The trial kicked off.

Screens encircled the platform while several technicians came forward to sanitize me for the procedure.

As the thick tubes were inserted into my brain, I managed a nod to the judge through the intense pain.

He dropped the gavel and began, "Charge one: disrespecting your stepfather, showing no gratitude, shamelessly exploiting men for money, bringing disgrace to your family."

Instantly, the screens flashed to life, displaying memories submitted by the plaintiffs.

There was fifteen-year-old me, rushing at my stepfather with a furious swing. Just home from his labor job, he was unprepared for my punch that sent blood dripping from his jaw.

Cut to another memory. Me at fifteen, my face full of disdain as I knocked a fifty-dollar bill from my mom's hand, yelling, "Really? This is pocket change. Are you kidding me?"

Then, me in a chic dress, and bright lipstick, hanging onto a shy, handsome boy, cooing, "Hey, Johnny, did you get your allowance? Hand over five hundred, will you?"

The comments went wild.

[What a schemer! Flirting right in the open, huh?]

[No shame, hitting her stepdad who's breaking his back to educate her!]

[Ingrate! Knows damn well the family's scrape, and still complains about money! Disgusting!]

[She deserves to be found guilty!]

My stepfather smirked triumphantly; my mom clutched at her heart in agony while my stepsister dabbed at her tears in secret.

As the jury furiously tapped on their screens, my memories played out for them.

A minute later, the live vote appeared on the big screen.

[Not Guilty!]

The comments section erupted.

[What a joke! How's that not guilty? Did the jury lose their minds?]

Amidst a barrage of insults, the judge looked at me resignedly.

[Defendant, would you like to share your memories on the big screen?]

Confronted with relentless demands from the commenters, I took a deep breath.

"I'm willing."

There I was at fifteen, holding my mom's hand, walking into my stepdad's house nervously.

He sat on the couch, scowling as he sized me up, while my stepsister devoured a cream cake beside him.

I couldn't help but eye the cake hungrily, swallowing hard.

My mom caught this and slapped me so hard that I tumbled to the floor.

"Embarrassing creature! Get down and show some respect! Look at you, drooling over cake like you deserve it!"

I stood my ground, refusing to kneel. My mom forced my head down, banging it repeatedly against the cold floor until my face was smeared with blood. Only then did my stepfather crack a satisfied grin.

That night, I was allowed to sleep in the living room.

In the dead of night, my bandaged wounds throbbed painfully from infection. Curled on the floor, I whimpered quietly.

My stepsister, on her way to the bathroom, heard me and yelled, "Get out of here!"

My mom and stepdad were also awakened by the noise. They all looked on coldly as I tried to explain, but my mom interrupted me.

With an icy tone I'd never heard before, she suggested, "Maybe you should sleep in the hallway."

Terrified, I curled up in the dark hallway, shaking uncontrollably.

I whispered to myself, "Hold on, Lexi. Just a little longer till dawn."

But I almost didn't see the next sunrise.

I was freezing, curled into a ball, my head throbbing without reason.

In a blurry vision, I saw my deceased father smiling and reaching out to me, beckoning me to join him.

Instinctively, I reached out, but just as I was about to touch him, I realized he had been gone for years.

I started sobbing loudly, "I don't want to die! I want to live! I still have school to attend!"

The next morning, as my mom was taking my stepsister to school, she discovered me lying in the hallway, convulsing, unconscious.

She knelt down and slapped me twice across the face.

"Lexi, you really play the part well, don't you? Get up, stop playing dead!"

When I remained unresponsive and started foaming at the mouth, she finally panicked.

A neighbor on his way to work saw my condition and hurriedly carried me to the hospital.

The doctor diagnosed me with a high fever from an infected wound and urged immediate hospitalization to avoid death.

Yet, hearing the upfront cost, my mom hesitated.

She tried to pull me off the hospital bed, muttering, "This much for treatment? Why don't you just rob us? Lexi, get up, if you're going to die, do it at home!"

If not for the compassionate doctor who covered my medical expenses and cared for me, I might have died.

On the day of my discharge, she gently touched my head and said softly, "Lexi, take care of yourself. Remember, if you ever face any trouble, come find me."

I nodded, still too naive to understand that she would be my lifeline.

On the way home, I reassured myself quietly, "Just obey, Lexi. If you listen, things will start to look up."

But they didn't.

I never even got the chance to obey.