Tim Rose and went to the kitchen. Without asking Diana or Jacob, he made a pot of coffee. He returned to the living room, leaning against the door. His shoulders were sunken. He stared in silence to an unknown place. No one could read anything from his lifeless eyes. His face was darkened by a sudden pain. Nobody knew if his obvious pain was physical or emotional. His gaze penetrated nothing; nonetheless, it was hard, straight, and inevitable.
"Are you okay?" Jacob murmured.
Tim dragged himself almost with difficulty to the closest chair and sat, but before doing this, he took a a piece of paper from his shirt pocket.
"This is a letter Christopher wrote me from prison." His voice was muffled. "I must read this to you all."
Everyone sank in their seat. However Diana got up and went to the kitchen to bring the coffee. She asked if anyone wanted the coffee. Everyone said yes except Thui. Rosa joined her in the kitchen. She helped Diana to put the pot in a tray with cups and saucers and two bowls of sugar and milk, just in case anyone wanted those. After the coffee was brought up, Tim put on his glasses, sipped his coffee, he had mixed it with milk, and began to read his son's letter to others:
"I hate this world. I don't know what love is, a painful wound, or an injured heart. I don' know and I never will. Here, I always think that I have only a few more hours or even minutes left to live. These few hours or minutes, however seem like eternity growing before me. One wonders how only a few minutes or hours seem like a great profusion of time. Sometimes I feel that in these only few minutes I have left, I can live and experience many endeavors, many existences. But I think of the last final moments of my life all the time. I lay and stare at the ceiling which is covered by spider's webs and see and imagine things in those webs. But ultimately what I see is cruelty, like when the other prisoners, even some guards that are stronger and bigger than me do unspeakable things to me.
"The words I speak in prison are all to unknown people, who are truly murderers, rapists, and true criminals. They all treat me like one of them, but I am not one of them. The strange thing is, dad, that I have this great fear that I am becoming like them. It is about survival, even though I want to die but not by the hand of this criminals. When I utter words to others, is mainly for the need to hear my own voice, to feel I am still alive. But am I alive?
"I have done many unspoken things in my life, but I'm not a murderer or rapist. I know that you believe me, dad. I saw it in your eyes..."
Tim folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. Then he took his glasses off and put them in their case. His eyes downcast, his face contracted in a grimace of an intolerable pain. A grave and heavy silence followed after the letter was read. No one moved, no one showed his or her emotion because they all knew nothing could match the pain Tim was going through.
It was Diana, who finally broke the silence by saying:
"It's three thirty in the morning, I thinks it's time to end this night."
Thui, who was trying to avoid the inevitable, grasped Diana's idea and said:
"That is a great idea. Ed, let's go."
Suddenly Tim got up from his chair, his strength back. His eyes discharged nothing but fire. He jabbed a forefinger at his audience:
"No one is leaving now. I want to know how Ed was able to pull this off, to do this dirty task, this switching; yes, I call it switching of the suspects. Besides a while ago Rosa was condemning me of being a terrible person. I admit, I am. But she needs to tell you all her dirty tricks, too."
Rosa crimsoned, and glared at him but said nothing.
"How did you do it, Ed?" Jacob's tone of voice was harsh.
"Do we have to go through details? I already admit of doing it." Ed said somberly, while thinking that even his long time friend, Jacob, was turning against him.
"Yes," Tim hisses at him.
To Be Continued
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