Clean Verdict, Dirty Truth
My crippled sister, Monica Porter, jumped from the roof of the classroom building.
The day before she died, she had just been fitted with the custom prosthetic legs I had paid for with ten years of savings. She was glowing, excited to finally stand up on her own.
But my wife's best friend, a guy she said was just like a brother to her, locked Monica inside an empty art room. He smashed her new legs, forced her to crawl on the floor and lick paint clean to retrieve the broken parts, and recorded everything on video.
And my wife, a judge, ultimately ruled that the case could not stand.
"The video cannot confirm the time it was recorded and may represent consensual performance art between both parties," she said.
Sandra Pauley's final judgment was simple.
"The deceased had a history of depression. The school and the defendant bear no responsibility."
I smiled and cooked her a full table of food.
The next day, I hung the bully, Eric Hoyles, from the school's flagpole and livestreamed it to the entire internet.
"Honey, remember how you said Monica had such pretty legs?"
I raised a claw hammer and brought it down on his ankle.
"If you don't hand over the video evidence right now, I'll hook out his Achilles tendon one strand at a time and let him learn what it feels like to crawl!"
The wind passed through. His screaming broke apart in the air, mixing with the strained creaking of the flagpole until it sounded almost like music.
The live chat went insane.
Meanwhile, I laughed until my eyes filled with tears.