A Sence of Innocence

I know that you people shall not believe me, considering my circumstances and how the event transpired, but I shall make a point, nonetheless. Though my argument shall not be believed, I am innocent in the face of this heartbreaking turmoil that has recently been waged on our fair town, the loss of our darling mayor and his first-born son creating a strange sense of tension amongst us commonfolk.

Now, I do indeed know that I am not in any sense common, but I do not believe myself to be above the rest of such citizens that surround me in this time of dire need. You people of this jury shall turn a blind eye and a deaf ear towards my story and my plea, but I will still beg to capture my own swift release - and if not this, as I can tell that you think me guilty, I shall be wrongly convicted and released at a most celebratory time.

Was I in close relations with the mayor of this city?

Of course, dear jury. How could I not be close to my own father? It is like a hen not caring for her own chick whilst still in the egg - a father must care for and love his child with his full power, despite the other duties to which he must attend.

I knew my father and his story quite well, as well as the story between my brother, his wife, my mother, and my sisters. Each now gone, leaving myself alone with the weight of my deceased husband, all to now show me the true path of loneliness in which my sorrow abides.

My father was the owner of the Old Earth, a popular newspaper in the region of which I'd grown up. He'd sit me on his lap to let me read over the papers daily, showing me how to find errors made only by an insignificant human finger. Father, truthfully named Sullivan, enjoyed smoking the odd pipe and going out hunting with his group of rowdy friends, and he never left his home without having his hunting knife tucked into his bag. A pity that the object of which he was so infatuated brought about his demise.

My eldest brother, also named Sullivan -though we called him Vinnie- was to be the inheritor of Father's fortune, a young man with a deep bank account that one could swim in. Vinnie was on his way to success and had been offered a job in the North, a place where we'd never go, as we truly did prefer our quaint life here towards the South. I received a letter, dear jury, that told of his adventures and how he'd taken Father's hunting knife with him - the scoundrel. Days later, the poor boy ended up dead, as well as my father's fortune.

Vinnie's wife, overcome with grief, abandoned the family and became a beggar woman. My sister, Penelope, had been married off at a young age, and I had yet to have seen her in nearly a decade. My mother -oh, that blessed woman- has also recently passed, her death between that of my father and brother. With my closest family gone and my husband dead as well, I do so truly feel alone.

How did my husband die, you ask?

He, originally named Carter, had been working in his firm all the day long, and I'd decided to bring him lunch. I brought my beautiful husband a steak and cut it with the knife of my father, but I was appalled when I noticed a streak of red cutting through the tender skin of the cow. I tossed the knife away and ran, needing to allow myself a moment of air to keep myself composed.

Was I in the room when the murder happened?

No. But also, dear jury, why do you seem so determined to claim these three deaths as murder, and why are you so dissatisfied that my alibi proves me to not be the guilty, but in fact the guiltless? Is it because of my past reputations and transgressions? Is it because of who I am and who I have shown myself to be? I do know that, deep in your feeble minds, you have an image of myself along with a self-made story that is not true in the slightest.

No, the murders only had three things in common: the heart.

My father was stabbed through the heart with his own knife. My brother, after taking the knife, was befallen with misfortune on his journey and fell from a lengthy height, branches and rocks falling on top of his prone body and crushing his heart in a vise. My dear, dear Carter -Lord, please bless his peaceful rest- was overcome with a dreadful heart attack the night following his steak lunch.

Your private investigators have searched and searched and have yet to find no evidence to suggest my guiltiness. Why, then, do you have any right to force me into this trial and into this courthouse? What must I do to prove that I, myself, am innocent?

"Show us the knife," you had said, eliciting quite a peculiar reaction from myself.

I nodded in agreement, reaching into my purse and pulling out the sharp blade, the end still dried with crimson blood. A scientist came forward, taking the sampled blood with that on my knife and comparing the two.

A match.

How did it take you so long to figure this out, hm?

Of course, I was close with my father. And I loved my brother dearly. And my sweet, perfect husband stole my heart oh so long ago, right from the moment that I first met him. Why should I not get to keep his as well?

So, as you can see, if was not for any purpose of anger that these men were killed, but instead in love. And I, myself, did not harm them - their own pride and gluttony failed them and ended their lives. In saying such, with this letter, you should all see of how I am innocent and how I am to be released from this hole you call a prison.

Sadly, however, I know that you will not believe me, as my past transgressions are far too great. I also do not believe that I have enough time to list every one, as the inkwell is soon to run out and my wrist to run away and crack with time and pain. I am wrongfully convicted of the murder of my father, of my brother, and of my husband.

I did not kill these men. I am innocent. Only fools like yourselves, dear jury, would take as much interest in my life as you have, and only a smart man would listen to me. It seems too bad that none of yourselves have the wit enough to stick around with me.

Adieu and farewell.

Fairest wishes, Cora.