After my boyfriend's younger sister was raped and took her own life, I learned the truth. But instead of speaking out, I stayed silent.
His parents were on their knees, pleading with me and begging me to speak up.
But I refused. Coldly. Without hesitation.
When reporters showed up at my door, I chased them away, brandishing a kitchen knife.
And yet, despite everything, my boyfriend, Zachary Mitchell, didn’t leave me.
Even though his family was furious, even though they pleaded with him to abandon me, he still chose to marry me.
After the wedding, everything changed.
He began his revenge.
Day after day, he tortured me, bringing others into our home, forcing me to experience the same horrors his sister had endured.
——
Six years later, my body had reached its breaking point.
Using his family’s vast fortune, Zachary subjected me to a memory trial.
“Joanne, you’re not even human!” someone shouted. “Zoey treated you so well, and you did this to her!”
I lay in the hospital bed, struggling to breathe, relying on the machine to help me.
My body was too heavy, too broken, to fight back.
“Stop pretending to be pitiful!” another voice accused. “You protected the murderer! Everything that’s happening to you now, you deserve it!”
I felt the cold metal of the memory-extracting machine being connected to my body.
With the last of my strength, I turned my head to look at Zachary.
Tears welled in my eyes, and I weakly shook my head.
Zachary sneered at me. “Don’t bother struggling. Now you regret it? Too late. Do you even understand how much Zoey suffered back then? Why didn’t you speak up? You deserve to die.”
He looked at me as though I were nothing but dirt. “They say this memory extractor causes pain equal to being electrocuted to death. Let’s see how it feels, shall we?”
The trial took place in Springfield’s largest hall, a massive venue packed with twenty thousand people and broadcast live nationwide.
Zoey’s case had shocked the entire country.
The police had taken it seriously, but since I refused to speak, the case went cold and was eventually ruled a suicide.
Zachary’s parents were there, too.
They had once disowned him for marrying me, but when they learned he was doing all this for their dead daughter, their anger shifted to grief.
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.
