In a perfect world, I would be alone, just me and my thoughts. I would have to live with myself, with 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 wrong actions. But maybe in a perfect world no one makes mistakes. There would be no crime to corrupt society and no prison to lock up unwanted citizens. It would be just perfect. "Honk!" The car's horn was extremely loud considering how close it was. Even now, 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 though it was an accident, it was still my fault. I guess manslaughter is the right 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 he didn't think that planting a few flowers would cause his death. I didn't think changing the radio would ever lead to me spending years in prison. Life is never what you expect, that's for sure. After the accident there was the trial. The jury found me guilty. That's why I'm here, in the California State Penitentiary, where I've been for almost a third of my life. Freedom, happiness, relaxation; they are almost forgotten for me. But I'm not empty inside. The guilt that never stops consuming me always threatens to surface at a moment's notice. Never in my life would I have imagined that someone I didn't know could impact me more than anyone else. The woman was a stranger to me, I didn't even know her name. That made it… half the paper… and a free citizen again, I will never regain the freedom to make a clean slate like everyone else seems to have. My life had changed dramatically and I'm not sure I was ready for it. For the first time in my life, I had to fend for myself, and that scared me. New faces, unfamiliar faces, surrounded me as I walked down the street. They were strange to me. Each hid the story of the person lying underneath. At that moment I was really happy that people had faces. It was the only way I could walk down the street without feeling ashamed of the things I had done. My face was my protection. It has kept me safe from the hypocritical judgment of the rest of the world. I don't see why people should judge me, they themselves weren't perfect. I knew for a fact that everyone had something to hide. It's one of the few good things that came from my long time in prison.