In a perfect world, I would be alone, just me and my thoughts. I should live with myself, my horrible self and my actions that seem to define me. Being alone would be my choice because in a perfect world everyone would be punished for their bad actions. But maybe in a perfect world, no one makes mistakes. There would be no crime to corrupt society and no prisons to lock away unwanted citizens. It would be just perfect. “Honk! The car horn was extremely loud considering the proximity. Even today, almost 10 years later, that sound paralyzes me with fear and guilt every time I hear it. The accident, my biggest mistake, haunts me every day. Some say murderers should be put to death, but in my experience the torture of loneliness is much worse. I had killed someone. Even if it was an accident, it was still my fault. I guess manslaughter is the proper name for it. I was driving my car, playing with the radio, not concentrating on the road, when I hit a woman who was gardening around her mailbox. I bet she didn't think planting a few flowers would lead to her death. I didn't think that changing radio stations would cause me to spend years in prison. Life is never what you expect, that’s for sure. After the accident, there was a trial. The jury found me guilty. That's why I'm here, in the California State Penitentiary, where I've spent almost a third of my life. Freedom, happiness, relaxation; they are almost forgotten to me. But I'm not empty inside. The guilt that continues to consume me always threatens to come out at any moment. Never in my life had I imagined that someone I didn't know could influence me more than anyone else. This woman was unknown to me, I didn't even know her name. This made... middle of paper ......e once again a free citizen, I will never regain the freedom of a clean slate like everyone else seems to have. My life has changed dramatically and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. For the first time in my life, I had to fend for myself and it scared me. New faces, unfamiliar faces, surrounded me as I walked down the street. They seemed strange to me. Each hid the story of the person underneath. At that point, I was really happy that people had faces. It was the only way for me to walk down the street without feeling ashamed of the things I did. My face was my protection. It protected me from the hypocritical judgment of the rest of the world. I don't see why people had to judge me, they weren't perfect themselves. I knew that everyone had something to hide. This is one of the few good things to come out of my long stay in prison.