In the early summer of 2003, Mia Wellings returns home from a long day at the beach. When she reaches her house and finishes helping her mother unload the groceries, she is schocked and startled when she finds her mother lying on the ground, cold. As time goes on and the mystery unravels, Mia's mental state deteriorates until the day that she has been waiting for finally comes. 

Staring. I’ve been staring at the same white, brick walls for 6 months, which may or may not be making me more insane than they believe me to be. It wasn’t always this way. My walls at home were blue, decorated with picture frames and stickers that I had put there when I was young and never felt the urge to remove them. I used to live with my family.
“Mia, your lunch is ready, Would you like me to bring it in?” My nurse called.
I mumbled a reply and heard the door open swiftly.“The police will be here soon to question you again. They intend to close this case fairly soon. I hope you are prepared.” She looked at me sincerely as I groaned and turned on my side, letting a tear slip down my pale cheek.
“Will my father be coming?” I whispered slightly, afraid of the answer that was to come, but she just shook her head with sorrow and quickly walked out the door, leaving my lunch on the night stand. I rarely ate the food they gave me. Not because it wasn’t appetizing, but because I couldn't find any reason to eat at all.
6 months earlier, it was late June and I had just gotten home from a day at the beach. I watched my mother pull into the driveway.
“Would you like some help with the groceries?” I asked as she opened the trunk.
“Yes, thank you.” She smiled slightly with a hint of worry in her eyes, but I ignored it and continued to help with the groceries. I carried a majority of the groceries inside, set them on the kitchen counter, and headed outside to bring in more. Then I saw her. Pale and frail, she lied on the ground, motionless. A wound on her head. I looked around, but saw no one. I took one more glance at her, then ran. Where to? I don’t have the answer. I searched for help, my heart racing, but failed to find any. When I returned home, my mother's body was covered and I was in handcuffs. No matter how many times I told the police that they were wrong, that those were not my fingerprints of the baseball bat, they refused to believe me. I was brought to court, then to juvy. My mental stability slowly decreased day by day, which brought me here, the Mental Institution of New Jersey. I did not kill my mother. I would never kill my own mother. Why wouldn’t anyone believe me? I did not kill her.
“Mia? The police are waiting.”  I jumped slightly from the knock at the door, then sat up, pushed the food off of the metal tray into the trashcan, and fixed my dress. Today, I am going to prove them wrong. 
I sat in the cold, metal chair that was all too familiar to me. My hands cuffed to the table and a bright lamp glaring into my deep blue eyes.
“It’s nice to see you again, Mia.” The officer said in a much too cheery tone.
“Yeah, I wish I could say the same.” I mumbled.
“I’m sorry. I hope you realize that I am on your side. We just need the evidence to prove your innocence,” he lightly tapped my hand, then continued, “now, on with the questions. Tell me again Mia, where were you June 27th of 2003?” He waited for my reply.
“I was at home with my mother, helping her bring in groceries.” I said again for the 10th time in 6 endless months.
“And where was your father?” He asked, peering up from his pad of paper.
“At work.” I stated strongly. Then it hight me.
“Why haven’t you questioned him? He hasn’t been here to see me once. You don’t think thats strange?” My mind began to reel, and quickly, it all started to make sense. I pulled angrily at the handcuffs. “I’m not guilty! Let me go!” I trashed my body out of the chair and fell to the ground, hot tears streaming down my face. “Just let me go!” The officer grabbed my wrists tightly and the nurses rushed in.

I woke up on my white sheets, staring at the same brick walls that mocked me for endless hours at a time. My complection, white and cold, as I examine myself in the mirror attached to my dresser. I quickly glanced at the clock as my nurse rushed in.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake. You had quite an episode yesterday. Are you feeling alright?” She swiftly made my bed and set my breakfast on the night stand.
“I’m tired of being blamed.” I mumbled.
“They will find the person who really did this, I promise.” She gave me a genuine smile before leaving the room and locking the door behind her.

     2 months later

“Mia?” My nurse peered through the door. I lifted my head slightly to meet her gaze. “They caught him.” I blinked twice and readjusted myself on the bed.
“W-who?” My heartbeat quickened and my stomach began to ache.
“They’re waiting for you at the police station.” She handed me a fresh pair of clothes and lightly touched my cheek. “I wish you the best of luck.” She smiled with sorrow and exited the room, leaving me to myself.
I quickly showered, changed, and waited for nearly an hour for someone to unlock my door. 20 minutes later, I was driven to the nearest police station and was seated behind a glass window infront of a man. He was getting photographed for his mugshot, I suppose. My view was dismantle. I sighed, my hands violently shaking. My pulse rushed as the man stepped closer. His features began to show, narrow eyes, blue like mine, broad shoulders and rough dirty blonde hair. He came closer, pointy nose and a strong jaw covered in scruff. And in that moment, I realized who he was. My face, inches from his, separated between a thick sheet of glass. The man that raised me, my own father, murderer of my beloved mother.
I stiffened, my hands balled into a fist and my cheeks heated. Slowly, I brought one fist above my head and angrily pounded at the glass. “How could you!?” I screamed, tears now rushing down the  surface of my skin. My eyes focused on his emotionless face. I pounded again, harder than the last time. “Why did you do this to her!?” I felt two warm hands on my wrists as the policemen pulled me back carefully, aware of my state of mind. My knees became weak and frail as I fell to the floor, sobbing.
After that day, I never saw my father again. I was put into foster care till the day I turned 18. I then raised myself, got a job, and finished school. I never found out the reason why my father killed my mother, nor did I want to know. Perhaps it will forever be a mystery, and I will no longer be to blame.