She turned seven last night. From the pictures Rodney gave me, she grew into a fine-looking girl with gaps between her teeth and hands under her chin as she struck a pose for the camera. Her mother was nowhere to be seen in those photos, but I knew the locked hands around my daughter were hers.
Four years after my imprisonment for murder, I still searched for my daughter’s skin; the way her tiny fingers graze on my stubble or the small sound of her choke. Her promising eyes held my sanity and I had memorized how it glowed to keep myself still during my mad hours.
My private investigator said the new father figure would be out for the New Year’s Eve. I waited until all the lights in the prison went out before I pulled the chaffed brick walls behind my makeshift bed. Rodney would take care of the imprints I left until the only evidence the police could see was dusts.
As I sneaked out of the prison, I stood outside their new house. The clock spoke midnight and all the lights beamed. The fireworks exploded above the dark skies. I grinned—time to return home.
WORD COUNT: 199
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