Alyssa
Present Day
Day one hundred of five thousand, four hundred and seventy-five.
Ihated going back to that time.
A time when I was happy, in love, and hopeful. But I had a lot of idle time on my hands lately—the rest of my life, in fact.
“Alyssa.” My psychiatrist, Dr. Luke Greene, stared at me. He said my name soothingly, like balm to my soul. I wanted to hold onto my name, keep it somewhere special in the recesses of my mind and go back to it every time I felt like I was losing myself. I’d been called the vilest of names in the months leading up to my trial, and the list only grew when the judge sentenced me to fifteen years at this psychiatric hospital in the middle of nowhere.
Murderer, psychopath, schizophrenic, and husband killer to name a few.
The community I once lived in and thought I belonged to was shaken by my crime and more so by my silence. I hadn’t spoken since the night I was cuffed and led out of my house. I didn’t try to defend what I’d done nor offer them some kind of explanation. They could not fathom what made a woman like me, one who had everything—the loving husband, the well-behaved daughter, and a thriving career—commit the kind of brutal crime I had.
I’d been sent several letters in those three months in the state facility while I awaited trial, and the wardens made sure I got each and every one of them. There were prayers from religious leaders in the community, hate mail from parents in my neighborhood, and people I’d planned bake sales with.
They hated the fear my actions induced in them. They hated how close to home it was. Some letters told me to do the world a favor and kill myself.
There was no place for me amongstnormalpeople.
I was a menace, a disease.
One woman who probably had contacts in the police force drew an uncanny resemblance to the crime scene—Malcolm lying there bleeding to death with me standing over him, knife in hand. My head, however, was replaced by a demon with razor-sharp teeth and curved claws.
Then there were the media and community bloggers, who tended to blow this kind of thing out of proportion, as they normally did, sending society into a frenzy. Some reports said I’d stabbed him ten times, others that I’d shot him. One blogger went into detail about how I’d slowly severed his head from his body. They hated that I wouldn’t give them a statement. Everyone wanted to get inside the head of the killer.
They judged me, but nobody understood. They only saw it one way. Society determined what was good and bad and didn’t leave room for anything in between.
When I reflected on these things, as I often did, I wanted to laugh out loud at the absurdity, but to do that would give them a response, and I would not offer anyone that.
Some situations didn’t require retaliation, only acceptance.
I did not expect anyone to understand my thirst for my husband’s blood. After all, the story died when he did.
He died.
I killed him.
At the thought, a smile tugged at my lips. Yes, Malcolm was dead. Malcolm,thesocial butterfly, the successful businessman, the philanthropist as he often thought himself to be, was dead.
When we were younger, I was always the popular one, but he grew into his own. He was undoubtedly the more likable one of the two of us, always lending a hand to people without being asked. People were surprised how he managed to stay so down-to-earth with all his wealth and prestige.
Malcolm was golden, untouchable, dead.
I’d been told I showed no remorse, called an unfit mother and a monster for abandoning my daughter.
I listened.
I heard.
I didn’t fight back.
I wouldn’t do that.
I stared out the window at the Olympic-size swimming pool as blue as the sky above it. The sunshine made the water glisten. In all the time I’d been hospitalized—or imprisoned being the more appropriate word—I hadn’t seen one patient use it. It didn’t seem likely that would happen anytime soon. I wondered when I’d be allowed outside, period.
“I know you can hear me, Alyssa,” Dr. Greene tried again.
