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The trial kicked off.
Screens encircled the platform while several technicians came forward to sanitize me for the procedure.
As the thick tubes were inserted into my brain, I managed a nod to the judge through the intense pain.
He dropped the gavel and began, “Charge one: disrespecting your stepfather, showing no gratitude, shamelessly exploiting men for money, bringing disgrace to your family.”
Instantly, the screens flashed to life, displaying memories submitted by the plaintiffs.
There was fifteen–year–old me, rushing at my stepfather with a furious swing. Just home from his labor job, he was
unprepared for my punch that sent blood dripping from his jaw.
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Cut to another memory. Me at fifteen, my face full of disdain as I knocked a fifty- dollar bill from my mom’s hand, yelling, “Really? This is pocket change. Are you kidding me?”
Then, me in a chic dress, and bright lipstick, hanging onto a shy, handsome boy, cooing, “Hey, Johnny, did you get your allowance? Hand over five hundred, will you?”
The comments went wild.
[What a schemer! Flirting right in the open, huh?]
[No shame, hitting her stepdad who’s breaking his back to educate her!]
[Ingrate! Knows damn well the family’s scrape, and still complains about money! Disgusting!]
[She deserves to be found guilty!]
My stepfather smirked triumphantly; my mom clutched at her heart in agony while
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my stepsister dabbed at her tears in secret.
As the jury furiously tapped on their screens, my memories played out for them.
A minute later, the live vote appeared on the big screen.
[Not Guilty!]
The comments section erupted.
[What a joke! How’s that not guilty? Did the jury lose their minds?]
Amidst a barrage of insults, the judge
looked at me resignedly.
[Defendant, would you like to share your
memories on the big screen?]
Confronted with relentless demands from the commenters, I took a deep breath.
“I’m willing.”
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