Entry 11

The noise in the hall was loud enough to send my ears into a feverish ringing, one which I'm not entirely sure I ever fully recovered from. Voices vied for dominance, each in a rush to have their own experiences added to the list of grievances my mother would need to atone for. One woman screamed about her son's conscription into the Bovican army, only for a two-sentence letter to be sent back a week later informing her of his death. One man explained, rather calmly given the circumstances, the life of his late wife under military rule; she was passed around and used like an object, forced to serve the soldiers sexually while her husband was worked nearly to death in the unyielding fields. She committed suicide after two months of being an abused sex slave.

More stories like this compounded upon each other, each stemming from my mother's decision to hide from the scouts when they came asking for the daughter of Reevan. In their eyes, her surrender would have spared the people of Tresin from the terrible fate that befell so many. But they're wrong. Bovica would have permitted this crime to occur with or without Madi; with her in tow, who knows how much more pain this village would have endured. Of course, none of that mattered to them. Vengeance was the purpose behind that sad excuse for a trial, and they were determined to have it.

James and I had, throughout all of this pandemonium, been surrounded by people who seemed to wish nothing more than to rip us apart in the quickest and most violent way possible. There is not a single doubt in my mind that had the mayor not desired us alive to witness my mother's sentencing, he would have let the savages tear our intestines out and use them as decoration. He fed on their anger, built on the shared pain they all felt, and used that to create a mob willing to do whatever he commanded; if it resulted in achieving "justice", then they would follow through without question.

After a few minutes of ear-splitting agony, the mayor rose from his seat once more. Raising his arms high, he called for silence. And like an obedient pack of dogs, the ends of each depressing story died in their throats. He smirked. I knew that he had changed, but I never knew he would go so far as to find joy in controlling his people. The same people who he grew up alongside, fought alongside, suffered alongside. Now, he just uses their emotions for his own gain.

"Now that each of you have brought forth your statements and given your side of this story, let us make this official: those who vote guilty, raise your right hand."

Within an instant, nearly the entire crowd raised their hands. A few here or there chose not to, but those were quickly threatened into submission by those around them. Soon, every soul in the crowd stood with right hands raised.

"And now," he said, dropping his smile swiftly, "who votes not guilty?" He reminded me of a wolf watching a flock of sheep, trying to decide which one would become his dinner that day.

No hands went up. Anxious silence could be felt in the air, as each person wondered if anyone would put themselves on the line to vote against the majority. But no, none of them were stupid enough for that. They were scared, doing what they thought was necessary to achieve some peace. If only they knew how little of that is brought by sentencing another to death.

The smirk returned, and my hatred of the former mayor grew even more. Walking around Madi's bound form, he looked down on her with about as much hatred for her as I had for him. He opened his mouth, preparing to say something arrogant or ask her a worthless question no doubt, only for her to beat him to it.

"Guilty. I plead guilty."