Shotgun Wedding

Diana's POV

The days in the cell dragged like years.

Three days had passed, and no one had asked me a single question. No lawyer, no explanation, no hearing of my side of the story. Just silence.

They gave me one meal a day, barely enough to keep me upright. The rest of the time, I sat on the cold bench, my head lowered, my stomach twisting with hunger and grief. I had been thrown here straight from the hospital, still in the thin gown that barely covered me. My bandaged hand throbbed, the burn screaming for care, but no one paid attention.

When I first heard the voice outside the bars, I didn’t look up.

"Hey."

I ignored it. I had learned it was safer not to respond.

The scrape of metal came next, the lock turning. My head lifted just as an officer stepped inside. His expression was void of pity. Without a word, he yanked me to my feet and snapped cold cuffs around my wrists.

"Where are you taking me?" My voice cracked.

"Shut your mouth," he barked, shoving me toward the door. "One more word, and I’ll knock you out. We’ve been given freedom to deal with you however we like while you await trial."

The way he said it chilled me. Freedom. To hurt me. To silence me.

He dragged me into a bare room with a single chair. With a shove, he forced me onto it. My weak arm buckled, and I almost toppled. He stood over me, eyes narrowed with authority that reeked of cruelty.

"Here’s the deal." He tossed a sheet of paper on the table. Blank. Not a single word on it. "We need your signature for comparison. So you’ll sign here." His thick finger jabbed the bottom corner.

I frowned. "Why would I sign a plain piece of paper?"

His eyes flashed. "You’re not here to ask questions. Sign the damn thing."

I reached for the pen but hesitated. Something felt wrong. Too wrong. I looked up at him.

"I said, sign!" His hand lashed out across my face. The slap cracked like thunder. My head whipped sideways, and I tasted blood instantly. My lip split. A tooth loosened.

Tears stung my eyes, but I forced my shaking hand to pick up the pen that had clattered to the floor. My name spilled across the paper in trembling strokes.

He snatched it back with a sneer and walked out. Moments later, another officer came and hauled me back to my cell like a sack of dirt.

The next morning, they shoved a faded orange prison jumper into my hands.

"Change."

I thought the officer would leave, but he stayed. Leaning against the bars, arms folded, he watched. My skin crawled under his gaze, but I had no choice. I slipped out of the flimsy gown, clutching at what dignity I had left, and pulled the jumper on. He smirked, clamped cuffs on my wrists, and shoved me into the back of a police van.

I didn’t dare ask where we were going. I knew the punishment for asking questions.

When the van doors opened, the truth hit me. The courthouse loomed tall and merciless before me.

Inside, they led me into the courtroom. Shackles weighed down my wrists and ankles, clinking with every step. My bandaged hand throbbed so badly I suspected infection had set in, but the pain didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.

The room buzzed with whispers. I forced my gaze forward, only to falter.

There they were. Mrs Smith, draped in black, a veil shadowing her face. Beside her sat Gordon, also dressed in mourning. His hand rested on hers, their united front as chilling as it was false.

I froze. Mourning. For whom?

"All rise," the clerk intoned.

The judge entered. I barely heard the formalities, my ears ringing.

"Proceed," the judge said briskly.

The Smith family’s lawyer stood, slick in a dark suit. He introduced himself, then began presenting what he called evidence. He laid out papers, photographs, and bottles. Each item, each word, carved deeper into my horror.

Poison. The cause of Mr Smith’s death, they claimed.

And the accused, me.

My knees buckled under me. My stomach dropped. Mr Smith was dead? When? How?

The lawyer’s voice was clear, practised, rehearsed. He painted me as a conniving wife, a gold-digger who poisoned her husband's father for his wealth. He spoke of motive, of opportunity, of confession.

Confession?

I hadn’t confessed to anything.

Then, like a nightmare, another man rose. A stranger. "Your honour, I represent the accused."

My lawyer? I stared at him, but he never looked my way. His words drove the last nail in my coffin.

"My client has admitted her actions privately," he declared solemnly. "We ask the court to temper justice with mercy. She acted out of desperation, not malice."

The room tilted. My lips parted, but no sound came. He was lying. They all were.

It lasted no more than half an hour. A mockery of justice. The Smiths sat serene, their grief convincing. Gordon’s gaze flickered toward me once, his lips curving in a smile so slight it made bile rise in my throat.

At last, the gavel fell.

"Guilty."

The word shattered me.

"Sentenced to life imprisonment."

Tears streamed down my face as the hammer struck wood. With that sound, my future was sealed.

They transferred me to Lynwood Women’s Prison. The intake process blurred past me: searches, papers, stripped dignity. They shoved me into a cell that stank of sweat and mildew.

Later, I unwrapped the bandage around my hand. My breath hitched. The burn looked worse than I remembered, raw, angry, oozing in places. It needed treatment, but I had nothing. Not even a clean cloth. I considered tearing my jumper, but the fear of infecting it worse stopped me. I left it bare, hoping air alone might do something.

By evening, they herded us into the dining hall for supper. My hunger gnawed, but I barely touched the food.

That was when an officer’s voice cut through. "Wilson. On your feet."

I obeyed and followed her out. We walked into a small room, and she frowned when she saw my hand. "What the hell is that?"

"Hot oil burn. Untreated." My voice was flat.

"You’ll need to file a health service request form." She shook her head. Then, almost as an afterthought, she handed me a phone. "But first, someone’s on the line for you."

I pressed it to my ear, cautious. "Hello?"

"Hello, Ms Wilson."

The voice froze my blood. Recognition hit instantly. It was my mother’s doctor.

I stiffened, trembling. Since my marriage, my contact with my mother had dwindled to rare, stifled phone calls. Once, I was arrested, even that was stolen from me. My heart raced. Why would he be calling me now?

His next words ripped the air from my lungs.

"Ms Wilson… I’m sorry to inform you that your mother passed away earlier today. Heart failure, brought on by extreme shock. We tried everything. But we lost her."

The phone slipped from my grip. My throat closed. "Okay," I whispered, blinking rapidly as my vision swam.

Shock surged through me like fire, then ice. My knees weakened. Darkness clouded the edges of my sight.

"Ms Wilson? Are you alright?" the officer asked sharply.

Her voice faded. My ears buzzed.

And then, light.

My mother appeared before me, radiant in a flowing white dress. Her face was peaceful, her smile soft. She looked younger, freer, unburdened by pain.

"Stay strong, my brave little angel," she said, her voice echoing like a melody. "Things will not be like this forever."

I reached for her, desperate, but before I could touch her, the darkness claimed me fully.

And I fell.