Chapter 4
Chapter four
Haelyn Thibodeaux
The courtroom felt colder than I remembered, and not from the air, but from the chilling scrutiny of the eyes surrounding me. My fingers twitched restlessly at my side, nails pressing half-moons into the tender flesh of my palm as I fought to maintain my composure.
Stay calm, Haelyn, I silently reminded myself.
The judge peered down at me over thin glasses, tapping a file against the desk, the sound echoing in the silence.
“Miss Thibodeaux, you’ve been a guest of the state for quite some time now… ten years, to be exact.”
“Yes, Your Honor!” I answered sharply.
“Ten years.” She shook her head slowly, her tone half-pity, half-warning.
“You were twenty when you stood in this very courtroom, accused of taking the life of your boyfriend, Jace Boyd and his…” she paused, glancing at the papers before her, “girlfriend Taji Lawson. You pled insanity and were subsequently remanded to Willowgate Psychiatric Hospital. Do you recall those events?”
Her eyes slid up from the file, cold and assessing.
Of course I remember. I remember every second, every stab, every scream, and every drop of blood. And I’ve lived with it in a room no bigger than a walk-in closet for a decade.
I was tempted to let that spill, but my lips stayed shut. That wasn’t the time for truth; that was the time for survival.
Jace…
He was my ex-boyfriend. I met him online when I was seventeen and he was twenty.
Yeah, he was what people would consider “overage” for me, but when love is new, exciting, and feels like it’s the most important thing in the world, age doesn’t seem like such a big deal, and common sense seems to take a backseat.
Jace and I would talk for hours and text until my fingers cramped, and he always said the right things. He was aware of my living situation at that time and once told me that when I turned eighteen, he was gonna get us a place and I could come stay with him… and he kept that promise.
In the beginning, Jace came off as too perfect. I thought he’d be my forever… until forever cheated. One day I came home early from work and found him with someone else, in our bed, like I didn’t even exist or matter. Something inside me snapped clean in two.
The girl he cheated on me with? Fuck her. May she choke in hell on the same lies he fed us both.
Women who sleep with men who already have women don’t win; they just borrow karma with interest, and when the bill comes due, it comes ugly.
As for Jace, I missed him dearly, in the sick, twisted way a person misses someone who mentally broke them.
Sometimes I wish I would’ve just stabbed him in the hand so he couldn’t touch another bitch the way he touched me; that way he would’ve still lived but could always look at his hand as a reminder not to fuck with me.
Some days, my crazy thoughts even had me believing he wasn’t even dead.
Imagine that.
I’d hear him talking to me, low and taunting, as if he was leaning over my shoulder.
There were even times I swear I saw somebody who looked just like him on TV or in a crowd.
And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
I used to think his death was just a neat little lie wrapped in sympathy that people told me, so I’d stop asking questions, stop remembering, and stop hunting.
Because the truth was, dead men can’t be revisited or punish nobody, and nobody wanted me walking out that facility and going right back to where I left off.
They didn’t want me searching for him, tracking him down, and they damn sure didn’t want me finishing the job, but then I’d come back to my senses and replay that gruesome scene in my head.
There was no way either of them survived that.
Again, I didn’t know for sure, because the moment I walked out the door, I was arrested. Jace had already called the police in fear of their lives before I even got to slicing.
I nodded. “I do, Your Honor.”
The judge flipped a page in the thick file.
“You were diagnosed with the following: severe post-traumatic stress disorder, borderline personality disorder, schizophrenia, and a pattern of dissociative episodes brought on by extended trauma and mental deterioration due to prolonged emotional distress. According to this report, you’ve been compliant with medication, completed multiple therapy programs, and haven’t had any violent incidents in eight years. ”
She raised an eyebrow, studying me closely.
“The staff believes you’ve made ‘significant progress.’ Do you agree with their assessment?”
“Yes! I believe I’ve learned to manage myself better!” I replied sharply, my hands trembling slightly as I intertwined them in front of me. “I’ve done everything they asked. I’ve taken every pill and attended every session. I feel like I’m ready to be a normal person again.”
She scoffed. “Normal is a subjective term. Dr. Loomis, you’re her attending psychiatrist. Would you stand, please?
I see your notes, but I’d like to hear your professional opinion on Miss Thibodeaux’s current mental state, her progress over the last decade, and whether you believe she’s capable of safely reentering society.
” The judge’s tone was firm but curious…
the kind that demanded clarity without fluff.
Dr. Loomis rose slowly from his seat, buttoning his blazer with a subtle tug. His expression was unreadable—neutral, maybe—but I couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.
My palms began to sweat.
“Yes, Your Honor. Miss Thibodeaux has been one of my most consistent patients. She’s demonstrated significant emotional awareness, restraint, and genuine remorse. I sincerely believe she’s no longer a danger to herself or others.”
The judge’s eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “You believe?”
Dr. Loomis swallowed hard, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Yes, Your Honor. However, I must note that stress-induced dissociative episodes may still pose a risk under extreme conditions. Therefore, I do recommend continued supervision.”
The judge nodded once, then turned to the other end of the table. “And the State?”
A woman from the District Attorney’s office hastily stood up.
“The State does not oppose release, Your Honor. Both victims’ families have since relocated out of state and declined to appear today.
However, we do request continued supervision, specifically mandatory outpatient therapy, and weekly evaluations with Dr. Loomis. ”
“Very well,” the judge said with a small nod.
She then leaned forward; her gaze stern and fingers interlaced in a manner that indicated both authority and interest.
“Miss Thibodeaux, before I make a final ruling, I want to hear from you one more time. Leave this court with something to remember. Give me one good reason—just one—why releasing you today is the right decision.”
My throat went dry.
What the hell am I supposed to say? That I’m sorry? That I’ve changed? That I won’t do it again? That ten years of silence, pills, and staring at white walls have transformed me into someone the world can trust again?
Each beat of my heart echoed loudly in my jaw, but I stood.
Steeling myself, I looked up at the judge, my voice unwavering, each word carefully chosen.
“Your Honor, in that moment, I was angry, hurt, and maybe even a little lost. I didn’t know who I turned into that day, and in that confusion, I snapped.
” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’ve spent the last ten years learning how to avoid that version of me.
I’ve faced the parts of myself I used to run from.
I’ve learned how to sit in silence without letting my thoughts drown me, and I’ve started to rebuild something that looks like peace.
That’s what the last ten years have been about. ”
I glanced back at Dr. Loomis briefly before continuing.
“I didn’t come here to beg for freedom or even forgiveness; I came here to take responsibility, and not just for the past, but for the future I want to have.
I know what I’m up against. I know some people will only ever see me as the girl who snapped.
But I’ve done the work and the time. Again, I’m not asking you to forget what I did; I’m just asking you to believe that I’m ready to be better than who I was.
I just want an opportunity to prove that I am not defined by that one mistake. "
The judge’s eyes sharpened. “One mistake?” she repeated, her tone turning colder.
“Miss Thibodeaux, that ‘mistake’ cost two people their lives. Two families had to bury their children. Two sets of parents will never get to walk their babies down the aisle, never hold their grandchildren, never get another phone call, birthday, or hug. You may see it as one isolated event, but to the people who loved Jace Boyd and Taji Lawson, it was a lifetime of moments stolen. So, you don’t get to stand in here and minimize it, even unintentionally. ”
I sniffled, dragging the back of my hand across my cheek even though no real tears had fallen.
“No ma’am! In no way did I mean that in a disregarding way!
” I clarified softly, letting my voice crack just enough to sell it.
“I really am sorry! If their families were here today, I’d look them in the eye and say that.
All I want now is a chance to be more than the worst thing I’ve ever done.
I understand I can’t change what’s happened; it’s a shadow I carry every day, but I can spend the rest of my life trying to make sure I never hurt anyone else again. ”
I folded my hands in my lap, glancing down like I was overwhelmed, when in truth, my thoughts were already outside that courtroom, counting how many bus stops away I was from freedom.
“One last question. What happens if you feel yourself ‘snapping’ again, Miss Thibodeaux?” she challenged me.
I met her eyes, steady and resolute. “I’ll walk away before I do something I regret.”
The judge eyed me with a mix of skepticism and scrutiny, as if searching my face for cracks.