“But there were still hours until morning, and I wanted them to understand. To feel, even a little, what I had felt. I took Victor’s belt.”
“Leather, heavy buckle—the same belt he used on me when I didn’t do what he wanted. I walked over to Kyle and hit him.”
“Across the back. Hard. He cried out through the tape and jerked. I hit him again. And again.”
“Then Steve. Then Victor. Methodical. Calm. Not wild with rage.”
“It was some cold need to make them feel pain. Physical pain. The kind I’d lived with for so long.”
“How long did you beat them?” Simmons asked.
“I don’t know. I lost track of time. Maybe an hour. Maybe two.”
“My arm got tired from swinging the belt. Their backs were striped with blood. They were moaning. Crying.”
“Kyle especially. He was the weakest one. It hurt him badly. I stopped.”
“Sat back down on the stool. Lit a cigarette. Looked at them. They were lying there, wheezing, crying.”
“And suddenly I realized I didn’t feel satisfied. I didn’t feel relief. Just empty inside. Hurting them hadn’t made me better. Hadn’t made me happy.”
“And Mike still never came?”
“No. I waited until three in the morning, then understood he wasn’t coming. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he sensed something. I don’t know.”
“Sometime after two, the neighbor started knocking on the door, and I knew it was over. I called the police myself. Gave the address.”
“Said there’d been an incident and they needed to come. Then I sat down and smoked and waited for you.”
“Why were you waiting for the fourth one? Why did you need Mike?” I asked.
Ellie looked at me for a long moment.
“Because Mike was the worst of them. The cruelest. He came up with the games. The humiliations.”
“Victor was weak. He followed Mike’s lead. Steve and Kyle just took advantage. But Mike…”
“He enjoyed my pain. Enjoyed my fear. He used to say I should be grateful they paid any attention to me at all. That a girl like me was worth nothing to anybody, and at least they were making use of me.”
“I wanted him to answer for it. To pay for all of it. But it didn’t happen. So be it.”
Four months passed. July that same year. Brutal heat, pavement soft in the sun. I stood outside the courthouse smoking. They were reading the verdict that day.
Those four months had been strange. Ellie sat in county lockup. I saw her several times as part of the investigation.
She stayed calm. Read books a volunteer from a women’s support group brought her. Never complained.
The trial was closed to the public at the request of the defense, to keep the sexual details out of open court. The prosecutor asked for eight years for aggravated assault and unlawful restraint. The defense argued for probation, citing the long-term abuse she had endured.
The witnesses—Steve, Kyle, and Victor—gave tangled, inconsistent testimony. One minute they said Ellie attacked them for no reason. The next they admitted there had been sexual contact, but claimed it was consensual. Then they said she was mentally unstable and demanded an evaluation.
Mike never appeared. He left town right after that night, and nobody could find him. Vanished like smoke. Maybe that was for the best.
The psychiatric evaluation found Ellie competent. Yes, severe stress. Yes, depression. But no psychosis, no break with reality.
She knew what she was doing. She was in control of her actions. That meant she was legally responsible. But the defense had witnesses too.
Neighbors testified they often heard screaming from the apartment. That they had seen Ellie bruised. That they were afraid of Victor and his friends. A doctor from the clinic confirmed Ellie had come in with injuries.
Her supervisor at the plant said she had been a quiet, dependable worker until she moved in with Victor. The judge, a woman in her 50s with gray hair and tired eyes, listened to all of it, took notes, asked questions.
At the end she asked Ellie, “Do you regret what you did?”
