I got here just before Little-Miss-Murderer did. She’s never gonna be able to handle life behind bars.
Sure, her story was interesting, but my life was definitely worse. I don’t wanna share, but I might as well get over it. A deal’s a deal.
“First off, Sugarplum, you’re never gonna get Broken Pieces to tell anything. So there’s no point in trying.”
“Oh, I will. Trust me.”
“Get over yourself.”
“Kenya, be nice. Dang.”
“Shut up, Olympia.”
“Just tell us why ya here,” says Cassie.
“Fine,” I say as I take a deep breath.”When I was growing up, my mom was married 6 different times. And each one was worse than the last.
“My daddy died when I was 2, so my mom didn’t have anyway to support us because she was a high school dropout. Because she was pregnant with me.
“Anyway, when I was 5, she married a crackhead. He hit Mom whenever she didn’t wash the dishes right away, when she didn’t make what he wanted for dinner, when he didn’t have money for drugs. Basically, he hit her all the time. Two days after their 1st anniversary, he was shot at a drug bust.
“Four months later, she was married again. He was a rapist. Whenever Mom or I did something he didn’t like, no matter what it was, he’d shove her to the ground and hurt her. While I watched. When I turned 8, he was arrested, and Mom married a gambler 2 weeks later.
“Whatever Mom earned at the restaurant she waitressed at, he took and used to bet, and he always lost it. For my 9th birthday, we got kicked out of our 1 room apartment. And he died of alcohol poisoning.
“6 months later, Mom met and married a 56-year-old arsonist. Which is how I got the scars on my face. He killed himself in prison.
“The summer before I started 6th grade, Mom decided she had found ‘the one’ and married him immediately. He touched me when Mom wasn’t home, it didn’t really matter where she went. The grocery store, work, doctor’s appointments, the neighbor’s. He touched me everywhere. But, whenever I tried to tell Mom, she’d smack me and say ‘Don’t go spreading lies about your Daddy. You know better.’ She always thought I was lying. That was, until she came home early from work on my 13th birthday and saw him hurting me through the carport window when she walked down the driveway, called the cops, and told the dispatcher not to let the officers turn on their sirens. Not that they listened. They’d been looking for him for a looong time.
“The next February, she married one of her sister’s friends. We moved into his house, but were only allowed on one side of the 9000 square foot mansion. The side he lived on, which was only 975 square feet, and consisted of 2 bedrooms, 1 bath, a kitchen, and sitting room.
“For my sweet 16, he let me on the other side of the mansion, but just me. Mom wasn’t invited. I got a new room, new clothes, and a new routine. I had certain foods I was allowed to eat and I had to exercise 3 times a day. Once in the morning, once after lunch, and once before bed.
“Six months into that routine, he gave me my first client. A 40 year old man who smelled like tuna. I didn’t know what to say, wear or do. So, my stepfather had one of the other girls demonstrate. After that, I had no free time. For 2 years I was raped by greasy, fat, smelly men who enjoyed watching me suffer.
“So, I decided to do something about it. I shot my stepfather and pistol whipped the new client when they tried to touch me. My stepfather gave all of us a .22 for self-defense, and I decided to take advantage of it.
“When I called the cops, they arrested me on the spot and every other girl who lived there. Except Mom, because she got kicked out after telling her husband to ‘keep me out of the family business.’
“So, little miss thing, I’m the actual murderer here. And they always handcuff the murderers. Always.”
“Then, why wasn’t I handcuffed?” Violet replies.
“‘Cause they know you aren’t the killer. But, the world doesn’t.”