Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.
Stay with me… note at the bottom
~Come on, you dirty little whore. Show me what you got.~
At my trial, the prosecuting attorney painted me out to be a cold, calculating, closet psychopath that was not just a flight risk, but a menace to society; the worst criminal Washington had seen in a decade. No woman in her right mind would shoot her husband at point blank as he was getting out of his truck after a long day at work at the hospital. No woman would reach for the cell phone that she had waiting, dial 9-1-1, and calmly confess to the operator that she had just executed the man to whom she had given her life in the most sacred of ways, cutting her vows short with a pull of a trigger. No normal woman would sit in the interrogation room for hours upon hours, going over detail after sordid detail of her marriage of five years showing absolutely no emotion. No remorse.
The defense attorney tried to portray me in a different light, as the battered woman of years of domestic abuse that had finally decided to stick up for herself. Of course, we weren't in Forks anymore—he didn't know the judge, didn't know the jury, didn't have my father, the Chief of Police, sitting in the back of the room with his hand on his holster waiting to shoot the first person that tried to slander James' name. Here in Seattle, my case wasn't familiar to the twelve people sitting to my right. They didn't know me, they didn't know James Hunter. All they saw were police reports, medical records, transcripts of phone calls made to the Abuse Hotline on my behalf by a few concerned Forks citizens. They wanted the jury to see me as weak, a victim. Innocent.
I am not innocent.
I watched them carefully throughout the trial. I watched them as James' mother took the stand, sobbing through her testimony about a loving son who never showed any signs of a temper or violence. When his ex-girlfriend testified to the fact that he had never hurt her, never so much as raised a hand at her. Never yelled, never cursed, never hit. When the Chief of Surgery took the stand and lauded his praises, calling him a gentle man who wouldn't hurt a fly, a man who was the picture of perfect beside manner with his patients. When my father claimed not to have noticed anything off about our marriage, how we had seemed like the typical newly-wed couple. They tried to convince them that I was guilty.
I watched their looks of confusion and discomfort as Doctor Cullen took the stand and showed pictures of my injuries—limbs in casts, ligature marks across my neck, bruises on my face and arms, split lips and swollen eyes. Some things which, contrary to the prosecutor's argument, could not have been caused by sheer clumsiness. My best friend Angela detailing how she'd noticed I'd grown detached after coming back from the honeymoon as I slowly stopped hanging out, calling her, leaving the house. The Abuse Hotline operator who answered to several calls—never mine—about what to do for a woman whose situation was similar to mine. They tried to defend me, to save me.
I am not innocent.
Then the lead detective took the stand, the most damning testimony of the trial. The shotgun was held up for demonstration. Photographs were shown on a screen of the cigarette I'd been smoking and the whiskey I'd been drinking on the porch as I waited for him to come home. Play-by-play computer animated recreations were played on a monitor. A blown up image of James Hunter's forehead, or what was left of it, was the final blow; most of his head was gone, and it had only taken me less than five seconds to do it.
The prosecutor's argument was that I had sat there, waiting, ambushing him with a well-developed plot for homicide. That I was a murderer.
The defense claimed that I was only doing what I had to to survive the torturous hell that I lived in. That it wasn't my fault.
I am not innocent.
My name is Isabella Marie Hunter and I killed my husband.
So… how we feeling?
This is just the Prologue, I'm planning on working on it more tomorrow. I've got some good ideas about where this one is going. Stick with me? I promise you won't regret it