TWO REALITIES COLLIDE IN LOVE

CHAPTER 3

Alexander’s POV

The King County Superior Court wasn’t built for justice. It was built for a show. The high ceilings made every cough and footstep echo. The dark wooden walls felt like a coffin slowly closing around me. I sat at the defense table in a suit that hung off my thin body, feeling less like I was in a courtroom and more like I was in an arena where people came to watch someone die.

Outside, protesters shouted nonstop. I had been rushed in through a back door, a jacket pulled over my head to protect me from spit, raw eggs, and thrown rocks. Still, I could hear them.

“Killer!”

“Monster!”

“Eye for an eye!”

These were the same people who once wore shirts with my face on them. Now they wanted me dead.

Next to me sat my court-appointed lawyer, Miller. He looked tired and scared. He smelled like peppermint and stress as he flipped through his papers with shaky hands.

“Stay calm, Alex,” he whispered. “Don’t look at the crowd. Don’t look at the cameras.”

But I looked anyway.

The courtroom was packed. In the front row sat my Uncle Victor. He looked older, smaller, and completely broken. Behind him were strangers, all staring at me like they were waiting for a show. And standing tall at the center of it all was Richard Blackwell.

The lead prosecutor stepped up to the podium and carefully adjusted the microphone, like he had all the time in the world. He looked at the jury, twelve normal people who could decide if I lived or died, and saw an audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Blackwell said, his smooth voice filling the room, “the story of Alexander Blackwood is one we all thought we understood. We saw the gold medal. We saw the smile. We saw a proud father and a loving mother. We believed we were watching greatness.”

He stopped and let the silence sink in. Then he walked over to the evidence table, picked up a large photo, and turned it toward the jury.

It was my living room.

The TV was still on, showing the World Cup logo. But below it, the carpet was soaked in blood.

“But this,” Blackwell said quietly, “is the truth. This is the victory Alexander Blackwood really wanted. Not a medal, but a gun. And a home with no one left to control him.”

“Objection!” Miller jumped up. His voice was weak. “That’s inflammatory, Your Honor.”

“Sustained,” the judge said, bored. But it didn’t matter. The jurors kept staring at the photo. Some of them looked at me like I made them sick.

Blackwell didn’t stop.

For the next three hours, he destroyed me piece by piece. He called neighbors who talked about “late-night arguments.” A former coach who said I was “obsessed with being perfect.” Then he called the friends I had gone out drinking with just a week before the murders.

By the time he was done, I wasn’t a person anymore.

I was already guilty.

“And what exactly did the defendant say to you that night, Mr. Henderson?” Blackwell asked. His voice was sharp as he stared at the young man shaking on the witness stand.

The witness glanced at me. His face was full of guilt. “He… he said he was tired of his dad. He said he wished his dad would just disappear, so he could finally breathe.”

“He wished he would disappear,” Blackwell repeated, turning toward the jury. “And one week later, Oliver Blackwood didn’t just disappear. He was wiped out. Shot with the same perfect accuracy that once made this boy a national hero.”

The room started to spin. This isn’t real, I thought. This has to be a nightmare.

“The prosecution calls the defendant, Alexander Lawson, to the stand,” Blackwell said suddenly.

The courtroom gasped. Miller jumped up immediately. “Your Honor, my client did not agree to testify!”

“I want to testify,” I said. My voice shook, but it cut through the noise. I ignored Miller pulling at my sleeve and stood up. I was tired of being silent. Tired of being used like a toy in Blackwell’s show. I needed to speak for myself.

The walk to the witness stand felt like it would never end. I placed my hand on the cold Bible and took the oath. A chill ran through my body as I sat down.

Blackwell moved fast. He left the podium and came straight at me, like a predator that had finally cornered its prey.

“You’re a marksman, aren’t you, Alex?” he asked.

“I was,” I said quietly.

“You don’t miss. That’s your gift,” he continued. “That’s why you won gold. You can hit a target from ten meters without even thinking. Isn’t that true?”

“I practiced a lot.”

“And that night,” Blackwell’s voice grew louder, filling the room, “you practiced on your own family! You practiced on your mother! On your little brother! And you didn’t miss once! Four shots! Four perfect hits! Just like the Olympics!”

“No!” I screamed. The sound ripped out of my chest. “I wasn’t there! I loved them!”

“You hated them!” Blackwell shouted back. His face was right in front of mine. “You hated the pressure! You hated the expectations! You killed them because you were weak and wanted an easy escape! You’re human trash, Alexander! Say it! Admit you liked pulling that trigger one last time!”

The courtroom exploded. People jumped to their feet, yelling insults. Guards rushed in, trying to calm everyone down.

I stared at Blackwell. In that moment, he didn’t feel like just a man.

He felt like a storm.

And he was determined to destroy me.

“How?” I choked as fear hit me all at once. “How can you lie like that, you crazy bastard?”

I jumped over the railing of the witness stand, reaching for Blackwell’s throat. In that moment, I didn’t see a lawyer or a courtroom. I saw the man who stole my pain and turned it into a show.

Guards rushed in right away. They grabbed me and slammed me to the floor. My face scraped against the cold, hard ground.

“Get him out!” the judge yelled, slamming his gavel.

They dragged me out of the courtroom. My knees burned as they scraped against the carpet. As I was pulled away, I saw Blackwell one last time. He calmly fixed his tie. A small, cold smile crossed his face.

He had won.

He had pushed the “Golden Boy” until the world finally saw a “monster.”

The heavy courtroom doors slammed shut behind me. The flickering lights above were the last thing I saw as they led me away, toward my end.

Back in my holding cell, I collapsed to the floor. I couldn’t even cry anymore.

“I didn’t do it,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m not a murderer.”

But when I looked at my reflection in the shiny metal of the toilet, I didn’t recognize myself.

I didn’t look like a hero anymore.

I looked like a tragedy.

I was the fallen hero.