A Pack of Light

Episode 1: The Courtroom’s Shadow ISABELLE'S P. O. V. They say the truth sets you free. But in this room, where justice is supposed to breathe, all I feel is suffocation. I sit quietly on the witness bench, my palms clammy, my heart a rock inside my chest. The air is thick with tension, but it's not in my favor. I can hear the soft murmur of voices behind me—whispers really, but loud enough to hear the disbelief in their tone. "Is that her? The one who accused Marco?" "She doesn't even look... traumatized." "I heard she had cancer. Maybe she just wants sympathy." I stare ahead, forcing my eyes not to dart toward the crowd. I don't want to see the sneers or the eyes filled with pity or worse, disdain. The courtroom feels colder than it should be. Marco sits across from me, a mask of ease painted on his face. His posture relaxed, his suit crisp, and his eyes—calculated. There isn’t even a flicker of guilt on his face. He has every reason to be confident. His father’s money has probably already paid for every ounce of power in this room. The prosecutor, a woman with sharp features and a voice that cuts through the fog, steps forward. "Mr. Gutierrez, on the night of September 14, did you force yourself into the apartment of Miss Isabelle Santos?" Marco leans forward slightly, offering a gentle smile that sickens me. "No, ma’am. Isabelle and I are friends. That night, she invited me over." Invited? I clench my fists. "Did you engage in s****l i*********e with Miss Santos?" "Yes, but it was entirely consensual. We were both... emotionally vulnerable, and one thing led to another." I taste bile in my mouth. Lies. Every word from his mouth drips with poison. But the audience eats it up like gospel. "And at no point did she say 'no' or resist you?" "No, she didn't," Marco answers, his voice almost offended. "In fact, she seemed... welcoming." A few people in the courtroom chuckle. The judge doesn't reprimand them. I look down at my lap, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. The prosecutor doesn’t flinch. "So you deny any act of force, coercion, or intimidation?" "Completely." She steps back. "No further questions, Your Honor." Then comes the shift in the room. The defense lawyer stands up—a tall man with graying temples and a smug expression that makes my skin crawl. He walks toward the witness stand with exaggerated calm. "Mr. Gutierrez, thank you for your honesty," he begins. "Now, let’s paint a clearer picture. You’ve been courting Miss Santos for how long?" "About five months." "And in that time, did she ever tell you she was uncomfortable with your attention?" "Never," Marco says. "She accepted my gifts, my time, even flirted." I feel a chill. Is he rewriting our entire history? The lawyer turns to the crowd, pacing slowly. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us consider a possibility here. What if Miss Santos is not the victim, but a regretful participant in an intimate moment?" "Objection," the prosecutor interjects. "Speculative." "Withdrawn," the lawyer says, smiling. Then he shifts toward me. "Miss Santos," he says. "You claim to have been raped." I lift my chin. "Yes." "And yet, you allowed my client into your home that night?" "He asked to come in and apologize. I... I believed he was sincere." "So you trusted him?" "I thought I could." "And you were alone?" "Yes." He steps closer. "Miss Santos, the court acknowledges your previous breast cancer diagnosis. Is it true you underwent a mastectomy last year?" The question hits me like a slap. I pause, shame crawling up my neck. "Yes." He nods thoughtfully, then turns to the jury. "Now, forgive my bluntness. But I ask you to consider this—what man, especially a young man with options, would r**e a woman with no breasts?" A gasp spreads through the courtroom. It was deliberate. A blow meant to pierce. "Objection!" the prosecutor yells. "Irrelevant. Inflammatory." The judge holds up a hand, his face unreadable. "Sustained. Mr. Ortega, watch your language." But the damage is done. I sit frozen. That sentence—that single, vile sentence—echoes louder than anything else. It doesn’t just question my body; it questions my worth. I look up and see Marco’s eyes dart toward me. Cold. Distant. The judge finally speaks. "Given the duration of today’s hearing, the court will adjourn. We will resume tomorrow at 9 AM sharp." A gavel hits wood. I stand slowly, my knees unsteady. Reporters begin to gather by the door, ready to spin whatever truth sells. As I step out into the hallway, I hear someone behind me scoff. "I told you, no man would touch a girl like that unless she wanted it." My fists clench again. I don’t remember walking out. I just remember the cold air hitting my face. I lean against a wall, my chest heaving. My whole body is trembling—not from fear, but fury. There was a time when I believed in justice. In dignity. In the idea that if something terrible happened to you, someone would fight for you. But inside that courtroom, I realized something else. They weren’t trying to find the truth. They were trying to erase mine. And tomorrow, I will sit again in that courtroom, knowing that no one cares what really happened. Still, I will not break. They may have silenced my body. But I still have my voice. And I will make them hear me.