine called himself “the German”. I was fourteen years old—older than thirteen, in his eyes, and therefore perfectly malleable. The chaos of a life bent by addiction was his gift to me. The motherfucker.

I have many such moments. The time I helped myself to Uncle Hawke’s pounds of weed at the tender age of nine—and despite the beating I got for stealing, I was warned only never to steal from him again. If I wanted weed, I should ask. Those were the first seeds of addiction to illegal substances. I had already been given the same arrangement for the legal ones—weed, ciggies, booze. I didn’t always get what I asked for, but sometimes I did—further evidence of the madness that shaped the reality I grew up in.

I think back to the armed robberies and kidnappings that preceded the nights of revelry, the same ones that led me here. At any point, I could have chosen to stop—or so I told myself. A lie, of course. I know now that no one is truly free to choose. The only real choice comes when you finally crash: do you rebuild, or don’t you?

We all crash. The question is—do you pick up the pieces and resume the charade, or leave them in the ashes of the past and begin again, somewhere uncertain? That question still frightens me.

At this point, the ability to make rational, conscious decisions becomes almost impossible. However, even a hungry wolf knows when to call off the chase. The key word here is “almost”—and I’ll elaborate on that later.

Nestled four stories up and four metres across from the Khyber Pass off-ramp, the steadily increasing flow of city-bound traffic tells me that today—day two of who knows—is about to reveal itself to the present moment, fleetingly fickle as the moment cements itself in the unchanging, unchallengeable past.

Moments that stay with us, no matter how hard we try to leave them behind. Moments that, no matter how much we wish we could, we cannot return to—cannot change what has already been written into time’s memory. These thoughts have become my obsession. I lie in the dark, replaying the mistake I’ve left in the record book of time, and today is day two of who knows.

Mouth dry, stomach churning, nervous energy pulsing through my body, I lie in the dark anticipating the call to pack my gear—silently praying for a break in the monotonous wait, for my moment to step out of the cell and into the light of day two of who knows.

I wait, and I wait, and I wait.

Six a.m., and a loud slap of sound from the inbuilt P.A. snaps me out of the mind trap I’ve been stuck in since fifteen minutes into today.

“Uce,” the voice says.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“Uce, get ready. Your ride will be here in fifteen minutes. All good?”

“All good, uce,” I reply, climbing down from what we call the treehouse.

I’ve been ready for this moment since I stepped into the cell the night before. My toiletry bag is waiting. I turn on the shower—only one setting: hot. Gingerly, I work my way into the flow, acclimatise, then quit the wash early. I’m too anxious for my usual routine, and besides, I don’t feel comfortable wanking with a stranger in the cell.

Time’s up anyway.

I hear the familiar sounds of unit movement—the electronics of an operating door unlocking—followed by the laughter of the men who hold the keys to my destiny.

“Uce, uce, are you there?”

As if I wouldn’t be. Some might think that’s a pointless question—but not me. Simple words like that carry more meaning. It’s one man extending humanity to another, despite the doors between us. It means brother. It means, you good?

“All good,” I say again as they open my door, and just like that, I’m off to meet whatever moments day two of who knows has waiting for me.

Things packed, I stand alone at the telephone, waiting for the call to connect. A moment later, I hear a familiar voice on the other end, and my mind snaps back to the present. The tight churn in my stomach eases, just a little. There’s unconditional love in that voice, compassionate understanding—something only a sister can give.

The call is brief, but I hang up content in the knowledge that no matter what happens today—day two of who knows—I am loved.

However, fear—a chemical reaction of the human species, developed as a defence against stupidity in the face of danger—still lingers. Knowing this leaves me slightly confused as to why I had felt such intense fear while waiting for the call to connect, given the lack of any immediate threat. But I did.

I had convinced myself that everybody in the world had an axe to grind—my closest friends and family included—and quite possibly some out there, literally.

After all, today is day two of jury deliberations, and the question is simple: on the charge of murder, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?

I waited in the receiving office of Mount Eden Correctional Facility. I wasn’t alone. There were the usual suspects—those who wouldn’t be spending long in custody, but would be back soon. They always are. There were the hardened criminals, and the gangsters, too. Clear lines formed around them, lines you approached cautiously, if you were wise. Not to be fucked with—that’s what those lines read.

Among these men, I alone faced the prospect of a life sentence.

“What you in for?”—the universal question that determines which side of the line you stand on.

Murder is a charge that carries weight in here. Not just for the crime itself, but because of what it means—a life for a life is no joke. It’s the ultimate price. And I had taken my place on the side not to be fucked with.

I ate my two stale slices of toast, tea-soaked soldiers. Wolfed down my two Weet-Bix and tipped the rest of my tea down the drain. Never hydrate before a trip in a transport van—that’s a sure way to end up pissing in a moving steel box while handcuffed.

Soon, names were called, vans heading to different districts. There was only one person riding in the van bound for Auckland High Court.

Me.

So—back to the question at hand: guilty or not?

For days on end, the jury had been presented with a myriad of evidence, shaped and framed to imply an obvious conclusion—or so the prosecution would have them believe. A conclusion I prayed they would dismiss. After all, I had put my hand up to the killing—but the charge of murder requires intent. An intent to kill. I had no intent to kill. To injure, possibly. To take possession, definitely. By the letter of the law, I had my own view. But that was irrelevant to the jury’s deliberations.

A simple question to state, but far more complicated to comprehend—so much so that it requires twelve independent minds to collectively examine the finer details of how that question came to be asked.

My name was called.

I went through the familiar process.

“How are you, uce?” the officer asked. He’d been doing this for years, working escorts.

“All good,” I replied.

“What’s going on with the trial? How’s it looking?”

I put my hands against the wall, waiting for the rub-down that comes before the metal detector.

“Who knows, my man,” I said, turning to have my hands cuffed.

That’s all you can do in these moments—smile, make small talk. Just two men going through the motions of another day in custody.

“Good luck, uce,” he said as I walked toward my ride.

“See you when I get back,” I replied.

He moved on, calling the next name.

I stepped up to the back of the bus—the human float. Same one I’d been riding since the beginning. Overkill, I thought, as I hustled into one of the twelve compartments, eleven of them empty. Plenty of room for my regrets.

I took a breath, and a familiar scent hit my nostrils. Someone, at some point, had drunk too much of his complimentary breakfast tea. I wondered if he regretted it. You never drink the tea at breakfast.

Then I hoped he’d pissed on his shoes.

The same officer driving the van stood in the corridor, wearing that same wry smile.

“We washed the boxes out last night,” he said. “Hope the smell’s gone.”

It wasn’t. It was just mixed now with a generic, mass-produced disinfectant—but I acknowledged the effort. Shop work.

I took my seat, and the door closed behind me.

Which brings me back to the moment at hand—hands cuffed, resting in my lap, sitting in the back of a transport truck on my way into day two of who knows.

Picture, if you would, a steel box containing a dining-room chair, with just enough headroom to sit in something resembling comfort. A small window offers fleeting glimpses of something so many of us take for granted—the everyday comings and goings of ordinary people. That outside world. Things not missed until they are.

Now picture that box bouncing down the road backwards.

That is the sensation—poetic justice in motion.

In my mind, I experience every moment as if watching it from afar, an unwilling passenger on a ride from hell—though fully aware it was I who chose to step into the beast.

So I gaze longingly out the window, trying to ease the self-obsessive torment that has gripped me since fifteen minutes into day two of who knows.

But the relief is short-lived.

I have arrived.

Over the past dozen days, a modest relationship has developed between myself and the officer charged with escorting me from the holding cell to the courtroom, and today is no different. It’s strange how subtle, friendly banter can take the sharp edge off a bleak situation—like the possibility of spending the rest of your life incarcerated. But it does. And for that, I will always be grateful.

The experience itself is daunting.

As each day passed, I would sit quietly, listening to the damning accusations, wondering: what are the jury thinking? I studied their body language, searching for some signal—anything—that might ease the fear building inside me. 

Today, however, is day two of who knows, and I’ve asked for the light to be turned off as I sit in the holding cell I’ve grown accustomed to, waiting.

I notice that, like every other cell I’ve occupied, this one still isn’t dark enough to disappear into. The silence is so complete it fills my ears, like I’m standing in front of a subwoofer. I can feel the weight of the institution above me, pressing in from all sides.

The sleepless night I’d had pales in comparison to the last ten minutes. That was the fear of the unknown. This is fear in real time. The cell is tiny—on purpose. A message, clear as anything: you are no longer fit to take up space in society.

I set those thoughts aside, just for a moment, and force myself to relax. Not because I’m not worried, or because I don’t care—but to brace for impact. I think about everything I’ve done with my life so far, and all the potential lost. I think about the people I’ve affected. I relive the moments—good and bad—that have led me here. I feel the weight of my conscience settle on my shoulders, that familiar self-loathing creeping in, something only the cover of darkness can hide.

I wait for my path to be made clear. 

Then, suddenly, I hear it—the familiar rattle of keys, heavy footsteps approaching.

And a simple statement that stops time: The jury has made a decision. Everything has led to this. Every word, every action, every moment—has brought me here. Now.