A Wind Blows In

The girl who murdered three people had my face.
So, they arrested me. They extracted my memories for a global live stream.
Turns out, my brain is full of things that need a censor bar to be shown.
The judge, red-faced with anger, demanded, What on earth do you spend your time watching?
I feigned surprise. "Why? You want the links?"
The internet audience: LMAO.
They let me go, admitting they'd arrested the wrong person.
But did they really?

1
In the courtroom, the judge’s voice boomed. "Defendant, the surveillance footage is crystal clear. Are you still going to deny it?"
I licked my dry lips, repeating the same words I’d said a thousand times over the past few days.
"I didn't kill anyone. That wasn't me!"
But the evidence was right there. A wave of murmurs rippled through the gallery.
"Tch, three lives lost. If it wasn't her, who was it?"
"The nerve of her. The Smiths were such decent, hardworking people, and she just butchered them!"
"And that poor girl, Jessica. Same age as her. Such a tragedy…"
The judge slammed his gavel, and the room fell silent.
I delivered my final statement. "Memories don't lie. I will submit to a Memory Trial to prove my innocence."
In this age of advanced technology, the memories of the most heinous criminals were extracted and broadcast live as a warning to the world. It was a brutal process. The subject endured not only excruciating physical pain but also the complete annihilation of their private self under the public gaze. For humanitarian reasons, the Memory Trial was reserved only for those already sentenced to death.
I was the first person in history to demand it for myself during a trial.

2
The courtroom, which had just quieted down, erupted again.
The judge stared at me, his eyes unblinking. I met his gaze, my jaw set, my intention clear. The case of a fragile-looking eighteen-year-old girl accused of murdering three people, boiling their remains, and feeding them to dogs was too sensational to ignore. The public, driven by a morbid curiosity, craved the gruesome details more than the truth itself.
The judge was only human. He was no exception.
After he gave his consent, I was led into a massive, sterile chamber. The only sounds in the white room were the steady beeps of machinery. Orderlies and technicians strapped me onto a bed. In a few minutes, my entire life, my every thought, would be on display for the world to see.
I felt a strange thrill, like opening a mystery box.
I was actually a little excited to see what they would find.
A rainbow of wires was attached to my body, and a searing pain shot through my skull. Within seconds, my body started convulsing uncontrollably. Then, an image flickered to life on the massive screen, accompanied by text transcribing my thoughts.
These were my memories.

3
In a dimly lit room, I was burrowed under my covers, the sound of rain tapping against the window. The faint glow of my phone illuminated my face, revealing a sly, almost perverted grin.
Whispers broke out in the gallery. "Creepy. Is she researching murder techniques?"
"Look at that smile. She has to be!"
Before they could finish their sentence, the contents of my screen filled the broadcast.
Android x Female CEO, Multiple Scenarios...
What I was browsing made jaws drop, both in the courtroom and in homes across the world.
Well, damn.
Everyone sat up straighter, their faces flushing as they continued to watch, utterly captivated.
Hours passed. My memories consisted of nothing but browsing websites, binge-watching anime, and reading web fiction.
The judge was gritting his teeth, his face a thundercloud.
Incest tropes, silver-haired love interests, groveling exes, gender-bender, male suffering…
Where were the details of the murder?

4
Once a live stream starts, it can’t be stopped without a result. If his superiors accused him of incompetence, his career would be over. With that thought, the judge steeled himself and ordered the trial to continue.
He had the technicians fast-forward, selecting memories from the days surrounding the murders and playing them at high speed. It was a way to save time, but for me, it multiplied the agony.
"She's only in pain for a little while," a comment flashed on screen. "Those three people lost their lives."
Everyone had already decided I was a cold-blooded killer. The more I suffered, the more they reveled in it.
The hum of the machine intensified, and a picture-in-picture display showed my writhing form alongside my memories. I was screaming, my voice raw with pain. People online were cheering, thoroughly enjoying the show.
Their sick pleasure didn't last long. The selected memories finished playing.
There wasn't a single shred of evidence that I had killed anyone. Not even a passing thought of murder. Aside from the… questionable start, the rest of the broadcast painted a clear picture: I was just a normal high school senior on break. Besides my phone, the places I frequented were the local park and the apartment of my elderly blind neighbor, Mrs. Gable.
The time of the murder, according to the security footage, was 6 PM. At that exact moment, my memory showed me walking back from the park and eating dinner at Mrs. Gable's.
"Come on, they seriously got the wrong person."
"If it wasn't for the Memory Trial, this poor girl would have been wrongfully convicted."
The live chat flooded with questions and outrage. The judge was sweating bullets.
The murderer in the footage was a 99.9% match to me. Yet my memories proved I was completely innocent.
If I wasn't the killer, then who was?
As he grappled with this, a middle-aged woman burst through the courtroom doors. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
Before the judge could speak, she let out a choked cry. "She's the only daughter I have left! Are you trying to kill her? If Chloe dies, I'll die with her!"
My mother's voice, broadcast into the chamber. The "Chloe" she was talking about was me.
The judge seized on a key phrase. He cut her off. "Wait. What do you mean, 'the only daughter you have left'?"
His career, his reputation—it all hinged on this case. A glint appeared behind his glasses as he frantically shuffled through the papers on his desk.
In the section for my family members, there was a note: a twin sister, missing for twelve years.
The judge’s voice was grim. "Take her memories back twelve years. I want to see what happened!"

5
The crackle of electricity filled the air. My head felt like it was being split open with an axe. This time, the pain was so intense I couldn't even scream. A powerful electrical current tore through my consciousness, pulling everyone deep into my past.
The screen flickered, showing a grainy, washed-out image. It felt like watching an old, forgotten film.
In a crowded, chaotic train station, I was six years old, holding my sister on my lap as we sat on the floor. Not far from us, our parents were locked in a bitter argument.
Suddenly, a couple holding their own daughter’s hand walked over to us, their smiles overly friendly.
"Hey there, little ones. Where are your mommy and daddy?"
The memory had been playing for less than a minute, but the audience was already in shock. The couple was none other than the murder victims, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. And the little girl with them was the third victim, Jessica, as a child.
According to the investigation, the Smiths had no connection to Jessica. How did they know each other?
Hooked, everyone leaned in closer.
In my memory, my sister was always more outgoing than me. She wasn't shy. She nodded and answered the couple's questions. They offered her candy, and she chased after their daughter, giggling.
As soon as my sister was out of sight, the couple tried to grab me. That's when I realized they weren't nice people at all.
Terrified, I clung to our luggage and started wailing, my shrill cries finally drawing the attention of the people around us. My oblivious parents finally noticed something was wrong.
But it was too late.
The traffickers vanished into the crowd, and my sister disappeared with them, like a drop of rain into the ocean.
A wave of sympathy and horror washed over the gallery. So, the sister was a kidnapping victim. Those traffickers deserved to die.
Wait. The traffickers were dead.
This was premeditated murder. The killer was clearly avenging the kidnapping from all those years ago.

6
The scene shifted.
My father, unshaven and reeking of stale alcohol, stood over my six-year-old self, screaming.
"This is all your fault! You were supposed to watch your sister!" he bellowed. "Why wasn't it you who got taken? You must have let her go on purpose! You're a curse, just like your useless mother! Why don't you just die…"
The audience was furious. I glanced at the live chat; it was a stream of question marks and outrage.
"He has the nerve to blame a six-year-old child when he's the one who wasn't watching them?"
"Calling him a moron is an insult to morons."
"I was saving up my daily quota of rage, but I'll spend it all on this guy."
Their furious comments were almost funny enough to make me forget the pain.
My father was a monster, but he was right about one thing. I hadn't watched her closely enough. If I had been more alert, if I had stopped her from following them, if I had just started crying sooner…
That thought had tortured me every single day for twelve years. Not a day went by that I wasn't drowning in regret.
I closed my eyes on the medical bed, unable to watch this soul-crushing memory any longer. My immense emotional distress caused the live feed to flicker and distort. The technician quickly switched to a different time period, and my near-breakdown state began to stabilize.
What they had seen was more than enough to prove my innocence.
The technician spoke up, his voice piped into the courtroom. "The Memory Trial is extremely damaging to the subject. May I request permission to terminate the procedure?"
By now, any sympathy the audience had for the deceased had transformed into a profound sense of guilt and pity for me. They echoed the technician's sentiment in the chat.
"Chloe didn't kill anyone! Stop the broadcast!"
"They should have stopped when they went back twelve years. An innocent person shouldn't have to endure this."

7
My voice trembled. "Please, I don't want to continue." After all, the more they saw, the more of my private life was exposed. At this rate, I’d never be able to show my face in public again.
The judge, however, was high on the thrill of nearing the truth. He ignored everyone. He wanted more, more clues, anything to wrap up this nationally sensationalized case as quickly as possible.
Most people would assume that, with a missing twin and a solid alibi, I was simply a case of mistaken identity.
The judge didn't think so.
He snorted, speaking deliberately for the audience to hear. "Chloe never mentioned having a twin sister during her interrogation. It's highly likely she is harboring a fugitive!"
It was true. I hadn't said a word about my sister to the police. He was using that as leverage to keep me here.
With no proof that I hadn't been in contact with my sister, the tide of public opinion turned once more.
"What if they're accomplices? The judge has a point…"
"If she's truly innocent, she has nothing to hide. Let's see more."
It was all speculation. I had the right to stop the trial. But then a thought crossed my mind. Isn't the purpose of a Memory Trial to serve as a warning to the world?
So, I said nothing.
The broadcast now showed my father’s relentless abuse of my mother and me. My younger self was a tiny, wounded kitten, curled in a corner, terrified to move, lest any action trigger another beating.
The man was slurring his words. "Give me the money, you bitch! I know you hid it from me…"
My mother was sobbing hysterically. "Gambling again! If you hadn't lost all our money, I wouldn't have been fighting with you at the station that day! My Diana never would have been lost!"
He bent down and slapped her across the face, then kicked her harder.
The audience had been feeling sorry for my mother, but when they heard the name "Diana," that sympathy evaporated.

8
"Anyone with half a brain knows that passing on your genes is what matters, not having a son."
"This man treats her like dirt, and she still won't leave him?"
Seeing the comments, my mother, in the courtroom, lowered her head in shame. Was she regretting not leaving him sooner? No. She was just embarrassed. She'd been brainwashed for too long, always thinking, Men mature late. In a few more years, for the sake of the kids, he'll change. I just have to endure a little longer.
If my father were still alive, she would have endured it for a lifetime, dragging me down into his shadow with her.
But thankfully, my father was dead.
At that thought, a small, pleased smile touched my lips. The technician gave me a strange look.
I quickly snapped out of it, scrunching up my face. "Ow, it hurts so much…" I groaned.
The judge scowled impatiently. "Skip this! Find any connection between Chloe and her sister!" He waved his hand dismissively, urging the technician to speed it up.
The technician was a tall, handsome man. When I was first brought in, he'd looked at me as if I were a monster. But after seeing my memories, his demeanor had softened completely. Now, his eyes were full of pity.
He spoke to me gently. "This next part might be very difficult. You should… brace yourself."
I nodded, trying to give him a reassuring smile. He turned back to the console, his long fingers dancing across the keyboard. My memories began to flash by like a chaotic film reel. Even in the blur, it was clear that some of those memories were the kind you only revisit tucked away under the covers.

9
I caught a glimpse of a smirk on the technician's face.
Then, the judge's exasperated voice crackled through the speakers. "Chloe, you're so young! What on earth are you spending all your time looking at?"
You're the ones who insisted on digging through my private life, and now you're judging me for it?
I kept the thought to myself, putting on an innocent expression. "Why? You want the links?"
Of course, I said it on purpose.
The judge fell silent, shooting a venomous glare at my image on the screen.
The live chat went wild.
"I came here for a murder investigation, not to look in a mirror."
"Hey, it's my one hobby. I'm not killing anyone or setting fires. Leave me alone, lol."
Even through the pain, I had to stifle a laugh.
But I knew they wouldn't be laughing for much longer. Because my sister was about to show the entire world what happens to a child who is stolen.
The technician hit a key, and the broadcast locked onto a single, clear memory. A girl with my face appeared on screen.
She stood before me, her expression calm as she showed me the scars on her body.
My hand trembled as I reached out, tracing the dense, raised keloid scars that crisscrossed her skin, a testament to years of untreated wounds. They were hideous. So hideous it shattered me. This wasn't the body of a normal eighteen-year-old girl.
Staring at the horrific marks, tears streamed down my face. My voice was a choked whisper. "Diana… does it hurt?"
I’d never liked the name our parents gave her. I always called her Diana.

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