(It was me. It was always me.)
A tear rolled off her eyelid, cold and painful. He had said it. Her little boy had said it. And it was true. All her life, she had been running from the truth, yet there it was, staring her down ruthlessly and scorning her straight from her own son.
"And can you please point out the person you just described?" the silver-haired man in a navy-blue suit asked. The boy craned his tiny head over the stand's wooden enclosure. Then he lifted his short hand and pointed to her-right between the eyes-like the barrel of a shotgun to her head.
Another tear jumped from her eyelid. Untamed.
"Let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant," the prosecutor said before walking back to his table. "No further questions, Your Honor," he declared as he took his seat.
The judge shifted his piercing gaze to the defense table. A chill spiked down her spine.
"Counsel for the defense, you may cross-examine the witness," he said.
The man next to her turned to her, then to his co-counsel at the end of the table. "Actually, Your Honor, the defense has no questions for the witness," he replied, his tone relatively low and slow with disappointment.
"Okay then, thank you for your testimony, Liam. You may return to your seat," he instructed softly.
He jumped off the chair, disappearing behind the enclosure. Then he walked around it toward the gallery. Everyone's eyes were on him-Maryanne's most of all. More tears rolled down her cheeks.
She followed his short, black, curly hair until he disappeared behind the gallery benches. Then her eyes met those of the spectators, full of disdain and disgust. Quickly, she threw her gaze away from them, back to the judge. Back to the witness stand where her own son had sat and thrown the book at her. Where he, so softly and innocently, had condemned her to what everyone in the courtroom-even in the nation-knew was the rest of her life away.
Her gaze stuck to the polished wood. To the chair turned toward the stand's entrance. The light in the room bounced off her teary, glassy eyes and off her forehead, which glistened with drops of sweat.
Behind her was chatter from the gallery. It was low, but it was all she could hear: the contemptuous comments, the murmured death wishes directed intentionally at her.
The chatter rose. Louder and even more jarring. The judge had enough.
"Order in the court," he demanded, banging the gavel on the sound block three times. "Counsel for the State, you may proceed."
The prosecutor got back up and walked over to the jury. He stood before them and addressed them. Then, he walked over to the witness stand and turned to face the defense table.
"Your Honor, at this time, the prosecution would like to invite the defendant, Maryanne O'Neill, to testify." He extended his hand, open palm, toward her.
The whole court gasped in unison-even the jury and the usually composed judge. Then the chatter arose once more, even louder.
"Counsel for the State, on what grounds are you calling the defendant?" the judge asked immediately.
"Your Honor, we are not attempting to compel testimony. If the defendant chooses to testify, we would like to proceed," he replied quickly.
The judge turned that piercing gaze again to her table. Her heart skipped-then thundered, sending heavy pulses coursing through her body. She felt the air thicken, struggled to flow through her nose, forcing her into short, shallow breaths.
"Mr. Dawkins, has your client expressed a desire to testify?" the judge's voice muffled away, her heart thudding against her ears and deafening her.
"Your Honor, we have not indicated that she will be taking the stand," her lawyer answered promptly.
The room grew hotter. Sweat trickled down her chest and back, soaking into her shirt.
"Okay," said the judge, leaning forward. This time, he gazed directly at her. His eyelids pinched together, leaving a tiny slit through which he stared sharply. "Miss O'Neill. I want to make this very clear to you. You have an absolute right not to testify. No one can force you to take the stand, and the jury may not hold-" he explained, but his voice faded away. Her vision blurred and... "Do you understand?" he asked.
"Miss O'Neill, do you understand?" he asked again, but she didn't respond. Her breath shortened and her sight blurred completely. Her heartbeat pounded louder and louder in her ears until it was all she could hear. Her head lightened, her neck weakened, and her head fell back helplessly over the chair. Her eyelids fluttered lazily before shutting and drawing complete darkness.
And her mind fled. Away from her terrible present and future to her past where peace once was.