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.