Mr. Mendes

Reads: 137  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Twenty years in prison for something you didn't do...

As I get into this cab and look back at the building that I've spent the last twenty years inside, I begin to question whether I could actually do it now; find the man that framed me and sent me to that building; a prison, and kill him.

For twenty years, I said I would, but that was while I was inside; unable to. I'm out now. My wife divorced me while I was in there, my son was nine at the time, and I'd walk straight by him in the street, because I never saw him, not once during my incarceration.

My wife would never throw our used condoms away by flushing them down the John; they always went in the garbage. The only way that my DNA could have been found on that dead woman, was by someone knowing we did that and taking one out to cover up his crime; the murder of Maureen Hill, and putting it on me; and it worked.

When I was arrested, I didn’t really take much notice of Mr. Mendes, why would I? I was being arrested. But it didn’t take me long to work out how my DNA was found inside her vagina. The condoms.

Mr. Mendes was; and I'm hoping still is, the janitor of the building I lived in with my wife and little boy. When we signed the residential agreement, we were told about Mr. Mendes's criminal background; something that the owners of the building legally had to do with all the tenants.

He had a record of beating up women, but we were assured he hadn't been in any trouble for three years, found God, and was a regular churchgoer. So we signed.

Well, there was only one person that took the garbage out to the sidewalk for collection on Tuesdays, and that was Mr. Mendes.

The authorities said that Mr. Mendes had a perfect alibi, and wouldn’t entertain my theory. A woman had told the police that she had been staying with him for two weeks, which covered the time of the killing of Maureen Hill.

Well I guess she would say that wouldn't she, if a woman-beater told her to.

We're here. I pay the cab driver, stand on the sidewalk, and watch. After thirty minutes or so, he comes out. It's him. Older, but him.

I'm homeless, friendless, no prospects; my only possession is this umbrella, which I've sharpened to a point. So I guess I'll be going home soon. Back home, to prison. I walk across the street. He has his back to me. Good.


He turns. I can see on his face he knows who I am, and why I'm here... 


Submitted: May 26, 2020

© Copyright 2021 M.T.Higgins. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Facebook Comments

Other Content by M.T.Higgins

Book / Horror

Book / Mystery and Crime