Sing without persecution,

Walk without fear,

Expression without jail,

Everyone is welcome,

Days without drear.

“It’s hot in here,” I whined.

“Yeah, no shit,” Eric answered. My brother got it worse than me, but he was also tougher than me, so it evened out.

I rubbed my arm and noticed how dirty I was. It had been a week since I last bathed. I itched everywhere.

“You think he’s up yet?” I asked.

Eric nodded, his blue-grey eyes cast far away. The light shining through the slats in the barn door made him look older than sixteen.

I paced in circles, staring at the dirt floor. The block in the corner was stained rust. Flies buzzed his recent kills and the rotting smell grew as I approached.

I heard the screen door slam shut and my head snapped around. I hunched down to squint thru a gap. He was coming. I reacted quickly, grabbing the chicken head closest to me. Even now, I have no idea why. It was covered in maggots and flies lifted off when I ripped it from the floor, leaving feathers behind.

Slushy footsteps sounded outside. Suddenly Eric was on top of me, pulling my collar, shoving me behind him. Just as the bar slid open, he shoved my hand deep into his painter’s pocket. Squeezing hard, I let go, the head falling to the bottom with a wet thud.

Da stood in the barn door wearing his old gray bathrobe. Too short, it showed the scarred knees and wobbly legs of an old man. Only we knew better.

“Well, come on then,” he said quietly. He sounded reasonable, sober even.

Eric strode out, jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead. I glanced up at Da and then ran, scampering on Eric’s heels.

Inside the light was dim and Da shuffled around the kitchen, limping in his usual pattern. When he was safely in front of the TV again, Eric and I drifted off to separate corners. 

But when I came out of the shower, Eric was sitting at the top of the stairs.

“What?” I whispered down to him.

He didn’t respond, so I gingerly stepped around to him, cautious of slipping in wet feet. 

“What?” I repeated, softer.

He silently held up his palm. It had a fresh cigarette welt in its center. Red and going on pussy already. Mild for Da, but still, I should make myself scarce. Eric shooed me upstairs and then cradled the hand in his lap. I tried to read his face, but he was a blank. I ran back up, latching our bedroom door in slow motion, trying not to breathe.

Eric was bristling, shaky, as we made dinner. He set Da’s plate in the usual spot, then laid the baked potato in the center instead of on the side. When I opened my mouth to ask why, Eric gave me a cold, tight smile.

On top of the potato, he carefully placed the chicken head, beak out. With one filmy eye staring, I thought it wore Eric’s expression. I panicked.

“Eric, he’ll be back any minute!” His beer runs never took more than twenty minutes and we were going on fifteen.

Like he had before, Eric pulled my collar. But this time he pushed me in front of him, toward the back door. Leaning into my face he said, “I’m gonna do it, Davey. Hide in Mrs. Peterson’s greenhouse. Don’t come back until you hear the sirens.”

“No! Eric! Don’t!” I begged. I don’t know whether I was worried about him or Da or both of them.

“I love you Davey. Now go!” He shoved me harder and I stumbled backwards slamming into the screen door. I heard the Chevy pull up and I took one last look at Eric. His hands, empty, were clasped behind his back. Even so, he looked ready. I ran out into the night.

I didn’t make it to Mrs. Peterson’s. I heard the car door slam, then a thunderous “Whad you do boy?” More shouting and a loud explosion. I saw in my minds eye what was happening. Them tussling and crashing thru the table. When Eric started screaming, I turned back and ran for the house. I knew that I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t let it happen again.

I banged back inside. Da was in the center of the crushed table on his knees, choking Eric. “Da!!! Stop it!” I jumped on his shoulders, trying to pull him off. “You’re gonna kill him! Stop!” Eric’s eyes were bulging, foamy spit spilling down his chin.  His feet were kicking up silverware and chunks of plate.

Neither of them looked at me. I felt myself dissolve in that moment. The sound zipped away from me all at once. I was suddenly alone and not quite real, like a ghost bearing witness to a decades old murder. Everything that was happening was beneath me. Just a stain under the floorboards. For a moment, I felt the concrete chill of my prison cell. And then with just a subtle twang in my eardrums, the world came rushing back in.

I could hear Eric gagging, could hear Da’s heavy panting from the sweaty exertion of murdering his eldest. Eric’s face was purple now except for white circles rising under his eyes and around his mouth and nose. I stooped down for the second time that day, my hands reacting automatically. One long screw, still clinging to splinters, protruded ninety degrees from the end of the table leg I now held.

I raised it up as high as I could and smashed it down on Da’s neck over and over, hitting close to his hairline each time. As he fell, he crashed down on top of Eric, mini volcanos of blood spurting from his back. He started to buck as if an electric current ran through him.

Nothing at first. And then Eric started to ooze out from the right side of the broken table. One ear appeared, and then a smashed nose. He managed to push a little and I pulled with everything I had left. Half hanging in my arms, we got him up in one of the chairs. 

We looked down at Da, who had ceased twitching. His pool of blood was so big he couldn’t have any left in him.

“Davey,” Eric started, then coughed up more blood.  His cough sounded squeaky. Something was broken inside of him I thought, picturing shards of glass. This was confirmed when Eric grabbed his lower ribs and groaned. He made a diarrhea face, before continuing. 

 “Sirens. They’re gonna come Davey, and…” Coughing blood out between his fingers, he stopped. He spat onto Da’s leg, then pulled in a big hackey breath and said “You gotta tell them about the barn, about Mom. You gotta…” Then Eric’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward into my lap. 

 All at once I was alone. That ghost feeling came back then and it hasn’t left me since.

The rest…well. Sherriff Mitchell was a friend of Da’s. He knew what went on at our place, both before and after. He knew or could easily guess where Mom was buried. He could’ve razed the barn and have her exhumed. Could have seen my way of things. But he didn’t. He made it seem like me and Eric had jumped Da.  I was convicted as an adult.

Sometimes I blame Eric for not running. But he wanted to take down the beast. For Mom. Maybe a little bit for me. He just couldn’t do it alone. So we managed it together like we had done everything before. 

I’m still watching it happen you know.  In that kitchen, in that barn, on those stairs. I’ve never left that place really. Just like I’m never leaving this one.

The din of the courtroom faded away.

   I had tried but failed to sway

opinion that they claimed as fact

   my guilt, to them, remained intact.

I had fought so very hard

   to convince the prosecuting retard

to take another careful look

   the evidence that was undercooked.

Public defender bumbled about

   got upset when I would shout

that until then I truly believed

   if you aren't guilty, you'll be relieved.

I desperately tried to appeal.

   Everything felt so surreal.

How could I be charged guilty

   of a crime deserving the death penalty?

The sloppy proceeds made me sick

   as I worked so hard to find a trick

to end a nightmare I couldn't wake.

   I begged the guards, give me a break.

"Please just look into my case!

   I swear you'll see it's not my face!"

They just shook their heads at me

   and told me I would never go free.

Sitting here with nothing to lose

   I pull the shank out of my shoes.

In an hour they'll come for me.

   This time I'm prepared, they'll see.

I won't go without a fight.

   An innocent man, it's my universal right

to defend myself from those who'd harm.

   So I'm layering on the charm.

In my heart, it's not a crime

   to take a life meaning to take mine.

I know my freedom I won't succeed

   but one day maybe they will take heed.

I hope when all is said and done

   they remember after having their fun

I took one of their lives with me

   when they find out I was not guilty.

(Awesome challenge. I already wrote a poem about being convicted in spite of innocence. I didn't mind writing another. This happens more often than most people know.)

It was dawn when they woke me up. Not the dawn with the cream-coloured sky and candy floss clouds. Not the fairy-tale dawn caressed by the mellow custard sunshine, nor the bright crisp chirping of exotic birds. The sky, painted khaki and flecked with dullness, seemed to have been the perfect setting for an apocalyptic period. Well, then again, I was in an apocalyptic situation. After all, the entire country wanted me dead, simply for having lived life to the fullest. 

I suppose I was living idyllically, unaware of the changing times. Unaware of the blood boiling in the veins of the country. People wanted change and I suppose I did hinder this change. But how can I be blamed? I was forced into an uncomfortable, awkward and lonely position that I had to make something of it. I had to brighten up my days, have fun, invite guests and create my own social revolution. I did bring change, but not the change the people wanted. Whereas I created my own social revolution and transformed the world of delicacies and fashion, the people constructed theirs only to kill me. I am innocent. I only wanted happiness in this world in which I succumbed to expectations. However, I made myself happy by using my power and wealth, but I suppose a woman is is alsways to blame in this world. Whose fault was it that I was married off? Mine. Whose fault was it that my husband was too awkward to sleep with me? Mine. Whose fault was it that consequently I could not have a child? Mine. No matter what I did, do and will do, it is my fault because I am a woman. A woman who must be responsible for all the wrong in the world and carry men's burden because they do not want to carry it themselves. 

They say I murdered the country. They say I murdered men, women and children. They say I murdered everything they owned. Why? Why am I to blame, to be executed, when the responsibility also lies upon my husband, my friends, my entourage, my society? Why, out of all of us nobles, am I considered devilish and sinful? If anything, I am the victim. I am a victim because I was stricken with so much burden, hate and disrespect. I am a victim because despite this, the world hates me, and despite this, I am responsible. I suppose it will be centuries before people feel empathy and love the underdog.

After they awoke me, stripped of dignity, wealth and power, the trial began. Whereas they had the world supporting them, I had my lawyers who were given a day to plead my case. They had decided my case before the trial, convinced I must be executed. 

Then, shoved around, they ordered me to prepare myself for my execution. If only they could kill me now. The unfairness of this world is too much to bear. The unfairness of being a woman is too much to bear. I was forced to change in front of my guards. Humiliated and naked, I was just a pale broken thing. With a plain white dress, they sheared my hair, stripped me of beauty and femininity. Hands bound behind my back, I became an empty vessel. I wasn't the devil, I wasn't unkind, I treated others with respect. I was a sweet person who, although lacking foresight, only wanted good. 

Unlike my husband, the culprit and coward, was given a carriage to ride in to his execution. Me? A simple open cart, under an ominous sky, where everyone could chant and humiliate me. Calling me names, I maintained my grace nonetheless, silent and poised. They may have stripped me of all my wealth, but I am, until the end, royalty.

Kind and loving, misunderstood and alone, my very last words were: "Monsieur, je vous demande excuse, je ne l’ai pas fait exprès."

Forever a Queen, forever myself, forever, Marie Antoinette.

Shhh! I may be considered a predator or a psychopath, but I take pride in being a harvester of humanity. You might say that I just nibble around the edges of lives. The profilers believe I’m a male because of the manner in which the bodies are mutilated. All of them are wrong. If you saw me walking down the street, you would think I was a beautiful young woman with my stiletto heels and my sexy blue dress which matches my cornflower blue eyes. My skin is so lush that you would be tempted to drink it, inhaling it into your body. I don’t have to wear makeup because of my natural creamy coloring and blushing cheeks. My dark lashed eyes seem to look into your soul. But make no mistake – there is no feeling inside me.

Every man I have ever met wants me, except for this one. He just doesn’t seem interested which makes him more intriguing. Since I always need to be in control, I am determined to watch him and follow him until I can fulfill my desires. I have never felt any empathy for any of my victims and he will not be any different. I know that I am more intelligent than he is and I will have my way. Usually, I kill them after a sexual assignation but I don’t think this will be the case with him. I have seen him with women so I know he is not gay. He is completely oblivious to me as I lurk in dark corners, waiting for him to be alone and unwary. It’s worth it to take my time in order to get what I want. Power is my aphrodisiac and I am excited and alert.

Tonight, I am outside watching his outline against the fluttering curtains in his bedroom. I linger on thoughts of sex with him but it would be all for my benefit since I give nothing in return. I haven’t perfected my plan yet but he will be mine. I observe his shadow leaving his bedroom and heading toward the kitchen which I can’t see fully. I know it is there, though, because I have been in his apartment, rifling through his drawers as I learn all about him. I like to be prepared for all contingencies. I figure that he must be getting a snack because he is taking a long time.

I hear a slight snap behind me and whirl around to see my prey holding a gun which he jams into my stomach. I am not afraid because this slow motion stalking needed to come to a head.

“Turn around and march straight forward to my apartment door,” he commands as he nudges me with his weapon.

I twirl around and do as he says. Why should I confront him now when everything is working out well, although not as I planned? He herds me into his bedroom and tells me to remove my clothes. His eyes move upward as I reveal my full lush breasts and wet my lips with my tongue. I have him exactly where I want him. I kick his gun out of his fist with my shapely legs and hurl my body over the weapon. I roll over with the gun in my hands and shoot him between the eyes. Now the fun will begin. I walk to the bedroom door to go to the kitchen to get some knives to complete my handiwork but I find the door is self-locking and of such sturdy construction that I am unable to kick it open. I race to the window and find bars over the panes. I panic for a moment as I realize I can’t get out. I have no weapons other than the gun and try to shoot out the door knob but it doesn’t budge. His apartment is isolated and there is no one around to call for help.

What is an entrapped psychopath to do? I am beginning to get hungry and thirsty and must come up with a plan for my survival. I claw at his body with my sharp nails until I have an opening in his femoral artery, lower my head and begin drinking my fill. When my thirst is quenched, I begin to tear chunks of his flesh with my teeth, chewing them until I am able to swallow them down. There is plenty here to sustain me for a while. It does bother me a little that when they find our skeletons, they will think he was the predator. I want them all to know that I deserve the credit for this. I dip my fingers in his blood and begin penning a note on his floor, telling the world that I want the fame and the glory to be attributed to me. I have satisfaction in knowing I will go down in history as the greatest female killer of all time.

“He must have forced her to write it,” the detectives said when they found the remains. “That poor innocent young woman."