What Doesn't Kill You

“I’m not making this up! I saw those two men standing outside of the store right after the alarm went off, talking about how they just stole. The stupid one used to work at the mall and said when he did, the alarms didn’t work!” I yelled at the stupid attorney. Part of Harvey Dent’s law firm, no doubt.

“Uh-huh. And what were you doing at the mall?”

I shrunk back in my seat. “I had just left boot camp, and I had no place to go. I wanted to see if there was anyplace to eat in the mall.”

“At 3:30 in the morning?”

I shrugged.

“And at which point in time were you released from your military academy?”

I shrunk further. “I wasn’t.”

“Please elaborate.”

I rolled my eyes. “I broke out. I’m against violence.”

The lawyer looked at the judge with a smug expression. “No further questions, your honor.”

The judge nodded and banged his gavel lazily. “Well, Ms. Phetermeier, there is no doubt that you are guilty in this case.” I sighed and threw my hands up in the air. “Now, I personally know these two officers to be a pair of Gotham’s finest.” Gotham’s finest boobs, maybe. “I will put you in for the suggested time. 15 years in Gotham City State Penitentiary, possible for parole in 11 years.” He banged his gavel again. “Case dismissed,” he called out, and they dragged me away.

I’ve changed a lot since then. For example, then I held a strict non-violence point of view. Now, I’m practically swimming in the blood of Officer McDonald.

I guess you could say prison changed me. It’s not too often that 17-year-old manages to escape from prison. Of course, it’s not too often a 17-year-old is in an adult prison.

It’s not the suffering that changed me. Well, at least in the way you think. The other prisoners didn’t bother me. I wasn’t beat up. I wasn’t harmed, much.

What was wrong was sitting in a stone box everyday for two years and a half years, making pointless scratches on the wall everyday. The scratches added up, and within a year, I counted over 500 scratch marks as the days got longer.

And when you sit in a box all day, you’ve nothing left to do but think. To mull over the bastard that put you in there. You get angry when there’s no way to get even.

Upon my, er, ‘release,’ I promised myself something. I promised myself I would save this poor, disgusting city from crime. I would get even.

Officer McDonald, poor, pathetic, lonely Officer McDonald, who has, by the looks of his place, continued to thrive off of the innocent he throws in jail, was my first charitable act.

I’ll spare you the gorey details, for now. But man, did it give me justice to see him plea for his life. To see him kneel down before me, who can’t even legally vote, and beg for mercy. Beg to be left alone in his tainted little world, to go back to his possessions.

They all beg, though. Every corrupt cop and judge I’ve killed so far have all begged. They’ve all claimed they were innocent, that they were just doing what they thought was right.

And each one, I’ve told the same speech to. Blah blah my ass blah blah I wanted to be a doctor. And right before I slit the last wrist, or plunge the blade for one last time, I smile, real big, and tell them not to worry. I tell them I’m a trained professional. And this is just what the doctor ordered.