Page 10 of Devoured
The court-appointed psychiatrist, Dr.Wang, laid out my diagnosis in clinical terms: severe PTSD, major depression, dissociative episodes, visual and auditory hallucinations. She described my psychological break and how sustained trauma had fractured my mind. I wasn’t operating from rational thought, but from pure survival instinct.
The defense presented the medical records. Multiple ER visits. Photos of holes punched in walls. A paper trail of violence.
When I testified, I explained why I hadn’t left—how he controlled everything, how he isolated me, how he told me daily no one else would ever want me. I described that night. The bus station. The beating. I told them everything.
The jury deliberated for two hours and finally the verdict came. “We find the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity.”
Theo’s colleagues erupted in angry murmurs. His mother clutched her rosary, tears sliding down her cheeks.
The judge—a woman with silver hair—looked at me for a long moment.
“Mrs. Quinn,”she said slowly, “you have been found not guilty by reason of insanity for the murder of Theodore Quinn. Given the severity of your mental illness and the risk you pose to yourself and others, I hereby sentence you to indefinite psychiatric commitment at St. Dymphna Secure Psychiatric Facility.”
She paused, studying my face. “This court recognizes that you are a victim as well as a perpetrator. You will receive the treatment you need.”
The bailiff approached to escort me out. As I stood, I turned towardAgnes and really looked at her. She wasseventy-eight years old. Theo had been her only child—her miracle baby, born when she was forty-one.
“Agnes,”I said, my voice carrying across the silent courtroom. “I’m sorry. Not for defending myself, but for taking your son from you. For making you bury your baby.”
She looked up at me then, her face streaked with tears, twisted with grief and rage.
“Burn in hell,”she whispered, her voice breaking. “Burn in hell for what you did to my boy.”
And I knew she was right. I knew I was going to burn in hell.
Chapter 4
The transfer order came on a Thursday. Just a few days after the verdict.
“St. Dymphna Institute,” the guard announced, sliding the paperwork through my cell slot.“For the criminally insane.”
Four months in County had been hell, but at least it was familiar. This was totally different. This was a place for the broken ones. For the crazies.
Rain lashed the transport van windows as we drove along the coastal cliffs. The female guard had been kind during the drive, offering water, adjusting my shackles when they cut too deep. But now her voice carried something else when she said,“Almost there.” As if she was scared of what was ahead.
Through the windshield, I saw it.
St. Dymphna Institute rose from the cliff’s edge like something clawed up from beneath. Gothic spires twisted toward storm clouds. Stone walls seemed to breathe with the wind. Above the entrance, carved deep into the stone: SANCTA DYMPHNA ORA PRO NOBIS.
“Saint Dymphna, pray for us,” the guard translated.“Patron saint of the mentally ill.”
I nodded, though I didn’t really want to know the meaning.
We crossed a narrow causeway with no railings—just crumbling asphalt between us and the black water below. Iron gates swung open to reveal a cobblestone courtyard.
The van stopped.
My legs were numb from the ride. When I tried to get out of the van, I slipped on the wet stones, the shackles making it impossible to catch myself. My knee hit hard enough to split the skin through the thin cotton pants.
The building loomed, its windows dark despite the midday hour. A woman waited at the top of the steps, somehow dry despite the downpour. She stood under the entrance overhang like she’d been expecting us, hands clasped in front of her. A white lab coat over a blue dress, blonde hair in soft waves to her shoulders. Everything about her seemed too clean for this place.
“Mrs. Quinn? I’m Dr. Alan,”she greeted with a forced smile.
“Mitchell.”The correction came out sharper than I’d intended. “Zahra Mitchell. My husband is dead.”
This was going to be a problem. I should’ve never taken Theo’s last name. Now it followed me everywhere. Every official document. Every introduction. Every time someone read my file—Mrs. Quinn. The husband killer.
Dr. Alan’s smile didn’t falter, but something flickered in her eyes—interest, maybe. Or calculation.
