A prisoner on death row. A psychologist sent to evaluate the killer.
Who is at fault? The prisoner? Or the life they had and the troubles they went through? Our world is corrupt and we're only getting worse.
Warning: Dark themes are mentioned, but t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Harold watched, fascinated as Calandra cleared away her emotions remarkably. One moment, she was about to start sobbing. The next, she's blankly looking at him again. She's just... empty.
It was remarkable, the way she could transform so suddenly, so wholly.
Harold looked down at his notes. Emotional, physical, and psychological abuse. Rape. They were all horrible, horrible things that the girl suffered, but they wouldn't clear her. It might be enough to delay the execution, but even that was a tentative thought. These people longed to kill her. Harold flipped the page and saw the photos again.
No, what happened to her was awful and should never have happened, especially to such a young person. It didn't make her crimes alright, though. Like Calandra herself said, it wasn't an excuse.
When Harold saw her about to break down, he saw his daughter. It had been so long since he had seen her. Harold could only hope that his little girl was doing better than her. Truth be told, he hadn't heard anything from her in a long time and didn't know anything. Harold always told himself that he would call her. He always said he would tomorrow. Then tomorrow would come and he'd get scared. He could call her tomorrow.
"So anymore questions? Or are we done here?" Calandra asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. "I do have an appointment later. People to see, places to go, a brain to be zapped, death to welcome."
Harold noted her behavior in his notebook rather than replying, causing Calandra to roll her eyes and clench her fists in irritation. Harold took note of this too.
"A few more," Harold said, finally answering her questions. "When did you first get into fighting?"
"In sixth grade," Calandra replied and began to explain.
During lunch, Calandra piled her tray full with as much of the free food as she could and stuffed her pockets with what she couldn't possibly eat. She'd give it to Kessi or eat it later. This was her usual routine. One day, this routine got disturbed. A boy came up and began to taunt her.
"Oh, look," He jeered. "The neat freak can't eat at school."
They often called her the neat freak, referring to her habit of wiping her desk off when she got nervous or uncomfortable. Her old clothes were neatly patched, her hair combed back into the same braid every day, and she was always perfectly clean. Calandra dreaded how they would make fun of Kestrel.
Calandra ignored him and sat silently at her empty table, waiting to be dismissed to dump her tray.
"You gonna ignore me, freak?" He demanded.
She looked at him blankly before facing forward again. This action, only angered the boy. Made him think she thought she was better than him. He took her silence as rejection. In reality, though, she was silent because she knew that, as a maid, it was her job to stay silent whenever possible and avoid eye contact. She didn't mind it though. Eye contact was always hard to maintain and she didn't like to talk much.
Fed up, the boy lashed out, slamming his hand into the back of her head and causing her to nearly fall into her tray. When he struck her, he struck a nerve, a chord in her. Calandra stood and turned to face him, looking at him with those blank eyes. Her hands began to shake and her vision began to cloud as her anger consumed her. The boy merely laughed at her and continued taunting her. She lunged forward and tackled him. Calandra clamped a hand down on his mouth and nose the way she knew worked so well. She slammed her free hand into him again and again. Into his throat, into his stomach, into his eye, into his solar plexus, into his nose.
She only stopped when a teacher caught her hand and yanked her off of him. The teacher was new. He didn't understand the way things at the school worked yet. He didn't know that the principal couldn't care less if they got into fights, as long as there were no major breaks and no one died. Calandra didn't get into any trouble and her parents never knew.
"I knew that the fight was a mistake, that I shouldn't have done it," Calandra told Harold. "But I didn't regret it. No, I loved it. I loved the way it made the other kids scared of me. At the same time, though, I hated it. I hated the rush of power it sent through me. I loved the power, but I hated where it came from."
Harold said in that quiet way, "So you were at war with yourself?"
"Darling," Calandra sighed, dropping her gaze to the table between the two. "I'm always at war with myself."
"Why?"
"Because I hate myself. I hate it, but I am the villain."
