Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts

by Mary E. Palmerin

  “Forced to fuck. Forced to obey.”

  Those are the only words that I can muster, though I have so much more that I wish to say. So many questions that I want to ask, but fear still has the best of me. Will it always have the upper hand? Will I ever be able to be someone else? I want to be broken down and built back up to someone else worthy of living in the world. I want justice, but that will never be because I don’t have the courage to tell my story.

  Fear, the evil little lark that hangs on my shoulder no matter what I do or where I go.

  I sit back down on my bottom as he shuffles some papers around, likely debating what questions he will ask me next.

  “What does that mean, Gwendolyn?”

  I turn my head and smile at him as my tongue is freed, “What do you think it means, Doctor?”

  “You are here because you are suspected of murder. We need to see if you were mentally competent at the time of the suspected crime.”

  “Crime, which crime, doctor? When he raped and murdered that poor Victoria?” I spat. He remains unaffected by my words, only writing more notes down on that paper.

  Rage is bubbling in my belly. How dare their lives be glorified by anything. They don’t deserve a trial, let alone a funeral. I wonder how Connor is dealing with it. I hope he is pissing his pants, thinking that I will come after him next. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, chopping off his tiny dick and shoving it down his throat.

  “Can I ask you a question, Doctor?” I return.

  “Of course,” he responds, gesturing with his hands before him for me to take the floor.

  “Tell me how Connor is,” I smile.

  He furrows his brows. I am no dummy. He is privy to the investigation and the family members. I need to know if he is on my side or theirs before I decide to give him any sort of details.

  “If I understand correctly, you went to his birthday party the evening before you left Mayesville, am I right, Gwendolyn?” he asks.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Doctor.”

  He sighs, straightening his paperwork on the table.

  “I don’t know, Gwendolyn.”

  “Is he home, living life normally?” I probe.

  He turns his head. Good doctor, seems I have your interest peaked now.

  “I’m not sure I follow where you are going, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  I want to let the anger go, but it splinters through the numbness as the memories of that ominous night fill my medicated mind and win. I stand abruptly and yank my shirt up. Dr. Yavez instantly looks away.

  “He did this, Doctor,” I seethe, pointing to the wire hanger thrash marks.

  “And this,’ I say, pointing to the bite mark on my breast.

  I pull my shirt back down as my thumbs make their way to the edge of my pants.

  “Stop,” he demands.

  Bingo. I see it in his eyes. I have his attention. Maybe, just maybe he will listen to my story if I am strong enough to tell it. Until then, I will accept my fate of insanity and let them judge me.

  Welch

  Hell. Life has been hell without her. I can’t stop wondering if she is better from the accident. No one tells me anything about her. Of course they can’t. They only relay information about the integrity of the case. I have a meeting with my lawyer today to discuss my options as I am locked away at some goddamn looney bin while they study everything about me to see if I was mentally competent at the time of the crime. Seems they don’t question whether we are guilty or not, considering the trails that we left between southern Illinois and Wyoming. But, we were just two people who were abused and in love, trying to fight our way out of the awful situation we were forced into.

  I only pray that we can hold faith in the people that claim to be helping us now. It’s been sixteen weeks and two days since I have seen her face, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about her, how she is coping, healing, and going on about life. I know that when she is well enough, that she too will be checked to see if mentally competent at the time of the crime. My heart speeds up with thoughts of her being in the same building as me.

  They wouldn’t ever let us be in the same room together. I laugh at myself with thoughts of conjugal visits at a state mental institution. After the accident when I was arrested for fleeing an officer, later to be suspected of homicide, they transported me back to Illinois to a state mental institution and I have been here since. They sit across from me and ask me questions. For once, I tell them the truth, all the way up from my childhood when it all began.

  What’s the point in hiding now?

  It’s not like I will ever be free again, thanks to the flawed system. If anything, maybe my story may change things.

  I swipe my pencil along my paper, shading her hair and her eyes and lining her lips just right. Memories are all that I will have of her, but I will be damned if I let them go. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. I know that everyone here, including my lawyer, questions our so-called love. But it was real. No one knows what we endured, how we felt, and how we supported one another during those horrible times. How dare they say it wasn’t love.

  If there is one thing about my old life that I want to clutch onto, it is her.

  My sweet, sweet girl.

  “I need to get straight to the point, Mr. Welch.”

  It always feels weird when my attorney, Cecily Smith, calls me Mr. Welch.

  I nod my head yes for her to continue.

  “We needed to push that you’re not guilty by reasons of insanity, for which I hope that the psychiatrist takes everything into account.” She emphasizes everything as in my whole life, a likely reason to make me snap the way that I did and not think logically.

  “What else?” I ask.

  “I brought all of your information to the Mayesville Police Department. They obtained search warrants for the property of the deceased along with the adjoining property owners. The canine unit was brought out and they found something,” she states.

  I love how Mrs. Smith gets right to the point, though she prefers for me to call her Cecily. She is in her thirties, a fairly new lawyer, but has so much passion for helping victims of sexual abuse and crime. I can always tell when I meet with her that she feels strongly about my case. Not all people in my shoes are as lucky.

  “What did they find, Cecily?” my gut is churning, even though I know the answer to her question.

  I think back to that night when I was forced to violently fuck Victoria from behind. Her tiny hips felt like would break in my hands and she wailed the entire time. Claude had to have her next. That was her breaking point. I always tried to get it over quickly with Victoria, and Gwen too, because I didn’t think that Claude and Helen deserved to see any emotional part of it. That was something I never gave them. I may have listened and obeyed because I was brainwashed until the love of my life came in and rescued me, but I wouldn’t have ever physically hurt her or another victim. Ever.

  “They found the body of Victoria Matthews at Claude Ulsey’s property edge, buried about five feet down.”

  I clench my jaw and flare my nostrils, controlling my anger.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Welch.”

  I put my hand up to tell her that I am fine. Words aren’t my friend right now as the images of her naked body clawing away at the window flood my mind. I blink away the nightmare and take a deep breath, thankful for the medicine they push down my throat. Maybe it is helping my fucked up brain, or maybe it just a temporary fix.

  “What now, Cecily?”

  “Now, we go to trial and fight like hell.”

  I insisted that she not buy me this damn suit, but she says that appearance is everything. I look at myself from the unbreakable mirror in my room and comb my hair away from my forehead, still smiling at the memories when my sweet girl would tug and play with it. I’ve accepted my fate of life without her, but no one can take away the memories. No one can make me not love her. It will always be there.

  Cecily got me
a black suit from some store in the mall along with a picture on how to tie a tie. I have been trying for thirty minutes off and on, and frustration usually gets the better of me. I try one last time, tucking and swooping like the display on the picture and get it into a messy, but functional knot. I put my suit jacket on as the door to my room opens.

  “Ready?” my lawyer asks.

  “I hope so.”

  My court appointed attorney is a fireball and I love it. She reminds me of what I would have been like if I had gone on to college and grad school, throwing myself into the world of academia and painting myself as a model citizen. Instead, I find myself at the other end of the spectrum as I prepare myself for court. I have a sweater and skirt set to wear with a set of pearls. I suppose they want to convey that I still have part of the girl that I used to be, when in reality she died and she won’t ever come to life again.

  Kelly Trofton walks into my room with a look that is aimed to kill. I fear any of her opponents in the courtroom and my belly grumbles with thoughts of who is due to take the stand today.

  Connor.

  I hope she rips him apart in front of the courtroom and spits him back out, humiliated and he better do it while looking at me. If only I could tie him to a tree and swat his body repeatedly with a rusted wire hanger until he bleeds, paying special attention to his tiny dick and small balls. I grin at the thought. God, pray for his soul.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  I nod my head yes. Ready or not, Connor, here I come motherfucker.

  I guess it takes a lot for me to be intimidated, especially after all the shit that I have been through the past several months. The court room is freezing as I feel the goose bumps tickle my skin beneath my sweater. I pay no attention to who is around me, because I have no one except him, my boy, Wonderful Welch. He will soon learn his fate too. I can only hope that he finds solace in his heart. I’m not sure I ever will, which is a pity considering I have only been through a fraction of what he has been.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, all rise for the Honorable Miranda Reese.”

  I stand, only to hear the buzzing of voices between my attorney, the prosecutor, and the judge. I sit when my lawyer tugs softly on my elbow, tuning everything out. I should be paying attention, because this is a big deal in my life as the jurors hold my life in their hands. But I don’t exactly have a concept of what that means anymore. I don’t have much to live for no matter what they think. Though my attorney is pushing for not guilty due to reasons of insanity that has yet to be determined because I have been fit to stand trial.

  My mind dazes off like usual due to the psychotropics they feed me to keep me at even keel. Dr. Yavez tells me that aggression is a common aftereffect of sexual abuse and violence. I have also been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and psychotic depression along with anxiety. It has been several days since I have had a real break from reality, but when I start to lose it, they give me a nice shot of Haldol and all is well until I am faced with another trigger. The pain is so deep that I don’t even realize how traumatized I am.

  My mouth goes dry as my lawyer’s hand rests on top of mine. She’s providing me with a protective mechanism. My heart beats faster as I look up to see the devil before me. He’s staring straight at me with nothingness. No empathy or regret. I bite my lip and I want to hurt myself, to draw blood and cope because that is who I have become. That is who he helped mold. But I refrain because I am praying with every cell in my fucked up being that I have front row seats to watch him break down.

  I tune out the prosecutor, knowing that her negative remarks will only anger me. I dig deep inside of my heart to find that happy place that I longed for.

  West Coast love.

  A cabin overlooking the sea as I smell the fresh trees in the forest behind us.

  His arms around me and safety.

  Just me and my boy against the world.

  My lawyer stands quickly as my attention focuses on that bastard sitting in the witness stand. I should control my violent thoughts, but I can’t help but mentally slice his throat at this moment.

  “Mr. Ulsey, I understand that you knew Miss Fitzpatrick from school, is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says curtly, keeping his gaze on me.

  I scowl at him, sending bad, bad thoughts his way.

  “Tell me about when you first met Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  Connor goes on to say he never spoke to me at school. How I was the introverted new girl at school who didn’t talk to anyone. My attorney offered a rebuttal regarding the cafeteria incident, backing up several students’ statements about how he tripped me on purpose then proceeded to start the clapping wave. Even a cafeteria lady made a formal statement regarding that day.

  Maybe the world isn’t such a bad place.

  “I didn’t do that on purpose, it was an accident, ma’am,” he returns.

  Asshole has himself backed into a corner and it is about to get a whole lot worse. I can’t wait to see it happen, either.

  “Now, tell me about the day that there was an altercation between you and a William Welch.”

  Connor says nothing.

  “Your Honor, I asked the witness a question.”

  “Mr. Ulsey, you need to answer the question.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can you describe what that altercation was about?”

  “Miss Fitzpatrick ran into me in the hallway, fell over and busted her lip.”

  “But you previously stated that you had no contact with the defendant. Now we have two situations where you had less than pleasing interactions.”

  He scowls.

  I smile.

  “Mr. Ulsey, did you or did you not push her in the hallway, which then led to an altercation between you and William Welch?”

  “No,” he spats.

  “May I remind you that you are under oath, Mr. Ulsey?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand.”

  She offers him a warning glare, continuing with her cross-examination.

  “Mr. Ulsey, tell me about the night of your eighteenth birthday party.”

  I can tell that he is getting nervous as he fidgets in his seat. The perspiration is becoming evident on his brow and he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

  “Your Honor, I asked the witness a question,” Kelly states.

  “I didn’t do nothing to her, okay!” he cries.

  I want to mentally throw my hands in the air and scream for joy from the rooftops as I see him breaking before me.

  “I didn’t ask you if you did, Mr. Ulsey. Are you now implying that you did?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” says the prosecutor loosely. She doesn’t seem to give a shit or be that worried about this situation at all.

  “Overruled.”

  I smile again.

  “My Pops told me he had a present for me. Said he has been holding this one for a while. I knew Gwen from school, but not too well. Pops told me that he had something real special. I thought he was taking me to a strip club, but everything changed when he said I could have…”

  Connor stills at his realization of his admission in a courtroom full of people.

  “You were saying, Mr. Ulsey. Please continue.”

  “My Pops had done things before. To other girls. I saw it and he caught me. He didn’t like that too much, me interruptin’ and all.”

  Connor goes on to sob before the courtroom, admitting that he too was sexually abused by his grandfather. I don’t flinch though because my lawyer hasn’t gotten to the good part yet. I want to hear him say it, admit that he tortured me for his pleasure. For all I know, his admission of being molested is a ploy to make the jury feel sorry for him. He’s a fucking rapist pig.

  “Did you or did you not savagely beat the defendant with a wire hanger over her breasts, stomach, and vagina until she bled?” Kelly questions.

  I swallow the bile as clips from that night play out in my head. For the first time in months since
being heavily medicated, I cry. I don’t hide it. I let him see my tears. I want him to know how much he destroyed me.

  He remains stone-faced.

  “Did you or did you not beat her on her breasts, stomach, and vagina, Mr. Ulsey, then proceed to perform forced oral sex on her bleeding vagina?” she yells, walking closer to the witness stand.

  “Remember, you are under oath, Mr. Ulsey.”

  He breaks, busting out into a fit of tears. Fuck you. I don’t feel sorry for him.

  “Yes!” he cries.

  “Did you or did you not then proceed to rape her, forcing yourself inside of her as she begged you to stop, brutally while strangling her neck?”

  “Yes!” he cries again.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  He bends. He breaks. Next step, judgment day.

  Judgment Day

  Two Months Later

  Gwendolyn

  The jurors reached a verdict in only four hours. That can either be a good thing or a bad thing. I can be found guilty and charged as an adult for two counts of first degree murder, not guilty (which is highly unlikely due to the amount of physical evidence found at the scene of the crime including my fingerprints on the weapon), or not guilty by reason of insanity. There are many choices that the jurors could have come to.

  We stand, we sit, and we do the usual as the judge asks the foreman if they have reached a verdict. I watch as an older lady with a piece of paper walks over to the judge and I study her face. I can tell that she is nervous, maybe for me, who knows. I don’t think that I have the sanity thing going for me as my psychiatrist took the stand. My outbursts are less than before, but my diagnoses are not the best having psychotic episodes and frequent Haldol injections to calm me.

  I stand next to my attorney as she grasps my hand. Memories of Welch’s touch shatter my heart and slit into my gut as I realize that I won’t see him again. I start crying before the judge even opens her mouth to speak. Kelly gives my hand a gentle squeeze and for a moment, I hate her for that. I hate my brain for betraying the medicines that are supposed to make me numb. How terrible to go on living without my one and only real true love.