This. This is how it ends. Great. I’ve had my second chance, and yet this, is how it ends: in the hands of a slimy lawyer with mismatched socks and teeth that could make a dentist weep, desecrated in a courtroom with what was once my loving family - for a crime I didn’t commit.

They, along with the so-called jury of my “peers”, stared at me with disgust. Who could blame them? Murder. Of course, it couldn’t be just any murder. That wouldn’t fit with the universe’s grand plan of watching me fail miserably at every turn. No, it had to be my wife. Twenty years of marriage snuffed out in what they called “a crime of passion”.

Passion? In a loveless marriage riddled with berating, threats of divorce, and drunken rants at anyone who would listen. God knows it would’ve been easy enough to do. In actuality, I almost envy whoever got there first.       

…

I can almost hear her voice, sharp and angry, like nails on a chalkboard. The night she told me she’d finally found out, the night that marked the beginning of the end - the night where the world seemed to collapse in on me.

“You think I’m going to put up with this forever?” Her voice cracked as she threw a glass of wine in my direction, smashing into pieces on the wall behind me, the cheap red staining my wrinkled, white dress shirt. “You can’t even hold a conversation without starting a fight, Vincent. I’m done.”

Words I had heard many times before, similar arguments happened often, yet her words still echoed in my head, louder than the sounds in the courtroom. She was always like that: cold, dismissive, cutting, as if I was a shadow to her. No matter what I did after that, nothing seemed to matter. I had tried, I really had. But we were two strangers caught in the same house, living separate lives. The distance between us growing wider with every argument, and every passive-aggressive comment.

I was drunk that night, barely holding it together. She’d already been on her third glass of wine, her eyes glazed over, and she was on a tear, tearing me apart with every word. The insults were getting worse, sharper. “You’re pathetic. You’ll never amount to anything. Just a loser who thinks he’s too good for this family.” Her eyes flashed, not just with anger, but with something else.

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I remember feeling the anger rise in me, not at her, but at myself. My fingers had clenched, my fists balled tight. It felt like my entire life was slipping away, like she had already made her decision to leave me, and I had no say in it. No control.

But instead of raising my hand, I had lashed out with words, screaming until my throat bled. “You want to leave? Fine. Then go!” But she didn’t. She stayed. And the next day she acted like nothing had happened, like the fight was a mere blip, erased with a fake smile.

…

“Mr. Carver? Mr. Carver!” The judge’s voice breaks through, sharp, as she bangs her gavel, trying to snap me out of my trance. “Are you with us? Can we begin?” She has that look in her eyes, the one that says she already knows how this will end. I can almost hear her mind ticking off the verdict, like she’s already written me off. All the facts are in, and the case is closed.

“What good will it do me?” I mutter under my breath, barely above a whisper.

“What was that?” her eyes narrow. She leans forward, almost predatory; I can feel the weight of her gaze on me, heavy, judgemental.

I should say nothing. But I don’t. “Yes, Your Honour,” I say, voice thick with resentment, “Let’s Begin.”

…

The house was quiet, too quiet. I was standing in the kitchen, staring at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. It was one of those nights. She’d gone out with her friends, and I had nothing but time and the ever-present nagging ache of loneliness. I’d take to drinking on the nights she wasn’t around; I swirled the drink around in the stained cup before taking a final gulp - now staring at the empty glass, a reflection of countless things, but it simply mirrored the emptiness of a place we once called home.

She’d come home late, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, and there she was again – distant, as always. I had never understood why she could never be present, never really there with me.

“Do you even care?” I had asked her, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “Do you ever think about what we’re doing to each other?”

She had just looked at me, coldly, as if I were beneath her. “Me? You should’ve thought about that before you let everything fall apart, Vincent. You had your chance.” And with that, she walked away, leaving me standing in the dark, alone.

I snap back to the present. The courtroom feeling colder than ever before, suffocating.

“Mr. Carver?” The judge interrupts again, her voice piercing through the remnants of my thoughts. “We’ll proceed with the first witness.”

…

I blink, staring blankly at the lawyer moving to the witness stand, step, black sock forward, step, grey sock forward, step, black sock forward, step. He calls the first person to testify, my stomach churns. This is where it gets real, where the truth comes out, I suppose. I sit up straighter, trying to act like I’m prepared for whatever’s coming.

The first witness steps up, and as they take their place, I freeze. Henry Wilde.