People spend their entire lives behind walls.

Now for some people, those walls are metaphorical or psychological ones of their own making. For me, they were literal and oh so physical walls of steel and concrete which surrounded me for almost all of my adult life.

You can argue that even those were of my own making, not literally of course, but I was a dumb kid with big ideas about crime being the solution to escaping the life I was born into. I couldn’t have known that the guy who’s store I was robbing that night had fallen out with his wife and taken to sleeping upstairs. Same way he couldn’t have known that the noise he heard downstairs was a scared kid who’d end up accidentally shooting him dead with the gun he’d “borrowed” from his Dad. Now you can argue whether or not I should’ve been tried as an adult or whether my state-appointed defender let me down when it came time to argue my case but it was a long time ago and the fact is I killed a man. I didn’t mean to do it, but I did do it. Arguing intent isn’t going to mend the hole I put in that man’s skull or the hole I left in his family.

Some of the scratches and stains on that wall are literally of my own making. Fights with other angry young men have left their mark on this chunk of concrete just the same as they have me. Maybe not exactly the same. This old wall’s still standing despite it’s flaws and cracks whereas my old body gave way years ago. Actually I’m buried just a few feet away. Sometimes it takes dying to give you a real perspective on things I suppose? The worst part is that there’s nobody here to judge me. No pearly gates with a bearded old guy ticking names off a list. Maybe if I wasn’t such an unrepentant scumbag in life then I’d have got the whole heavenly chorus and the bright light when I went. I guess they reserve the big show for the righteous. I used to believe that one minute you’re here and the next you’re not, but turns out I’m still here… Still staring at this same old wall and thinking about my wasted life.

Some things never change I guess.

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George Beedham

George is a comic writer/artist, taking a busman's holiday from writing about people in tights being punched in the face. Please bare with him as he tries to remember how the hell to write without pictures.

Latest posts by George Beedham (see all)

• A Gentle Reminder - 26/05/16
• Thoughts on Body Worlds - 10/05/16
• Fifteen Seconds - 29/03/16
• Barry’s Fairy Story - 18/03/16
• The Walls That We Make - 01/03/16