“The jurors have reached a verdict.”
“Gwendolyn Beth Fitzpatrick on count one of murder in the first degree, not guilty by reason of insanity. On count two of murder in the first degree, not guilty by reason of insanity.”
I fall back into my chair, understanding that this is worse than a death sentence. My attorney pulls me back to my feet as my tears continue down my cheeks. Suddenly, reality is too much and I want to hide away and hurt myself for still existing. I’m not certain why I am reacting this way because it is something that I almost expected. I can only hope that the judge takes it easy on me.
I’m forced to listen as Kelly pulls on my arm again while the judge clears her throat.
“Gwendolyn,” she begins, “It pains me deeply to know your story and your troubles. To understand the life you had before your parents died tragically. What makes me sadder is how the system failed you. It’s time for everyone to take responsibility for the lax enforcement and holes in the system. I believe you still have a chance, but you need a lot of help to get there. Therefore, a state institution, such as where you are currently residing, is appropriate for your treatment. No less than five years, but I can’t put a cap on time. You have to be the one to try. I hereby sentence you to a minimum stay of five years in a state mental institution to rehabilitate your mind. It is up to you to take advantage of the time there, to really listen to what the treatment advisors have to say because they truly want to help you. I know it must be hard for you to have trust in people, but I can only hope that one day you find that again.”
My world turns blurry as I revert back to the girl I was. This cycle won’t ever stop because I had my lover, but he got away and now I am nothing but a shallow killer unworthy of molding myself into anything more.
Welch
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
I sit nervously next to Cecily as my future depends solely on this verdict. With the discovery of Victoria’s body along with my psychiatric history, we are hopeful of swaying the jurors despite the massive amount of physical evidence, being my prints on that fucking cast-iron skillet that we left at the scene of the crime. Not to mention the trail that led them all the way to Laramie and eventually to the car that had our shit all over it. My biggest freedom would be a state institution to try to re-build my life and pick up the pieces, letting go and burning the bad ones. But who knows, the jurors may very well see that I am guilty of murder, having no empathy for my story.
“William Edward Welch, are you ready to hear your verdict?”
“Yes, your honor…”
“On count one of murder in the first degree, William Edward Welch, you are found not guilty by reason of insanity. On count two of murder in the first degree, you are found not guilty by reason of insanity.”
I gasp out loud, unable to fully understand the freedom and opportunities that I have in store for me. Can an insane person really think this way? Should I feel guilty for helping take a life away all the while I look forward to restoring mine?
I hold my head in my hands and think back to my sweet girl, wondering what her fate is. I know in my heart that we will always be separated physically, but true love is one-of-a-kind and no one can steal that away from my heart. Ever.
“Mr. Welch, it saddens me that you have been shuffled around from home to home for twelve years to only end up in such a horrendous situation. I also hope that this opens not only your eyes, but society’s to see where we have gone wrong. It’s time for a change. I also hope that you understand that this is a healing time for you. I don’t want to put you away. Utilize your time at the state mental institution. Communicate with the psychiatrists and counselors. Use it to your advantage to make yourself a model citizen, son. This is your second chance at life. Use it to free yourself from the past. I hereby sentence you to rehabilitation at a state mental institution, such as the one you are now residing, for a minimum of three years, with no cap on time, until the physicians and counselors deem you fit to interact safely with society.”
Three years to life. Will I ever be free, free at last? One can only hope. Until then, I have my memories of me and my girl, my imagination, and my paper and pencil to make it come to life.
Ten Years Later
Summertime
Portland, OR
Gwendolyn
Free. Free at last. It’s just me against the world.
People say time heals everything. I say that is a complete load of bullshit. I know that is it untrue because ten years have passed and I am not cured from the events. I can tell you I am changed. There is a vast difference between the two statements. A person has to want to change and see themselves for what they are, not what they have endured. I accepted the fact that I am wounded and always will be, however I refuse to be defined by it. Not by others, make no mistake. But for years I was labelling myself as mad and insane. I needed to overcome that before I could grasp that I could change and become yet another Gwendolyn.
Life isn’t easy. I still hurt and always will. There isn’t anyone that will understand the pain that I feel even when I meet with my psychiatrist in my new adopted city. I look into her eyes and tell her what she wants to hear, but how will she ever fully understand? There is only one out there for me, but he is gone. A portion of me wants to keep the old me alive just so that I remember his smile. A decade later, those thoughts still send fire to my heart. How can pain and passion be a combination that people tell me is abnormal? That is something that I have refused to believe. On the contrary, I have allowed myself to embrace the reality in my mind because it was a way for me to cope.
It took me almost three years to come to terms with the madness in my mind. Lots of medication and therapy later, I finally broke down for Dr. Yavez. I share a major love-hate relationship with him. Sometimes I still wish I was within that padded room acting out on my aggressions, because they would give me drugs to make me float away so that I could dream about my one and only personal monster; the lover that slipped through my bloody hands. That is a sliver of me that I have yet come to terms with.
And I won’t let myself.
I made sense of the remaining part of my time in the institution by understanding my anger. Beneath it all, I had so much towards my parents. I can’t even believe that I am admitting that once again, but I led such a different life before they died. They loved me fiercely, but they shielded me from ugly. When they were torn away from my life unexpectedly, I was thrown into the fire to burn painfully and forced to cope with unfamiliar surroundings and feelings. That is where the second stage of anger began. Claude and Helen were the gas to the already out of control fire, making me explode with rage as I was forced to participate in unthinkable acts. Then again, was it truly my fate as I found my one and only love through peril and heartache? At 28, I still see it as such which still leads me to feel it is real. The psychiatrists were never able to break me of that feeling, though I would tell them what they wanted to hear when it came to Welch.
Some monsters never change their ways. I was able to train my mind to hold onto that part of me while I adapted to another. In addition to heavy therapy sessions and medication, I was then allowed to participate in group activities which made me realize that I was not the only one who is lost and forgotten.
When I understood that and let myself look into other people’s eyes, I learned their stories and found something that I thought that I lost.
Hope in humanity.
The further that I allowed my shell to crack, the more comfortable I became in the thought of embracing good once more. I had to come to terms with the fact that there will always be a chance for something bad, but having hope is a lot harder than believing the wicked. Which led me to the next phase of Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick.
Turning the page and grasping onto something. I found a reason to believe once more. I decided to channel my anger into passion, obtaining my GED from the classes offered at
the institution. I read a lot, studying human psychology and with the events that I had endured, I knew enough about what I wanted to do.
I wanted to help people like me.
With the help of organizations and Dr. Yavez, along with my fiery spirit and drive for something better, I finally made it to Portland. I still hear the mantra that I shouted to myself all that time ago when I first lost my wits, telling myself that Welch and I would end up happily-ever-after with just the wind in our hair and out arms around one another.
West Coast love. In my heart forever.
I smile at the thoughts as I continue to unpack boxes in my tiny apartment that I rented out in the Hawthorne District in Portland. Dr. Yavez helped me get here and even bought me a bike to get me from point A to point B, hence the love part I have for him. That part is the reason that I still grasp onto the faith that I almost lost.
I don’t have many possessions, but I don’t need much. I have my life mapped out for me and a job landed at a tiny, hip coffee shop in the heart of the bohemian lifestyle in the Hawthorne District. A laptop was donated to me as part of my parting and willingness to do better. I decided that my goal in life is to start a non-profit organization for survivors of sexual violence. I have a lot to plan, but that is my dream and I will do whatever I have to get there.
I push my long, red strands away from my face deciding that I will venture out into the city and ride along on my bike, pedaling my legs to wherever they take me. I open the box of my clothes and fetch a fresh white tank top, stripping myself free from the sweaty one and placing the clean one on. I pull a pair of black cotton shorts over my legs, wondering if I will ever feel like a desired woman again. I dismiss the thought because I don’t want to flood my mind with Welch. The truth is, he is never absent fully. Rather, I teach myself to make some days more bearable than others.
I head down the steps of my apartment complex off 20th Street set on enjoying my weekend off before work on Monday morning. My feet make their way over to the bike rack and I unlock it, freeing it from the bars and straddling it, pedaling down hard, allowing the wind to whip across my cheeks and tangle itself within my locks. Memories betray me again as I imagine the pleasure and pain when Welch would take his hand in my hair, yanking it up to force me to look into his eyes.
Maybe Portland was a bad idea, but perhaps subconsciously I am trying to come to grips with what I will never have. I turn down side streets, not taking into account where I am going until roads become zig-zagged, not running in the same direction as the other streets. The lanes are adorned with well-manicured lawns and beautiful flowers and roses. I feel like I was swept along into another place away from the city. This doesn’t even seem part of the same time that I am living in. I feel the edges of my lips curl into a smile, but my heart breaks.
I love it when you do that, sweet girl.
Memories are both beautiful and painful in one. I want them to go away as they haunt me with his boyish smile and whole heart, but part of me won’t let them go. My soul thuds loudly in my chest as I pedal faster away from the place in which I am lost. I turn down more streets, only to get lost further. I curse myself for the unknown and the belief that I could change.
I allow myself to become bathed with terror, feeling it swamp me as my legs cease movement and plant themselves on the sidewalk along the edge of Perfection, USA. I feel the waterworks staining my cheeks and I am craving something, anything, to help me forget my Wonderful Welch. After ten years, it hasn’t become easier to deal with. If anything, being outside of the institution has proved it to be more difficult. I hate myself for not submitting my mind to the counselors and letting myself forget him along with what we shared. It’s like I set myself up for failure again.
I look up through blurry eyes and see a shadow before me walking down the steps of a porch from a flawless, magazine-like bungalow. My mind instantly calms itself as my heart eases its rate while my eyes focus on the man before me. I shake my head at myself as I feel like I am floating along like a fucking feather. Goose bumps prickle my pale skin and I feel my nipples peak beneath my white tank top. The desire I thought I would never feel returns between my thighs as it floods with heat.
The tall, muscular man is my fallen angel. I know it as our eyes meet as he begins to tell me a story that I remember so well. My body remembers the movements of every single encounter. With those memories, I wipe the tears from my mottled cheeks and smile again. The boy that I remember is a man now, sporting tattoos and muscles everywhere. Both arms are covered from shoulder to wrist and he has them over his neck. He is shirtless, showing his toned belly and intricate tattoos that make me moan aloud. I see a large inscription over his chest that says WOUNDED.
My eyes respond to him, letting him know that I am also wounded, but we can remain wounded together forever, wiping away the tears and blood for the rest of our days. His large hands comb through his dark, mussed hair and I allow myself to whimper again, getting off my bike and pushing it to the ground. Time stops and the world halts its rotation as my dreams come true again. I see the boy that got away between my bloody hands, only to find him once again as our slates are wiped clean.
My God, he is the epitome of a dream. His eyes are the exact way I remember, soft and hard at the same time. They pull me in without a hitch as I command to them. I walk up the way as he offers me a smirk. My breathing becomes rapid again as I think about becoming intimate with a man again. I swear I can feel myself drip between the insides of my thighs.
I see his mouth moving, but I hear nothing. I can only focus on the moment being real as I let the past of unknowing sink deep into the sea to be forgotten. I have my monster once again and I will soon have my hands around him.
I make my way up to him.
“Are you okay?” he asks, smiling.
“I am now. Take me. Break me.”
The words stroll off my tongue so fluidly, he doesn’t need time to think about his response. His hand snakes around my waist, pulling me closer into him. I soar over the steps and into his house, entering as he slams the door shut. The darkness that I have long yearned for flames to life in his eyes.
“Take me,” I plead again.
He turns his head to the side, not responding with words. I know I am not good with words and he isn’t either. That’s okay. We can adapt to the world’s ghastly ways like we did before with our eyes and our bodies.
His jaw tightens and my pussy clenches with sweet anticipation. I can’t take it anymore, deciding to take matters into my own hands. I take two steps until I feel his hot breath on my lips, wrapping my arms around his naked waist and placing my fingers in the loops of his jeans. I reach up on my toes and press my lips onto his, forgetting who I was or what time is. I only know that I have found my boy and that his lips finally found mine again.
I found my happily-ever-after.
He parts his mouth for me as I sweep my tongue along something steel, teasing him and pulling him closer into me as I feel his rigid length hard into my belly. My womb tightens and I need relief sooner rather than later to make up for lost time. His hands fumble to pull my tank top away from my body so that I am bare before him. He takes my taut nipple into his mouth, tantalizing it with his tongue ring and I cry out for more, grasping onto his mussed locks.
He pushes me against the wall of his house, winding his hand down my shorts and into my dripping pussy. My legs give out as he fingers me hard, biting down on my nipple. I can’t keep my mind on what is happening, only feeling what he is doing to me and it is beyond sublime. I finally feel like a woman. This life seems too good to be true.
Just as I am about to come, he lets go of me. I want to curse at him, but my tongue is tied from desire, longing and the fear of loss again. I look at him through lust-drunk eyes as he pops the button of his jeans free, pushing them down to let his hard cock spring free. He yanks my shorts down and lifts me up, wrapping my legs around his trim waist. He pushes himself inside of me, stretching me flawlessly as I a
m taken back in time.
“Oh, Welch, how I have missed you.”
The piercing brown eyes of my boy meet mine as he tilts his head cocking a smile, pounding harder into me.
“What? Name’s Noah,” he pants, unaffected by my admission.
My mouth goes dry as my lungs burn. My mind and heart deceive me again as the vicious cycle continues, shattering me and taking me back to the brink of madness. I cry out, chasing my release as the tears of insanity return and stain my face.
Free. Free at last, only to be mad once again.
Remember, little girl. Nothing is ever what it seems. The mind is merely a mirroring image of what it craves.
The man stills himself inside of me and I collapse physically and emotionally, back to the girl I once was, because some monsters never change their ways.
The Emancipation of Love
Welch’s story
Some monsters crave love through peril, blood and pain. But when Welch’s love is lost, the aching from long before is ruptured along with his heart. There will only be one that holds his.
His sweet, sweet girl.
Summer 2015
Mary E. Palmerin currently resides in Indiana with her husband and two small boys. She enjoys writing raw, taboo tales that strike various emotions in her readers. When she isn’t busy writing, she usually has her nose in a good book. Mary loves spending time with her family and friends, anything outdoors, cooking, art, tattoos, red wine, traveling, and anything that makes her laugh. You can keep up with her work on her blog at marypalmerinauthor.blogspot.com as well as her Facebook page at facebook.com/succumbingtoscarsandsorrow for release information and signing schedules. Follow her on Twitter @MP_writer8! Mary loves to hear from her readers!
Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts Page 18
