Jail

My name is Mika.

I am twenty-four years old.

And I am in prison for a murder I did not commit.

I came to a foreign country as a contract worker with nothing but the will to survive. I worked as a cleaner assistant in a luxury hotel, living quietly and staying invisible, never daring to dream beyond my place.

For seven months, my life was normal.

Until the day everything changed.

That day, I was assigned to clean the room of a woman named Cynthia.

She was rich, powerful, and the heir to a large family business. Someone important. Someone whose life mattered.

Unlike mine.

When I entered the room, I thought she was asleep. She was lying on the floor in a strange position.

But something felt wrong.

The silence… it was too heavy.

I walked closer.

“Ma’am…?” I called softly.

No response.

I hesitated, then reached out and touched her hand.

Cold.

My heart dropped.

My hands started shaking as I checked her breathing.

Nothing.

She was already dead.

I panicked and ran out, calling my supervisor. He rushed in, and the ambulance was called immediately.

But it was useless.

She was already gone.

The police arrived soon after.

At first, they only asked questions. I answered everything honestly, believing the truth would protect me.

But slowly, things changed.

Their tone became cold. Their eyes filled with suspicion.

And then… the evidence appeared.

Things I had never seen. Things I had never touched.

Yet somehow, everything pointed at me.

“I didn’t do it…” I tried to say.

But my voice felt small.

Weak.

Unimportant.

I had no money. No power. No one to stand for me.

So I stopped trying.

And just like that…

I became the murderer.

Prison was worse than anything I imagined.

In the beginning, I worked as a gardener. I thought it would be peaceful.

I was wrong.

The inmates saw me as weak.

They beat me.

Humiliated me.

One day, they forced soil into my mouth.

“Eat it,” they laughed.

Another night, while I was asleep, they cut my long hair.

The only thing I ever liked about myself.

I didn’t fight back.

I didn’t cry.

Because I had already learned something—

Fighting changes nothing when the world has already decided who you are.

So I stayed silent.

And held everything inside.

After some time, they got bored of me.

Or maybe… I just became invisible again.

My duty changed to washing clothes and cleaning bathrooms. Work I was already used to.

So I did it.

Quietly. Carefully.

Just like always.

The policewomen showed no mercy.

To them, we were all the same.

Criminals.

Months passed.

After nine months, I learned something new.

Good behavior could reduce my sentence.

Work would earn money.

Money… I would only receive when I was released.

Released.

The word felt distant.

Unreal.

My sentence is fifteen years.

Maybe twelve… if I behave well.

Twelve years for a crime I didn’t commit.

Still… for the first time, I felt something small.

Hope.

Maybe one day, I can leave.

Maybe I can go back home.

At night, when everything becomes quiet, the loneliness grows louder.

I sit in a corner and read whatever books I can find.

Stories of love.

Of freedom.

Of people who belong somewhere.

For a moment… I pretend I am one of them.

Then I close the book.

And the emptiness returns.

I often think about my grandfather.

The only person who ever loved me.

My father left when I was seven.

My mother remarried soon after.

I lived in that house like a burden… someone they tolerated.

When she became pregnant, she left me with my grandfather.

Saying I was too hard to take care of.

But with him…

I felt peace.

For the first time in my life.

I felt like I belonged.

Now, I sit behind bars.

A murderer in everyone’s eyes.

But deep inside…

I am still that silent girl.

Waiting.

Not for justice.

Not for revenge.

But for something I have never truly had—

A life that feels like mine.

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