“Which one do you think would be suitable for our next show?” Kaden asks as the remaining men writhe in their seats, tears of fear streaming down their bloodied faces.
“All of them.”
THREE
After two weeksat Stockbridge High, my life turned into a nightmare. The court sentenced me to a mental institution for forensic evaluation. That moment was when it truly hit me. I was fifteen, had barely started my freshman year of high school, had never been kissed by a boy, and my mother hated my existence. One moment, I was preparing for bed on a school night before my mother arrived home from work, and the next, I was sitting on my mother’s bed, covered in blood. Blood caked my body, dripping from my hands and legs. Splattered bloodcovered the headboard, floor, and walls. The smell of rust and copper tinged the air.
I don’t remember exactly how it all happened. Of course no one believed me. Both my mother and society believed that I was mentally ill. They believed I was suffering from an undiagnosed mental condition and should be incarcerated, with the expectation of a GBMI guilty but mentally ill verdict.
The law examined the evidence under a microscope.
Of course, like every case, they went into detail. They called in mental health specialists, which I thought was a ridiculousmove. A girl at school once claimed she was depressed. Out of fear that she might harm herself, the school contacted her parents. Her parents took her to see a shrink. The psychiatrist diagnosed her with depression based on her statements about feeling depressed. He gave her a prescription for an antidepressant. The truth was, she wasn’t depressed. She lied; she fabricated thoughts and feelings to seek attention. Hoping her mother would feel bad for her because she was too busy fucking a guy at work while she was left home alone. The courts rely on these professionals to provide an expert diagnosis based on what they believe happened without asking the right questions.
Why?
According to them, it’s crucial to have a diagnosis. They anticipate delving deeper into a case, especially when the individual, such as Chris Robert, hails from a wealthy background. His family, originally from Stockbridge, Massachusetts, was considered old money.
When my mother met Chris, she thought she had found the perfect man. At the time, I was twelve, living with my mother in a crappy one-bedroom apartment in Boston where I slept on the couch. He offered her a home in Stockbridge for us to live in as one happy family. My mother, working as a secretary, could never afford such a home.
Despite his average looks and wealth, Chris had a strong desire to marry my mother even though she already had a child. He made her smile. He presented her with an alternative approach to life that money could offer.
She didn’t see underneath the layers.
She didn’t see the truth.
He didn’t marry her because he loved her. He married her to get what he wanted.
Me.
In my eyes, Chris deserved to die for what he attempted to do.
They all knew it.
But no one wants to choose the side of a killer. If they did, it would make them a monster.
It took two years after the incident for people to cease posting about it on social media. I appeared on the local news and was featured on every news app. My only saving grace was that my face was blurred because I was a minor. After I was sentenced, the news moved on to something else.
Beginning in the fall of the following year, girls in Stockbridge went missing. I heard it wasn’t the first time because history has a way of repeating itself. Stories about girls abducted, then found raped and mutilated near the beltway began to surface in the surrounding areas, including Stockbridge.
It became the new focus.
Suddenly, people stopped talking about what fifteen-year-old Athena Dean did. It wasn’t in the news app or on social media. It was like it never happened.
But for me, it did.
To this day, I still don’t understand why I didn’t stop. I don’t remember where the ax came from.
FOUR
THREE YEARS LATER
I restmy hands on the table, my handcuffs clanking against the edge, and smile at my psychotherapist, Dr. Foster. I’m uncertain if he is married or has children of his own. He is likely in his early forties, much like my stepfather. I’ve never asked because what’s the point? He probably wouldn’t tell me anyway. I’m sure the psychiatric ward prohibits doctors from sharing personal information with patients.
“How are you today, Athena?”
“Couldn’t be better,” I reply, rubbing the deep scratch on the table with my nail.
“Is it because you feel better or because today is your last day here at Framingham?”