The sun was blinding. I hadn’t seen it in years. Looking down at the ground, I watched my feet hit the pavement, one after another. Car tires and white lines surrounded my peripheral vision, and the hot wind of summer blew through my dirty hair. I wasn’t even vaguely aware of my destination, but anywhere was better than here. This place was an eternity of monotonous gray. The images of comfortless cement walls and teasing iron bars would never escape my mind, no matter how hard I tried to erase them. It was the most backwards form of isolation. Not only was everyone confined to small spaces without privacy, but also united by their reason for being there. When I arrived at the car that would take me away, I stopped at the passenger side door and stared at my reflection in the gleaming window. I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me, but I did notice she was no longer wearing fluorescent orange. She – I – was free.

Twenty-six years ago, there was a murder at the University of Denver. I happened to be a student there at the time, specifically a junior. The girls on my floor were screaming and crying out for help. One of the girls from the room next to mine whipped out her cell phone and with trembling hands dialed 911. She heard a gunshot, she said, and hysterically burst into tears. I stood immediately outside my door like a statue; my face was expressionless. Resident advisors appeared on the scene from every direction, herding us back into our rooms and urging us to stay quiet. Within minutes, I started hearing the familiar sirens of police cars and ambulances approach my building. I watched out my window as one emergency vehicle after another pulled up to the front door. The parking lot was a sea of red and blue flashing lights. Wasting no time, police officers raced out of their cars and into the building from various entrances. The silence inside my ears was incredibly loud for a few moments, but soon footsteps were audible outside my room. Knocking sounded, doors opened, and more silence followed. This pattern continued all the way down the hall. My heart started racing and my palms began to sweat. I sat on my bed without moving a muscle. All I could think was that my turn was coming at any second. Three…two…one…someone knocked on my door. “Police,” said a deep bellowing voice, “open up.” By that point, my whole body was shaking uncontrollably. Utterly terrified, I did my best to get up and walk to the door. Every move I made was one step closer to changing my life forever. When I opened the door, I was greeted with a gun pointed at my face. Forcing his way in, the police officer kept the gun pointed out in front of him. His eyes danced around the room and stopped at my roommate’s bed. She laid there on her back with her eyes and mouth shut. If it wasn’t for the red expanding circle on her white cotton pillowcase and the handgun lying next to her, one would have thought she was in a deep peaceful sleep. Without hesitation, the officer began to recite his famous lines, the last combination of words I wanted to hear at that moment. My face remained completely blank as a feeling of shock came over me. I willingly drew back my arms in anticipation of the officer chaining my wrists together with his trusty handcuffs. As two officers practically dragged me down the hallway, the girls on my floor stood aghast outside their doors at what they were witnessing. Ignoring them, I walked with my head held high all the way to the backseat of the police car.

Four months before the shooting incident occurred, I had opened up to my roommate about my troubled past. It certainly wasn’t an easy thing for me to do; I thought heavily about whether or not I should tell anyone. However, I convinced myself that confiding in someone close to me would help alleviate some of the pain. It was a snowy day in December, and Brittany and I were both stuck inside studying. Taking a deep breath, I let it all out. I told her of my dysfunctional upbringing, of my abusive father and my addicted mother. I showed her my scars. She sat there by my side and listened like a true friend. She told me the worst was over.

Brittany told me the best lie I had ever heard. I should have known not to trust anyone with my secrets. Days after revealing myself to her, I found out my story had traveled out of our room and into everyone else’s on our floor. Girls I barely knew were looking at me differently, trying to steal glances when I wasn’t paying attention. Even the girls I thought were my friends had ostracized me. No one would talk to me, especially Brittany. She avoided being in our room at the same time as me whenever she could, save nighttime. The bitter loneliness and humiliation I experienced was becoming overwhelmingly difficult to endure. I hated Brittany for what she did to me, and I needed her out of my life.

Jail was far worse than I had ever imagined. The walls were gray, the floors were gray, the ceilings were gray. The color had been sucked out of everything in that place, except for those awful orange jumpsuits. No one was friendly, especially not towards newcomers. The prisoners had been there for so long that they were no longer restless. The only thing they knew how to do was sit inside their cells and stare at the gray walls. Eventually, that was what I learned to do. Day in and day out, my cellmate and I slept, ate, and sat in our cell. This cellmate, however, was a much better companion than Brittany ever was. She never repeated anything I told her to anyone else. For that matter, she never really said anything at all.

Throughout my twenty-six years in jail, I had sufficient time to think. I thought about many things in that cell. Although I knew they weren’t worth it, my parents consumed a respectable amount of my thoughts. I often used my imagination to picture both their faces and what they were doing at random moments. I tried to remember the good times with them – birthdays, vacations, learning how to ride a bike. However, trying to look past the hurtful and traumatizing memories was impossible. They treated me like I was nothing to them, or to anyone. I truly believed my existence was meaningless. I spent hours hiding in my backyard as a child, praying my father wouldn’t find me and hurt me with whatever object he could find. When my first year of college rolled around, I was so eager to escape my dreadful and haunting past. I was certain that anywhere was better than home. Just a few years later, sitting in that jail cell staring at the endless gray around me, I wanted nothing more than to return home to the only people I had left.

There had been another murder in Denver. A woman was allegedly killed by her husband in the kitchen of their second-story apartment. He was handcuffed, stuffed in the backseat, and taken to the local jail. Just like me, he was taken to the Denver Courthouse and put on trial for first degree murder. Immediately, red flags were everywhere – there were too many elements about this case that were shockingly similar to mine. Recognizing this, the judge ordered my case to be reviewed. The court soon found that both cases lacked sufficient evidence to conclude that either of us was guilty; the pieces did not quite fit together. Accordingly, the judge declared the man not guilty and overturned the decision of my case that previously stood for twenty-six years. At that moment, I became the free woman I truly was. From that day on – and rightfully so – I was no longer considered a murderer. I knew all along that I never was in fact a murderer, but sometimes things didn’t go the way they were supposed to.

Walking out of jail that day, I stepped into a whole new world filled with color. As I walked through the parking lot, I could feel the hot summer sun shining down on me like a blessing.