Chapter 4 : shattered
Just a few days ago, the student, Steve, had succumbed to his injuries from internal bleeding. Despite the doctors' best efforts, he didn't survive. His death cast a dark shadow over everything, and for Henry, it felt as though all hell had broken loose.
Henry could already foresee what would likely happen to him. His fate now hung in the balance, teetering on the edge as his case had made its way to court.
News of Steve's death had spread quickly. The whole world seemed to know. His grieving parents had cried until no more tears would come. Even Jane, once so bold, was now terrified—she had gone into hiding.
Henry's defense counsel pleaded passionately on his behalf, urging the court to show mercy when delivering its verdict. On the day of judgment, the courtroom was filled with tension. Kenneth, Cole, and a few of their schoolmates sat quietly among the audience, their faces etched with anxiety.
At last, the judge pronounced the verdict: Henry was sentenced to fifteen years in prison.Silence swept through the courtroom like a heavy fog. Twenty five years.
The words hung in the air, echoing in Henry's ears. It felt surreal—unreal. His knees buckled slightly, and for a moment he thought he might fall. He clutched the wooden edge of the defendant's box, trying to steady himself. A guard moved closer, just in case.
From the gallery, a single sob broke the silence. It was Mrs. Adams—Steve's mother. Her husband held her close, his own face streaked with tears. The sentence didn't bring them peace. No punishment would ever bring their son back. Their pain was deeper than justice could reach.
Henry looked at them. Really looked. In that moment, he didn't see people accusing him—he saw shattered parents, hollowed out by grief. A mother who would never feel her son's hug again, and a father who would never watch his boy become a man. A lump formed in Henry's throat.
He wanted to scream that he hadn't meant for any of it to happen. That it was all a terrible mistake. That if he could go back, he would take it all back in a heartbeat. But his voice failed him. What words could heal a wound that deep?
His mind drifted back to that night—the shouting, the anger, the fatal blow that came in a moment of blind rage. He hadn't even known how bad the injury was. Not until the blood. Not until the sirens. Not until it was too late.
Now, the weight of that moment bore down on him with crushing finality.
The judge's gavel came down, cold and absolute.
Court dismissed.
Henry stood motionless as the guards flanked him. He turned slightly and caught sight of Kenneth and Cole. Their faces were pale, unreadable. Guilt flickered in their eyes, or maybe it was fear. They hadn't come to support him. They came to witness the end.
And Jane?
She had disappeared.
Ever since the news of Steve's death hit the media, she vanished—no calls, no messages. It was as though she had erased herself from the story, leaving Henry to bear the consequences alone.
The handcuffs clicked around his wrists, jarring him back to the present. The cold metal bit into his skin as he was led away. As he stepped out of the courtroom, the camera flashes blinded him, and the buzz of reporters' questions filled the air like a swarm of bees. He kept his head down.
In the prison van, Henry finally allowed himself to cry.
Tears spilled silently, shamefully, each one a fragment of a life that had unraveled. He wasn't just mourning his own freedom—he was mourning everything. The boy he used to be. The friend he had lost. The future that would never come.
The prison gates opened with a mechanical groan.
Henry was processed quickly—photographed, fingerprinted, and given his new identity: Inmate 4592. He was stripped of everything he once called his own, including his name. His clothes, his phone, his sense of belonging—all gone.
His cell was small. A narrow bed, a metal toilet, a tiny window too high to look out of. The air was heavy, as though it carried the weight of all the regrets that had ever passed through those walls. Night fell, and Henry lay on the thin mattress staring at the ceiling. He thought of Steve.
He remembered their first meeting in school—the way Steve had smiled at him, offered to share his lunch when Henry had forgotten his. Steve had been the kind of person everyone liked. Kind. Honest. The kind of friend you don't come across twice in life. And he had destroyed that.
The guilt gnawed at him like a feral animal, restless and unforgiving. Henry wished for nightmares, but even sleep refused to grant him escape.
Back in town, the story of Steve's death continued to stir strong emotions. The school remained unusually quiet. Students whispered in hallways, their eyes darting around nervously. Posters from the last school festival still clung to walls, faded and curling at the edges—reminders of a time before everything changed.
A memorial was held in the school auditorium. Steve's desk was draped in white. His photograph stood at the front, surrounded by candles and flower wreaths. Kenneth and Cole were there, heads bowed low. They hadn't spoken much since the trial.
Kenneth, who once laughed the loudest in their group, had become withdrawn. His conscience weighed heavy. He had seen the signs, the anger rising between Henry and Steve, but he'd said nothing. Cole too avoided mirrors now. They couldn't look themselves in the eye. Jane remained hidden.
She was miles away, staying with an aunt in another city. But no matter how far she ran, the guilt traveled with her. Steve had been her closest friend, and she had loved Henry. Now she had lost both.
She often woke up screaming, haunted by dreams of blood and sirens. She didn't answer messages, didn't return calls. She scribbled furiously in a journal, trying to untangle the confusion and pain inside her. How had things gone so wrong so fast? Three months passed.
Henry had settled into the monotonous rhythm of prison life. Mornings began with the clang of metal bars and the echo of shouted orders. He kept to himself. He ate little. He spoke even less.
But something inside him began to shift.
A new inmate, older and calm, shared his cell—Mr. Langston, a former school teacher serving time for fraud. He was the first person to treat Henry like a human being instead of a headline. He didn't ask about the case. Instead, he asked Henry what he used to dream about.
"I wanted to be a writer," Henry murmured one evening, surprised at his own voice.
"Then write," Langston replied. "Even if it's just to stay sane."
And so, Henry began to write.
At first, it was just fragments—memories, confessions, regrets. But slowly, the pages filled with reflections, stories, pieces of a broken boy trying to rebuild something from the ruins.
His journal became his mirror, his confession booth, his quiet rebellion against despair. He didn't write to escape punishment. He wrote to understand himself. To make peace with the boy he had been, and to shape the man he might still become.Outside those prison walls, life moved on.
The Adams family created a foundation in Steve's name—one that promoted conflict resolution and mental health awareness among students. They channeled their grief into something that could prevent others from living the nightmare they had endured.
One day, a letter arrived for them. It was from Henry.
It wasn't an appeal. It wasn't a plea. It was a letter of apology—raw, humble, sincere. He didn't ask for forgiveness. He simply wrote about Steve, about the hole he had left, and about the boy who now sat behind bars learning what it meant to carry the weight of a life lost.
Mrs. Adams read it over and over, tears streaming down her face. She didn't know yet if she could forgive him. But maybe, just maybe, she could begin to heal.
And Henry?
He kept writing—because in the stillness of his cell, with ink-stained fingers and a heart weighed down by remorse, he found a flicker of purpose.