TW: Child Abuse, Torture, Mention of Suicide.
My first memory was of my mother putting the washcloth over my face. I think I was a little too young to realise what was happening, but I vaguely remember feeling scared. There was something about the scratchy material over my skin, or maybe the absence of light, that frightened me. I remember calling out to my mother, trying to tell her that I didn’t like it, but I’m not sure that she heard me. At least, I tell myself that she didn’t hear me. It makes what followed easier for me to digest. Of course, I know I’m lying to myself.
The water poured slowly at first, but I instinctively hated it. The washcloth quickly became saturated, and the water cascaded through it, dripping through onto my face. I tried to cry out, but the water flooded into my mouth, my nose, everything. Every time I tried to breathe, the water permeated me, seeping into my lungs, until I nearly gave up. Even at that young age, I was willing to die if it would make it stop. I don’t really remember what happened next, but my mother must have stopped, or maybe I fainted, because my next memory is of my mother holding me by the shoulders. She wasn’t gentle, her fingernails digging into my skin so hard she drew blood.
“Stay away from him,” she growled, and I remember feeling confused. I made a habit of staying away from everyone; I was a very quiet child. I preferred my own company. Other people just seemed to be such a disappointment. My family would often find me with my nose buried in a book, ignoring the world as it passed me by. My mother’s words caught me off guard until she grabbed my face hard enough to bruise.
“He is mine. Stay away from him!” Everything seemed to click into place at that. She was talking about my stepfather. I found it strange. He was simply there. I had no intention of being around him. Something about him simply felt off, and so I often avoided him. I was only a young girl, so I simply nodded, wanting nothing more than for my mother to stop. I wanted her to show me just the simplest affection, but she cast me aside, knocking me to the floor of the bathroom. I watched her leave, and I think I began to cry. I distinctly remember wondering why she didn’t love me.
I was six.
*****
From then on, my memories became more vivid and vastly more disturbing. I won’t bother you with the details, but by the time I was fourteen I had grown into a hardened girl. Each time I incurred my mother’s wrath, or that of my stepfather, I disappeared into my mind, to somewhere they would never be able to hurt me. It changed each time, but I was often alone, in a luscious forest or by the glistening sea. It worked most of the time, but there were a few disappointing times where it failed me. One such instance led to the police being called to the house, only to find nothing but a snivelling teenager and two parents who looked like the epitome of stress. I remember that my stepfather told the officers that I’d recently been diagnosed with schizophrenia, and that they were still trying to find the right dosage of medication to subdue me. About the bruises that littered my body, he said that I had done it to myself, unable to cope with the voices in my head. Since that day, I have hated the police with a passion unlike anything else. It would have been so easy for them to talk to me, question me privately, and I would have left that house and never gone back. As it was, it’d be another two years until I managed it.
*****
I’d planned it perfectly. My parents had a habit of drinking too much before bed. They never quite managed to control themselves, normally passing out on the sofa long before the sun went down. This often left me to my own devices, and this was the only time I was ever glad of it. I remember waiting until I was sure they were asleep, then sneaking upstairs to their bedroom, holding my breath against the onslaught of stale cigarette smoke that hit me when I opened the door. It was unheard of for me to willingly enter, and I felt a small thrill run through me as I made my way to my mother’s bedside table. I knew exactly where they kept their supply of heroin, and now, it was time to use it against them.
The needles weren’t even wrapped, a fact that I’d factored into my calculations. I was only fifteen, and though my parents were both drug users, I’d never paid much attention to how the syringes fit together. I was counting on my parents to already have them assembled. It would save me a lot of trouble.
I made my way downstairs and organised my equipment. While I’d been planning, I’d thought I would have some second thoughts, but I was pleased that my mind was calm, hyper-focused on my task. This was my one chance to escape this godforsaken place once and for all. In the past, I’d tried to run away, but it always ended with me being dragged back. Sometimes by my stepfather and sometimes by concerned neighbours. This, however, was more than an attempt. This would be my final night in this house, and if I was wrong, then it would be my final night alive.
My stepfather stirred slightly as I approached, but he didn’t wake. Of course, if he did, then the knife in my hand would suffice to deal with him, though it would be a lot messier than anticipated. I held my breath as I knelt down in front of him, reaching for his arm.
The old marks from where the needles had penetrated the skin made it easier for me to guide the syringe into the vein. I felt a wave of nausea as a droplet of blood swelled, but I forced myself to continue, pushing the plunger down and watching as the heroin emptied into his body. I felt a strange rush go through me, and my heart leapt into my throat. It pleased me. Over the years he had held me down and forced me to take a dose, and now, I was doing the same to him. It felt like poetic irony. Vindication. It felt like justice.
That was when an idea came to me, quick as a flash and holding on like an earwig. It was too late for him, of course. His breathing was already beginning to turn shallow. It wasn’t too late for my mother. If I tweaked the measurement of the dose ever so slightly, it would make her pliable. It would make her compliant. It would make her mine. I could do whatever I wanted to her, and she’d be powerless to stop me. My mind made up, I turned to her, a small grin crossing my face. As her husband gurgled next to me, I turned to the woman who had given me life. For the next week, she would be at my mercy.
*****
The week passed slowly. I only stopped because I was beginning to get bored. My mother had been easy enough to control, but she was getting more and more sluggish as the days wore on. There was also the matter of my stepfather; his corpse was beginning to smell. At some point, the neighbours would come calling, and they’d discover the little nest I’d made for myself, and I had no excuse to save myself. Rather begrudgingly, I gave my mother a final dose, taking care to leave the needle in place. I wanted this to be as painful as possible, and the irritation of the metal would surely add to that a little.
My mother had often been called beautiful by her friends. She was always the object of men’s affection, but there was no beauty in her now. Our week alone had stripped it from her. Her hair was matted, and bruises littered her face. I’d done those on the first day. I shivered, remembering the way her nose had crunched against my fist as I’d hit her. I’d been very careful to make sure that the timelines added up. The bruises would all be a week old, the same amount of time since my stepfather had died of an overdose. The water in her lungs from the torture would be gone, and any lesions the coroner would find would be attributed to decades of chainsmoking. The cigarette burns were something I’d say she did to herself, as were the cuts. As far as anyone else would know, she simply couldn’t deal with her husband’s death and, being so high, she hadn’t had the forethought to call an ambulance.
I put her on the sofa next to him, and she stirred, her eyes flickering open and finding my face. I enjoyed the spark of fear that ignited there. It made me feel powerful. I had made sure to keep her dosed with the drug, but only enough that she couldn’t fight back while I was having my fun. I wanted her to feel every little thing I did to her. Her gurgling screams had filled me with joy, but now it was just pathetic.
I grabbed the can beside me and threw it at her, relishing the thud as it hit her head. She whimpered, too drugged to do much else, and I grabbed the can again, my heart pounding in my ears. This is what I’d been fantasising about for years, and it was finally happening.
The lighter fluid dripped out slowly. I made sure not to add so much as to arouse suspicion, but still enough to set her ablaze. I tossed the can to the side and took the cigarette from behind my ear, sliding it between her lips and raising the lighter to her hand. I’d spent a good amount of time practising this, using her as my dummy to ensure that I knew exactly what to do.
I took a breath to steady my nerves, wrapping her fingers around the lighter, and then I sparked it. Almost instantly, the flames spread, latching onto the lighter fluid and setting her lap aflame. The heroin did nothing to stop her howls as it spread, across her stomach and up her chest towards her face. I dropped the lighter into the flames and scurried backward, nervous. Fire is a very unpredictable thing, and I had no idea if I’d have time to escape. Luckily, it seemed focused on my mother, and I had time to watch as the flames engulfed her, the crackling sound filling me with a sense of relief. There was no way she’d be able to survive.
I waited a few seconds more, and then began to scream, almost in time with the fire alarm as it roared into life. I turned on my heel and made sure to fall, hitting my head on the edge of the coffee table in front of the sofa; it wouldn’t do for me to come out of this without a scratch. My hearing became muted and I dragged myself up, running toward the door, still screaming. I reached the door in record time, and began banging on it with all my might. I’d made sure my mother had the keys in her pocket. Once again, I had to make my escape look believable.
The frosted glass in the door soon darkened, and I saw a humanoid shape on the other side.
“Help me!” I screamed, the heat of the fire beginning to reach me. The person on the other side seemed to realise I was there, and there were shouts for help. Soon, someone was trying to kick the door open, and someone else was screaming for the fire brigade to be called. It took a few minutes, but eventually the door swung open. Not a moment too soon, in my opinion – the fire had begun to lap at the back of my legs, sending a searing pain through me. I fell onto the pavement, and someone dragged me away from the threshold, into the cool afternoon air.
When we were a distance away from the house, someone rushed toward me. I remember green uniforms, and I think they were paramedics. I began to cry, starting the greatest performance of my life.
“My mother’s still inside!” I bawled, making a show of trying to get up, but strong hands pushed me back down to the floor, whispering soothing words of comfort to me. “Please! You have to help her!” Each of my attempts to rise were thwarted, and soon the fire engine arrived, firemen pouring out and readying the hoses to tackle the flames. I risked a look at the house I’d grown up in.
The windows had cracked from the heat, and the fire had begun to rise. I could see thick black smoke pouring from my bedroom window at the front of the house on the second floor. Good. If it had made it that far, it means that my mother was truly gone. Let it all burn, I remember thinking, This place was Hell, it may as well burn like it.
*****
The fire – and my miraculous escape – was in the news for about three weeks before interest fizzled. I had laid in my hospital bed, watching the news coverage until a nurse had turned it off, not wanting it to upset me. From what I could gather, the story I had told the police had become the official one. My mother, upon the death of her husband by heroin overdose, had gone crazy. She’d refused to call for help, instead forcing her daughter to remain locked in her room for a week before finally letting her out. She’d made me watch as she’d doused herself in fluid and set herself ablaze, stating that she didn’t want to live if her love wasn’t there.
I wasn’t expecting it to be this easy. Of course, their drug use was an open secret in the neighbourhood. Most of their supply came from the dealers that wandered the street. But still, it surprised me that nobody bothered to question my story. I was expecting at least a little suspicion, and I found myself slightly disappointed that the elegant solutions I had thought of wouldn’t be needed. Oh, well. There would most likely be another time where they could be used, if I ever found myself in a dangerous situation. For now, my only job was to lay in bed and play the grieving daughter, distraught at the loss of my parents. Almost inconsolable. That was the hardest part. I didn’t care that they were dead, in fact I was glad of it. I had orchestrated it. Throughout their investigation, police officers had come to speak with me, and I had told them everything that had happened to me in that house. The doctors told them that I probably had Stockholm Syndrome, and that’s why I was so saddened by the fire, and everyone believed it.
My victory was like honey on my tongue. Sweet, and a little moreish. When I think back, I believe that I was always destined to become what I am. My entire existence had revolved around simply surviving that I couldn’t take it anymore. From this point on, I would be a fighter.
*****
Years passed without incident. As soon as I was medically cleared, I left the hospital. I changed my name and dyed my hair, wanting to disappear as completely as possible. The girl I had been had died in that house, and I was determined that she was never coming back. I went to university, and then completed my Masters degree. Eventually I got my PhD in child psychology, and was proud of myself. I was a completely different person. My mother had always said that I was worthless, that I’d never amount to anything. I know it sounds a little cliche, but I’d spent so long hearing it that I’d started to believe it. I was glad that I’d proven her wrong, even if she wasn’t alive to see it. I’d always been a rather spiteful child, and apparently I was a spiteful adult too, holding onto grudges against the long dead out of nothing but principle.
After my studies, I decided to spend a couple of years traveling. I’d always wanted to go on holiday when I was a child, but I’d always been told that we couldn’t afford it. Thanks to the money from my stepfather’s life insurance, that had passed to me as his only remaining family, I could now. I went all across the world. India. The UK. Brazil. Australia. I had a wonderful time, and I almost didn’t want to come back. But I knew that I had to make something of my life. I had to settle down and open my own practice, to try and help people. I wanted to be the protector that I never had. It was the least I could do. After all, at that time, I still believed, however naively, that I would never harm another person the way I’d been harmed. I wanted to be good. To do good. I wanted to leave a legacy for myself that would ensure I’d be remembered for years after my death.
I called my practice ‘The Fern Clinic’, using the fake name I’d chosen for myself. Even years later, well into my thirties, I still got a rush of pride every time I saw the sign with my name on it. I quickly built a client base, mainly young, spoiled children that the parents needed help with. Occasionally, I’d get a difficult one, where I had no choice but to recommend a child be sectioned for their own safety. The parents always looked at me with teary eyes, asking me if I was sure there was nothing I could do. I hate to say it, but some children are beyond help. I knew the signs. I had been that child. Anyone willing to kill a cat – or their parents, for that matter – were better off seeking help from someone more able to help them.
The Fern Clinic had just celebrated its ten year anniversary when I began to struggle with my patients. Not in a typical sense, but I was starting to lose my grip. I had tried so hard to help them, and I had successfully helped remove many children from their abusive families, but it wasn’t enough anymore.
It started when I was walking down the street. I’d been looking at my phone, messaging my assistant about an upcoming court appearance for one of my clients, when something made me look up. At first, I couldn’t see anything, but then my eyes honed in on a woman on the other side of the street. It took a moment for me to place her in my memory, but I remembered quickly. Two years ago, her son had been placed in foster care after a lengthy court case. My testimony had been the majority of the evidence. Everything the boy had told me in our sessions had come to light, and he was removed. From what his foster parents told me, he was doing a lot better now, and up until now, I’d been happy with that knowledge.
Seeing his birth mother startled me, but my shock soon turned to disgust as she turned, the sides of her coat billowing away from her body in the wind, revealing the swollen belly. The disgust turned to anger, then to a white hot rage that threatened to overtake me. No matter how many children I saved, there would always be more. Even if their first child, or their second, or third, was taken away from them, parents would keep having more, knowing that they would more than likely share the same fate as the elder children. I picked up my pace, frightened by the thoughts running through my head, and I reached the clinic in record time, having almost ran there.
Since then, the thoughts continued to plague me. If only someone could make sure that those kinds of parents couldn’t have more children. Couldn’t subject more innocent souls to the torture so many of us had suffered from the people who were meant to protect us. I tried to ignore it. I promise I did. I tried so hard to rid myself of them, checking myself into weekly therapy sessions with a reputable councillor, though I never told her what I was thinking. I could hardly tell her that I wished death on the abusers. That I wanted someone to take matters into their own hands and take their lives from them before they could inflict any more damage. So instead, I told her the stress my job was beginning to take on me. The way that, even when it was for the child’s own good, I was the one who was blamed for changing their life. Not thanked. Blamed. I didn’t know how much longer I could continue like this. The thought did strike me that maybe it’d be best if I closed the Fern Clinic, but I have always been a stubborn person. I started my career with the mission of helping as many children as possible. Perhaps, instead of closing the clinic, it was time for me to change my tactics.
*****
It all came to a head on a Wednesday. I’d been seeing a young girl for weekly sessions for a while, and my heart ached each time I saw her name in my diary. It wasn’t the worst case I’d ever seen. As far as I could tell, there was no need for a court case, no need for her to be removed. But there were so many similarities between us that I couldn’t help but think about my childhood. The snide comments my mother had always made about me.
We were sitting side by side, and I was watching her draw. It was one of the few things that comforted her in our sessions. I was glad she had a hobby, though according to her, her mother would always take her drawings. We’d only had a couple of sessions before I bought a lockbox for her, leaving it on the shelf in my office.
I watched as her drawing came to life, and my blood ran cold. I stared down at the paper, of the crude drawing of a young girl with a noose around her neck. The resemblance was uncanny, and I knew that this was how the client felt. I pursed my lips and asked if this is what she thought of, and she nodded slowly, head bent, tears in her eyes. I gave a shuddering breath and wrapped her in a hug, trying desperately to quell the white-hot rage burning in my chest.
When the session was over, I barely looked at her mother, even as she berated the girl for struggling to put her coat on. I kept my eyes down and spoke in short, clipped sentences. In that moment, I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t know what I was capable of doing if I caught her eye. I watched as she ushered her daughter out of the waiting room, and something inside me snapped. I felt a flare of anger and then it calmed. It became still in my chest, and I nodded to my assistant before closing the door to my office. The drawing was still on the table, and I picked it up, glaring at it. The girl was only nine. She shouldn’t feel like this. She shouldn’t have thoughts of ending it all simply because her mother didn’t love her enough. I felt my anger become finer, more calculated, and I knew what I had to do.
*****
It was a relatively simple plan. Thanks to the contact information I was required to collect from the families of my clients, I had a long list of their addresses, and so I could easily determine which routes the parents would take if I called them to my office to discuss their children’s development and progress. Then, it was a matter of watching them. Only for a few days, and never in person. Along the routes, I placed cameras, linked back to the monitor in my office. I watched as they drove to appointments, and I knew that this would be easier than I anticipated. I noticed that most people would take the same route each time. People are such pathetic beings, sticking to what is familiar. They don’t seem to realise how often their routines could lead to their end.
I had called the client’s mother, asking for an appointment without the girl, to discuss her progress and what I believed the next steps would be. I told her that I was on the other side of town, but if she wouldn’t mind waiting for me at the office, I would be there in an hour. She seemed hesitant, claiming that her oldest son had a football game she had to attend, but she changed her mind when I told her that her daughter had been exhibiting some troubling signs. Of course, she didn’t really care about her daughter. She only cared about her reputation. Her family was wealthy, rubbing shoulders with the ‘elite’ of the city, and so of course it wouldn’t do for her to have a mentally ill daughter. She told me that she would leave immediately, and I hung up the call, sliding the phone back into my pocket and stepping out of the car.
Even now, I think I did a good job. I’d bought a prepaid phone and used a friend to rent a car for the day, so that nothing could be traced back to me. I’d parked the car by an underpass, out of view of the road. I’d chosen the area easily. It was a run down part of town, and not even vagrants would come here. The roads were littered in trash, which made the spike strip easy to conceal.
I only waited for about fifteen minutes before the mother’s Mercedes tore past, running straight over the strip and puncturing the left front tire. She skidded to a halt and jumped from the driver’s seat, running around the car to inspect the damage. I was already waiting in the car, idling the engine. I pulled out of the hiding spot and onto the road, taking care to drive around the spikes. I pulled up next to her and got out, but she was too busy fretting over the busted tire to pay me any attention.
By the time she looked up and saw me, the chloroform soaked rag was already over her mouth, and I finally let myself look at her. I remember that it displeased me that she looked scared; her daughter spent so much of her life in fear because of this woman. She wasn’t entitled to the same emotion.
Despite what people think, chloroform doesn’t work immediately. It takes about five minutes for the target (I refuse to call them victims) to collapse, and I knew that she was likely to fight back. Rich women often fought back. They think that they are untouchable, and when faced with danger, they will either throw someone else in its path or try to get a lawsuit out of it. I did the only thing I could think of to stop her from fighting. I kicked my foot out and sent her flying to the ground. She hit her head hard enough that her eyes fluttered closed and she slumped in a pile, designer clothes askew. I paused for a moment, but she didn’t move. Slowly, I picked her up and spotted the small patch of blood on the ground where she’d fallen. Good. Now they’d know she was in danger.
Getting her into the rental car was easy. I’d popped the trunk open before I’d approached her, and all I had to do was throw her in. I took one last lingering look at her before slamming the trunk closed, pleased with myself.
*****
I rarely spoke while I worked. I knew that the silence would drive them crazy. Unlike what they did to their children, my torture was purely physical. First came the washcloth. Then the fingernails. Then the toes. The beatings. The burnings. The brandings. I enjoyed every single second of it. It made me feel powerful. I felt like a hero. I knew that nobody would understand, but this was the only way their children would be safe from their tyranny. If I let them live, they’d simply go back to their families and take their anger and frustration out on their children. In my mind, the only good abuser is a dead abuser.
The first one, the woman in the Mercedes, was the sweetest. Even all these years later, I can still remember her pleading. Her weak words begging me to let her go. I remember that she told me her family would pay. They’d make me rich. I remember the terrified sob that escaped her when I laughed. I wasn’t doing this for money. I was doing this for justice. For vengeance. Partly, I did it for the thrill. There was something about taking the power away from powerful people that filled me with a delight I couldn’t quite explain. It reminded me of being that small child again, locking my mother in the house and doing as I pleased with her.
She died too quickly. It only took a couple of days for her to pass, and it enraged me. She didn’t have the decency to hang on a little longer, after everything she’d done to her daughter. I find it silly now, how angry I was at her. I’d only killed twice before. I was a novice. Given time, though, I believed I had the makings of one of the greats. None of those pathetic little men who kill women or children. The real greats. People with a mission, who killed out of righteousness. Those who killed the right people for the right reasons.
After she died, I kept her for a while. I wanted to cut her apart and find out what was really inside humans. What could I realistically do to people before they died? How long could they survive my company? Dead wasn’t as good as alive, but I found out a lot, and I used it to my advantage. When I was done, I threw her body in a ravine in another state. To this day, I don’t think they’ve found her, although I told them exactly where she is. Oh, well. Perhaps one day they’ll find her, and they’ll think of me again.
*****
For nineteen years, I continued my work. When I felt I had exhausted an area, I moved. Always across state lines. Never in the same place twice. Soon, there were thirty Fern Clinics, scattered across the country. For the most part, they were run by other people, but I remained the one in charge. Of course, I had to fund it all myself, and I had no issue doing so. At this point in my career, I had written a couple of books to help children deal with their emotions, and the royalties paid for the clinics, as well as the houses I bought. The clients also helped. I always found it strange how many targets paid the woman who would eventually stop them. I happily took their money. I found it funny that they were funding their own deaths.
I bought houses, never more than two in each state. I made sure all of them had basements, and I did all of the necessary renovations myself; there was no need to involve contractors and builders. After all, some of my equipment was sure to raise some questions. I spent months on each house, creating my workspace exactly the way I wanted it and then, and only then, would I begin the hunt.
I think that was one of my favourite parts. For example, in Arizona I treated a boy who didn’t speak. I tried for many sessions to get through to him, but he refused to talk to me. In a meeting with his parents, his father sneezed, and the boy flinched and whimpered. The father glared at him with malice in his eyes and I knew that he’d be next. The fact that the boy flinched told me everything I needed to know. In Texas, a mother routinely forgot to pick her son up from our sessions. When she finally came, she was filled with stories about her day with her two younger daughters, not even glancing in her youngest child’s direction. In North Carolina, there was an aunt who was disturbingly possessive of her husband, blaming her young niece for his wandering eye. To my knowledge, the man had no interest in the young girl, but his wife refused to believe him. The bruises showed on the child’s skin well enough that I knew exactly what was happening, even if the girl didn’t tell me.
Of course, not everyone was a suitable target. If all of my clients’ parents and caregivers began to disappear, suspicion would begin to arise. I knew that eventually I would be caught, but I wanted to have as much fun as possible before that happened. I wouldn’t target the pregnant or the elderly. No. That isn’t entirely accurate. In LA, there was a man, in his seventies, that fostered children. I ended up shooting him in his home. A single bullet to the skull. He deserved far more than that for what he did. I still have nightmares about him. The police came to my office afterwards to tell me that the contact information for the fourteen children in his care would be changed, and they were all placed with much better people.
Many parents would become the targets of legal battles, my testimony and my vow that the children would be better off in other families being the cornerstone of the case. If I think about it, I think that may be why it took so long for the police to find me; I was a renowned child psychologist. I had helped the police on many occasions, and not just in court. Sometimes, if I was in town, I was called upon to speak to children who had been victims, or witnessed a crime. I’m not sure why, but children seemed to trust me over everyone else. Perhaps they sensed that I could save them. They told me everything they had seen or been through, and the police were always happy with the results. If ever the investigation into the missing parents came close to me, they were hesitant to accuse me. They would simply come to me to ask questions, and then move on to other avenues of investigation. I realised how lucky I was. They had no idea that the person they were seeking was right in front of them. I think it helped that by this point, I was in my early fifties, my hair just starting to gray. I dressed in simple skirts and sweaters, trying to exude an energy that made me seem like a kindly grandmother and, shockingly, it worked. When anyone looked at me, they didn’t see a threat. They didn’t see someone who was capable of the horrific things the killer was doing.
I remember when they found the first body. And the second. And the third. At first, there seemed to be no correlation between them. Different genders. Different races. Different ages. It seemed random. But slowly, they began to figure it out. When they did, I would lay low for a while, stopping my hunt until the trail was cold. I was very careful.
*****
They caught me when I was sixty-five. Apparently I’d done a bad job with the sound-proofing in the basement in Oklahoma. The man I had, a lowlife who had beaten all three of his children, had been screaming for hours when the police burst in, their weapons drawn. I hadn’t fought. I’d simply put down my tweezers and raised my hands above my head. When they handcuffed me, I relished the pain. When they guided me out into the street, I held my head high, knowing that what I had done was right. For most of my life, my purpose had been to help children. I finally felt that I had helped enough. At this point, even if I was caught, the Fern Clinic had grown to three hundred buildings and seven hundred qualified psychologists. I had put a couple million in a bank account to fund them after my arrest, and I knew that my mission would continue, one way or the other. Besides, it was starting to get difficult. As I aged, it got harder to maneuver the targets. It got harder to subdue them. I noticed my hands shaking more often. I knew it was time. For the first time in my life, I felt sated.
I told them about all seventy-eight targets. I gave them the addresses of all of my houses. I gave them the locations of some (not all) of the bodies. When I was done, the detective who was interrogating me looked like he was going to be sick. He wiped the sweat from his brow and demanded I tell him where the rest of the ‘victims’ were. I refused. Some things would only be for me and my memories.
The trial was quick. It helped that I confessed, shocking my lawyers when I went into explicit detail about my exploits. Women in the court turned pale, and the men looked enraged, though they knew they couldn’t hurt me. I was found guilty on all counts, and sentenced to death. I was transferred to a maximum security facility where I would spend the rest of my days. I didn’t mind. It might be nice to just… relax for a while before my time came. After all, I had been extremely busy for the last half of my life.
*****
It was said that they had to build a new ‘death chamber’ for me. Not because they were planning to kill me in a horrible way, but because there were so many people that wanted to watch me die that there simply wasn’t enough room for them all. I found it amusing. In truth, I was a little intrigued. Who would travel all the way to Washington to watch an old woman die?
I got my answer when they led me into the injection room. Though their faces had changed with age, I could still recognize my old clients. A few of them looked angry, and I couldn’t blame them. I’d taken a parent from them, ripped their lives away like they were nothing. Most of them, however, looked sad. I recognized the girl whose mother had driven the Mercedes. She held a tissue in her hand, and her tears flowed freely.
As far as I was aware, she had tried to have me freed. A lot of my old clients had. They impassioned the courts, saying that in some bizarre way, I had saved their lives. It was useless, of course. I’d killed too many. Taken too many lives to ever be released. It was alright, though. They had tried, and it meant a lot to me. To know that they didn’t blame me, that they understood why I killed, that was all I wanted.
As the guards strapped me to the bed and the doctor prepared the injection, I watched the children. They were all older now, but I only saw the children they had been. The mute boy was among them, arguing with a guard in a last ditch attempt to save my life. The drawing girl sobbed openly. One of the old man’s foster children sat with his arms folded, almost seeming bored by the whole affair.
As the doctor approached, someone asked if I had any last words, and I thought for a long moment before I nodded. As the needle entered my arm, I looked at my children, because they were mine. I gave a small smile, and as the poison flooded into my bloodstream, I spoke.
“You are all worth more than they thought. Don’t cry for me. I finally have my retribution.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I’m back! Thank you for being patient with me while I’ve been gone. Between work and health issues, I haven’t been able to write much, but I finally have time. I thought that to kick things off again, I would post a rewrite of my university dissertation. I lost the original copy, so this version is purely from my memory. Parts have been tweaked and honed, and more has been added. Thank you for taking the time to read it. If you have any comments or questions, feel free to comment on this post or reach out on social media!
The Tay Smith Effect 