Roulette is a spinning wheel, its contents unknown: a ball, even or odd, red or black, win or loss… or a bullet, loaded or empty, life or death.
Same name, same principle—a spinning wheel, but the end is a mystery.
In a hall filled with people, I stood in the center listening to my own heartbeat; it was the only sound here, for everyone was in anticipation.
A silence broken only by the judge, his voice cold and devoid of emotion, like a machine:
"The court's decision in Case No. 728_1253 AH: Postponement, with the defendant remanded in temporary custody." He struck his wooden gavel. "Court is adjourned."
I turned toward the audience in the hall—a large room, an open hearing, packed with people. The bitter part is that I knew none of them. No family, no friends, utterly alone. The image began to blur; I could no longer even distinguish faces.
Everyone heard the sound of wood striking wood, but I heard a gunshot—a bullet that hit my heart or my mind, I don't know… but what is certain is that it killed me, to the point that I could no longer even hear my own breath.
The policeman approached and placed the handcuffs, then one grabbed me from the right and another from the left. Their faces were expressionless, blurry as well, as they carried a corpse, not a convict.
I boarded the transport van with the two officers and some other "dead" men. Inside that battered van, it was filled with a strange scent. Was it the smell of time? No, it was death. It was heading toward my grave.
The sad part was that when I looked through the rear window, covered by a rusty iron mesh, no one was attending my funeral.
We reached the end of the line. I had nothing to put in the lockbox. I took the blanket—which felt like a shroud to me—and my last pieces of clothing. After many procedures that stirred nothing within me, I realized maybe this is what they call "washing the dead."
Then, through a long corridor, the only sound was the opening of doors and the guard's keys—the first human whose face I could distinguish today. He looked like a guardian angel… the guardian angel of the gates of hell.
I entered the dormitory. Everyone's eyes were on the new prisoner. Some said "a new criminal," others mocked "is this a criminal?", and others didn't care at all.
Despite the prisoners, the dormitory felt abandoned. The walls were eaten by dampness, the tiles consumed by time. Iron windows, and beds that screamed whenever someone sat on them. Perhaps the only good thing here was the dining table, which looked new—at least it hadn't been there for ten years.
I think life here consists of nothing but breathing.
Perhaps everyone wonders: what was his crime to end up here?
A question even I don't know the answer to. I am innocent… but then again, everyone here is "innocent." Damn it! Since you are here, there must be something wrong.
My mistake might have been trust, or honesty, but it doesn't matter where the mistake was; what matters is where I ended up. As for now, all I have to do is wait for the final transport… the grave. I have no hope of leaving this place alive.
The charge: robbing a jewelry store and stabbing a woman—attempted murder with premeditation.
Attempted? Yes, the woman didn't die, but she is hovering between life and death… her condition is critical, and she has slipped into a coma toward the unknown. The doctor said she needs a miracle to survive.
And so do I, for I have no final sentence. I think they are waiting for her death to announce my life sentence—or my death. It makes no difference.
Am I innocent? I said I was wronged, but I don't know.
All the evidence points at me. The cameras didn't catch the face, but the criminal somehow shares my physical description. The shop owner saw nothing because of the gas grenade. And the hardest part: the fingerprints on the knife… Damn it! They were mine! How did they get there? Currently, I don't know. My head is clouded, but they were there. There is nothing to be done. All evidence is against me, to the point that I've started doubting myself.
I believe I had proof of innocence; I was with a friend… no, he was more than that, he was a brother. It was a trip we organized to the wilderness; we wanted to get away from the world, to enjoy ourselves without disturbance or distraction. That's why we didn't even take our phones; he had all the camping gear.
Which means no proof of innocence except his testimony… which he refused to give. Out of fear? Or is he an accomplice? I don't know.
At the end of the day, I took a cup of tap water that didn't even look drinkable. I sat by the window, and all I saw in the pitch blackness, where the only light was the moon's, was a black crow. Its eyes were red. It was certainly looking at me.
It's over.
I think the cylinder of the revolver was loaded after all… I lost, and life won.
But it doesn't matter what happened or what will happen. How long will I stay? Will my death be here? Or will a day come when I walk out? ...