Slave to the Mafia Prison Gang

*** Liberty's POV ***

The morning light filters through the windows at the back of the lecture hall, casting a soft glow on the rows of seats, all filled with fresh eager young faces. The students are settled, whispering, and stealing furtive glances at me. The lecture hall itself is imposing, with its high ceilings and tiers of seating rising steeply. The walls are lined with shelves of books, giving the room a scholarly air. The whiteboard at the front boldly declares: "Criminal Psychology 201: Understanding Deviant Behavior and Rehabilitation."

I let my gaze sweep over the students, noting the mix of curiosity and apprehension. How many are here to truly learn, and how many are here just to gawk at the daughter of the infamous serial killer Terry Lockwood? There are always a few every year, the morbidly curious ones. It’s my third year teaching this course, ever since I earned my doctorate at twenty-one.

I take a deep breath, deciding to address the elephant in the room immediately. “Good morning, everyone. There are two sorts of people in this room. Those who really want to learn and those who are here to satisfy some sick curiosity. So, I’ll get it out of the way for you.”

A few students exchange nervous glances.

“Yes, I’m Liberty Lockwood, daughter of the serial killer Terry Lockwood, also known as the Bridgetown Butcher, who killed thirty-two women in the 90s during his gruesome killing spree. No, I never met him, and I can’t tell you what he was really like or why he committed his heinous crimes. Yes, I will be failing you if you ask me a single question from this point onward about either of my parents. No, this class is not a zoo for gawking at me. Ok, I’m glad we’ve gotten that out of the way. Any questions?”

Silence. Not a single brave soul dares to raise their hand. Some of the students look sheepish and embarrassed, perhaps disappointed that I won’t be sharing the sordid details of my personal life or the twisted lives of my infamous parents.

Not that my own life is perfect. I glance down at my left hand, the wedding ring still there, a stark reminder of my recent divorce. At twenty-three, I’m already divorced, the final papers signed just two weeks ago. I can’t seem to take the ring off, as if it’s welded to my finger. Now, here I am, standing before a lecture hall full of students not much younger than myself, feeling like I’ve already screwed up my life. I spend my days and nights slaving over my research on deviant criminal behavior and the rehabilitation of violent prisoners, trying to fix a broken justice system and understand the minds of others, when in reality, I’m probably the one who needs fixing the most.

“Now, let us begin,” I address the lecture hall, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

I launch into the course introduction, outlining the topics we’ll cover, the assignments, the expectations. As I speak, I see the students gradually shift their focus from me to the subject matter. They start to take notes, their expressions growing more serious. I push aside my personal demons, focusing on the lecture, on the science, on the potential to make a difference.

The session progresses, and I find my rhythm. We delve into the complexities of criminal psychology, examining case studies and theories. The students ask thoughtful questions, engage in discussions. For a while, I forget about the whispers, the furtive glances, the ring on my finger. I am in my element, doing what I love, what I’m good at.