THE WRITING ON THE WALL

 THE WRITING ON THE WALL

 

When dawn broke, bringing with it the crimson hue that dotted the city’s skyline, Officer Washington glanced at the wall. The words screamed at him in bright orange lettering: “Death to tormentors. Demand justice from a blind system.”

 

The graffiti spoke volumes about its creator's pain and angst. It wasn’t just blasphemy—it was a big shriek.

 

“Whoever did this wasn’t just enraged”, Washington muttered, his breath fogging in the chill of the wintry morning air. “He’s broken. Fractured.”

 

He ran his rough, calloused hands over the spray-painted letters, his fingers convulsing slightly. Something about this message deeply troubled him and pricked his conscience. He’d seen extreme acts before, but this was different.

 

John sat in his dimly lit apartment, fiddling with the empty spray cans on the floor. His hands, still smeared with orange paint, were shaking. He calmed himself by gripping the edge of the chair. His voice choked as he muttered to himself.

 

“They refused to listen or understand or care. Not when I cried for help, not when I hollered.” He flung a can on the table, the table cracking under his frustration. “How do you get justice from the system designed to ignore your pain?”. He peered at the wall where he had scrawled their surnames- a grim reminder of the brutes who had stolen years from him. For decades, his faceless tormentors had shadowed him, trapped him, sabotaged him, hurled abuses and curses at him, tortured him, and destroyed his reputation by spreading false narratives about him. Friends had abandoned him. Opportunities had beat a hasty retreat. He became a ghost, left to fend for himself and negotiate the dismal situation he found himself in.

 

John’s voice rose to cynicism and rebellion. “If the system doesn’t see me, maybe it’ll read me.”

 

Officer Washington’s investigations led him to reopen a series of old cases buried deep in the police department’s archives. Each one bore the name John Keller.

 

He traced the case documents quizzically, putting two and two together. “This isn’t just an accident or a string of bad luck. This boy has been deliberately framed,” he murmured, flipping through pages of harassment and restraining orders. “This boy was framed and set up.” Washington let out a deep gasp and leaned back in his chair. “And we let it happen.”

 

He turned to his partner, Officer Roy, who silently observed him from across the room. “How could we do this, Roy? We missed it, let injustice breed, while we stoked it with our indifference. And now we have pushed him to his breaking point.”

 

Roy raised his eyebrows in surprise, “You are telling me that he is the victim? He goes on a drunken spree and defaces public property.”

 

Washington’s voice hardened, “It’s not about the graffiti or any essay. It’s about what drove him to it, whether someone had done the right thing. If someone had just done his job.” He stopped, closing his eyes – to control his rising anger and frustration.

 

“We need to find him, not to punish him, but to learn what went wrong.”

 

A week later, John’s path crossed with Washington. “Mr. Keller? “Washington stood on the archway of John’s door, his badge shining under the flickering stairway light.

 

John tightened up, his eyes sizing up the officer. “What do you want?”

 

“I’m here because of the graffiti.” Washington’s tone was casual and almost calm. “And because of everything that led up to it.”

 

John let out a smirk, biting his lips. “So now you suddenly care? After decades of indifference? Where were you when they ruined my life? When they turned everyone I love against me? Where were you when they hunted and isolated me?”

 

Washington leaned closer, his gaze steady. “I wasn’t there. What’s done is done. I can’t undo the past and the hurt. But I’ve studied your case. I’ve seen what you’ve endured.  And I promise I’ll make it right. You will not be another brick in the wall!”

 

John eyed him cynically, “Promises. Just promises. That’s all I get. Empty promises and nothing else.”

 

Washington’s jaw stiffened, “You have every reason to doubt me. But let me prove it to you. Please help me understand what they did to you. Let me in on the whole picture.”

 

For a moment, the air was thick with tension. Then John sighed, grimaced and too weary after years of despair and hopelessness. “You want to know? Fine, I’ll show you everything.”

 

As John narrated his story, Washington felt the anger boiling within him. The system he had sworn to uphold had collapsed and failed gloriously. By the end of their conversation, he was adamant and determined.

 

Sitting in his police car that night, Washington stared at the foggy, polluted, foul, corrupt, and poisonous night sky, his fingers gripping the steering wheel hard. His thoughts reverberated loudly in the silence of the night.

 

“They’ll pay for what they have done. Every single one of them. Justice isn’t blind; it’s just been looking the other way.”

 

And for the first time in decades, John Keller dared to hope.