(3rd Person) Fiction - Thriller - Family Saga - Crime - Drama

Updated: Sep 15

By: Evie Bernal

Allison Night sat on the stand, glancing back and forth at the judge, wondering if justice would come, not for vengeance regarding the deceit she endured but for the life she fought to protect.
The judge, a heavy-set middle-aged man, sighed at something in front of him, indicating his frustration as his deep voice rose, directing the prosecutor, “Please continue.”
“Well, Mrs. Night, after you stabbed him in the eye… did you run?” The prosecutor asked her with a low tone –– offering obvious contempt. Allison broke down in tears. The bailiff sympathized quickly and handed her a tissue. The prosecuting attorney stared with no remorse in his eyes, clearly waiting, but decided against his better judgment to continue.
“You didn’t, did you? Instead, you stabbed him thirty-eight more times because you assumed it was your husband. Isn't that what truly happened?” He tried to condemn her in front of the jury, enraging her pain.
“No... That’s not true!” She sobbed so hard that she could no longer speak as the saliva built in her throat, and tears gushed down her face. The trauma was unbearable. The judge put his hand up, signaling to pause, as he glared at the prosecutor with his impressive thick brows, suggesting it was enough.
“We will resume this again tomorrow at noon. Court adjourned.” The judge slammed his gavel down but missed the block. The room was exhausted by every human in it, but the tension finally cut as they slowly left the courtroom. Allison wiped down her face and was relieved to go home, even though it’s only on house arrest.

Her three kids waited on the couch with her sister. They had no clue what happened or that she was standing trial. All her scars were covered carefully with clothes or makeup from that night to conceal it from them permanently. The night of the incident, they were luckily at her mother’s house, which was routine every week –– another coincidence, she assumed.
The fifteen years as a military wife helped keep the overwhelming frustration from bleeding out into the open as she walked into the living room but she wondered why she couldn’t find that same strength in court.
“Mommy! Mommy!” The boys crowded around her.
“Yes… yes, I’m home. Sorry, it took me so long.” She claimed in a chipper voice.
“Did it go okay?” Nidia, her sister asked, glaring into her eyes for the truth.
“Well until tomorrow, I guess. I must take a shower and change if you don’t mind?” Allison still showed no emotion.
“Of course, Allison,” Nidia replied as subtle as she could and grabbed the boys to gather them back into the living room.
Allison quickly ran upstairs when more tears dripped slowly from her eyes, but she didn’t wipe them to avoid the children seeing anything out of the ordinary. She closed the door softly behind her that she desperately wanted to slam shut. Instead, a deep breath calmed her anxiety as she leaned against the door for a moment, unable to move from the emotional pain. She stared at the bed they used to sleep in, make love in, and talk for hours about everything under the sun as if they were in love. It made life seem happy, strong, good, and worth living –– but it was all a lie, just about everything, except the kids between them.
Her eyes turned to face the picture frame that was face down on the dresser to the left side of her. Azlan was in the photo, her ex-husband. He was holding her after she gave birth to Bishop, their first son. She clenched her teeth, creating a bitter taste of saliva to swallow, inducing sadness –– but madness. She grabbed the picture to slam it into whatever object that was strong enough to break it –– then immediately hoped the TV muffled the noise she made. When no one came up to ask questions –– she clenched her teeth again, holding in the loudest scream raging inside her head.


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