Jace and I would talk for hours and text until my fingers cramped, and he always said the right things. He was aware of my living situation at that time and once told me that when I turned eighteen, he was gonna get us a place and I could come stay with him… and he kept that promise.
In the beginning, Jace came off astooperfect. I thought he’d be my forever… until forever cheated. One day I came home early from work and found him with someone else,inour bed, like I didn’t even existormatter. Something inside me snapped clean in two.
The girl he cheated on me with? Fuck her. May she choke in hell on the same lies he fed us both.
Women who sleep with men who already have women don’t win; they just borrow karma with interest, and when the bill comes due, it comes ugly.
As for Jace, I missed him dearly, in the sick, twisted way a person misses someone who mentally broke them. Sometimes I wish I would’ve just stabbed him in the hand so he couldn’t touch another bitch the way he touched me; that way he would’ve still lived but could always look at his hand as areminder not to fuck with me. Some days, my crazy thoughts even had me believing he wasn’t even dead.
Imagine that.
I’d hear him talking to me, low and taunting, as if he was leaning over my shoulder. There were even times I swear I saw somebody who looked just like him on TV or in a crowd. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I used to think his death was just a neat little lie wrapped in sympathy that people told me, so I’d stop asking questions, stop remembering, andstop hunting.Because the truth was, dead men can’t be revisited or punish nobody, and nobody wanted me walking out that facility and going right back to where I left off. They didn’t want me searching for him, tracking him down, and they damn sure didn’t want me finishing the job, but then I’d come back to my senses and replay that gruesome scene in my head.
There was no way either of them survived that.
Again, I didn’t know for sure, because the moment I walked out the door, I was arrested. Jace had already called the police in fear of their lives beforeI even got to slicing.
I nodded. “I do, Your Honor.”
The judge flipped a page in the thick file. “You were diagnosed with the following: severe post-traumatic stress disorder, borderline personality disorder, schizophrenia, and a pattern of dissociative episodes brought on by extended trauma and mental deterioration due to prolonged emotional distress.According to this report, you’ve been compliant with medication, completed multiple therapy programs, and haven’t had any violent incidents in eight years.”
She raised an eyebrow, studying me closely.
“The staff believes you’ve made ‘significant progress.’ Do you agree with their assessment?”
“Yes! I believe I’ve learned to manage myself better!” I replied sharply, my hands trembling slightly as I intertwined them infront of me. “I’ve done everything they asked. I’ve taken every pill and attended every session. I feel like I’m ready to be a normal person again.”
She scoffed. “Normalis a subjective term. Dr. Loomis, you’re her attending psychiatrist. Would you stand, please? I see your notes, but I’d like tohearyour professional opinion on Miss Thibodeaux’s current mental state, her progress over the last decade, and whether you believe she’s capable of safely reentering society.” The judge’s tone was firm but curious… the kind that demanded clarity without fluff.
Dr. Loomis rose slowly from his seat, buttoning his blazer with a subtle tug. His expression was unreadable—neutral, maybe—but I couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.
My palms began to sweat.
“Yes, Your Honor. Miss Thibodeaux has been one of my most consistent patients. She’s demonstrated significant emotional awareness, restraint, and genuine remorse. I sincerely believe she’s no longer a danger to herself or others.”
The judge’s eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Youbelieve?”
Dr. Loomis swallowed hard, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Yes, Your Honor. However, I must note that stress-induced dissociative episodes may still pose a risk underextremeconditions. Therefore, I do recommend continued supervision.”
The judge nodded once, then turned to the other end of the table. “And the State?”
A woman from the District Attorney’s office hastily stood up. “The State does not oppose release, Your Honor. Both victims’ families have since relocated out of state and declined to appear today. However, we do request continued supervision, specifically mandatory outpatient therapy, and weekly evaluations with Dr. Loomis.”
“Very well,” the judge said with a small nod.
She then leaned forward; her gaze stern and fingers interlaced in a manner that indicated both authority and interest.
“Miss Thibodeaux, before I make a final ruling, I want to hear from you one more time. Leave this court with something to remember. Give me one good reason—just one—why releasing you today is the right decision.”
My throat went dry.
What the hell am I supposed to say? That I’m sorry? That I’ve changed? That I won’t do it again?That ten years of silence, pills, and staring at white walls have transformed me into someone the world can trust again?
Each beat of my heart echoed loudly in my jaw, but I stood.
Steeling myself, I looked up at the judge, my voice unwavering, each word carefully chosen.
