𝕄𝕀𝕊𝔽𝕀𝕋𝕊

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Disclaimer: This story is very mature and also has dark topics.
Reader's discretion is advised. 

 

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sᴀᴠᴀɢᴇ

The gavel pounds hard against the wooden block, the sound echoing over the heads of the audience and jury, bouncing off of the white walls. Your hands grip the arms of the polished wooden chair, the dark oak matching the rest of the furniture, keeping you upright when your knees buckle. At the corner of your eyes, the soft sting of tears mixes with your chapped skin, sending a small hiss through your teeth when you wipe them from your cheeks. 

Your lawyer places a firm but defeated hand on your shoulder, and the symphony of sobs coming from your mother reaches your ears. 

The rage and sadness within you are too much to bear, but you have no choice other than to stand and lay your wrists out before you, feeling a cool pair of handcuffs around your skin. 

"Y/N!" your mother calls out to you. 

You twist around to see her nostrils swollen from wiping her nose against her coat sleeve. Her peppered-black hair is pulled back into a ballerina bun at the top of her head. Crow's feet wrinkle the corner of her irritated green eyes, and her frown makes her permanent scowl more prominent. 

"We will appeal," she whispers, hoping to fill her sad expression. 

You bite your lip and nod, but you have no faith in the success of an appeal. You've accepted that you've been a terrible person. The evidence claims that you were guilty, no matter how much you fought against it. You figure an appeal would only dig your grave deeper, and you didn't want to destroy your mother's confidence any further. 

Straightening, you take a step forward and follow the arresting officer through the courtroom with stinging, puffy eyes. Your mother vanishes through the courtroom doors once you look over your shoulder. 

Your reality quickly settles, and you've never felt more alone. You're lucky not to have been transferred to a prison and have been assigned to eight months in a psychiatric rehabilitation facility. 

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