Zachary’s mother, Aunt Mary, pointed at me and screamed, “You vile woman! A cursed witch! All these years, and you still refuse to tell us who the monster was! Did you feed your conscience to the dogs?”
Her husband, Uncle John Mitchell, held her trembling hand.
They had aged so quickly, grief hollowing them out.
Although Zoey had been adopted, they had raised her as their own flesh and blood.
I had met Zachary in high school. We were young, in love, and inseparable.
Meanwhile, his sister Zoey was still in middle school then. She’d follow me around, calling me 'sis' in that sweet, playful way.
Zachary would laugh and let her be.
Now, as I sat in that hall, the audience below was filled with righteous fury.
Someone hurled an egg at me. It struck my forehead, splattering warm, stinking yolk across my face.
Security rushed to calm the crowd so the “trial” could continue.
The machine powered on.
Thousands of fine needles pierced my scalp and skin.
My pupils dilated as broken sounds escaped my throat. The pain tore through me, shattering what little strength I had left.
Zachary stood by, smirking, watching my suffering with not a hint of mercy.
When the doctor saw that I might faint, he quickly prepared a sedative to ease the pain. But Zachary grabbed the syringe from his hands and replaced it with a stimulant.
“This could kill her,” the doctor warned softly. “She might not survive the session—”
“Use it,” Zachary cut him off coldly.
The drug entered my veins.
My body convulsed, trembling.
The pain dulled just enough for me to remain conscious.
Memories flooded my mind as the audience below echoed curses and jeers.
On the giant screen, my memories started to play.
The first image that appeared was Zachary, sitting alone in front of a funeral altar, his back turned toward me.
This was Zoey’s funeral hall.
The room was covered in white curtains, and in the middle was Zoey’s photo—her bright smile frozen against a black-and-white backdrop that felt unsettling, as if even in that smile, something was terribly wrong.
A few lilies lay in the coffin, encircled by a ring of daisies, her favorite flowers.
In the photo, Zachary looked noticeably thinner, a shadow of his former self. His body seemed so fragile that it might break with the slightest touch.
Everything was shown from my point of view.