The keyword of the week || A fragmented truth.

My whole world seemed to have shrunk to that space filled with polished wood that made up the courtroom. The judge, on his raised platform, looked imposing, a serious-faced person dressed in his black robe who could observe the whole spectacle from the best seat in the house, without needing to give his opinion; he was there to listen and judge.

To my left sat the prosecutor, an intelligent, analytical, and bold man. The confident expression on his face revealed his extensive experience in prosecuting bandits, criminals, and murderers. Next to me sat my lawyer, a young man with little courtroom experience; the only one who dared to take my case, my protective shield in that trial.

To my right was the jury bench: a collection of faces full of serious expressions, full of prejudice. Its members waited for the opportunity to deliver their verdict and condemn me. “I am innocent,” I repeated to myself as I watched them, although thinking and believing it was not enough in that place; I needed to prove it.

However, the disorder I had suffered from for so many years was my worst enemy in that scenario. My selective amnesia had stolen so many memories from my life, including those from the day of the murder; I could neither confirm nor deny the charges. My mind, my only ally, was completely silent.

I felt confused and desperate; everything was working against me, everything was pointing at me and accusing me: my blood-stained clothes and my fingerprints at the scene of the crime. The only thing missing was the weapon; the investigators were never able to locate it, which, instead of helping, pushed me further toward the precipice.

«Today we are here to condemn this man for his crime. Cristiam Black was the only one present at the scene, no one else but him. It is true that there is no conclusive evidence to determine how he did it, or exactly how it happened, but the security video shows him leaving the scene with his shirt covered in blood, the victim's blood, at the exact time that the coroners determined the time of death. Those images represent conclusive evidence to determine his guilt,» part of the prosecutor's closing argument. I lost hope.

«It is very true that my client, Cristiam Black, according to the only security video that could be collected, is the only one who was seen leaving the scene on the day that Arthur Virguez was unfortunately murdered. But what exactly does this video show us? Only a man who was visibly nervous and desperate, who left to go to his car and get his phone to call for help», my lawyer defending me.

«He was the one who called 911! He was the one who asked the authorities for help. He was never seen trying to flee. Is that the attitude of someone who has just committed a crime? We all know it is not. This man was just unlucky to be in the wrong place on the wrong day,» my lawyer argued, trying to persuade the jury.

“The defendant, rise!” said the judge.

I stood up reluctantly, but under the circumstances, what else could I do? My lawyer stood beside me.

“Citizen Cristiam Black, before hearing the jury's verdict, would you kindly inform this court how you plead to the charges against you?” asked the judge.

I sighed deeply before answering. The truth was that I didn't know the answer. I had been at that place on the day of the crime, even though I couldn't remember it; and that video, my God, it was me with my shirt and my hands covered in blood. I couldn't explain it to anyone, not even myself. I only knew that I had no motive for committing that murder.

“Not guilty, Your Honor. I can't plead guilty to something I don't remember doing,” I said in a choked voice.

I felt like everything was happening in slow motion; it was continuous agony, my life as I knew it was slipping through my fingers. I couldn't hear anything that was happening around me, I was just trying to remember.

I saw the jury foreman stand up, ready to deliver the verdict, but it was like watching an isolated event, while I continued to search the corners of my mind, trying to find something that would lead me to the truth, my truth.

“Having seen all the evidence and heard all the arguments, this jury, after deliberation, has reached a conclusion,” were part of that man's words. However, I remained immersed in my thoughts, scrutinizing and searching for something in my favor. My head hurt, I thought it would explode. I felt a thick liquid dripping from my nose; it was my blood. Some images came to me, they were just blurry and disordered fragments of what happened.

In them I saw Arthur bleeding, lying on the floor, with a wound on his abdomen. I bent down and tried to help him up, covering his wound with my hands, and then I saw a silhouette running in the background. “Call for help,” he shouted. He was carrying something in his hands, but I couldn't make out who it was. I ran off to get help. “I'm innocent, I didn't do it,” I discovered the truth, came out of my trance, and returned to reality.

“... That is why we find the defendant guilty of the murder of Arthur Virguez, and we request the maximum penalty stipulated for him,” were the final words of that man, although something in particular made me shudder: his voice, his tone, and his accent... “My God, it's him... he's the real killer,” I deduced, although this was perhaps just a figment of my imagination.

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• Royalty-free image generated with Gemini and edited with IncollageApp.
• Invited @solperez, @paholags, @ty-ty, and @danapalooza.
• Contest: Keyword of the week.

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