"My sister was my best friend. I've never known life without her."

I don’t care.

I did not care when I killed her, and I do not care now. Listening to these sniveling adults has not made me suddenly start caring. I listen as they stammer through their speeches about their children being taken too soon and how their siblings were simply the greatest person on Earth, and I fidget with the cuffs around my wrists, slouch deeper into my chair.

I am more affected by this cheap wooden chair than anything else; my back is stiff and my ass hurts from sitting for so long. Trials are too long and dreadfully boring after all the fun details are done being recounted.

The impact statements have been the worst by far. Your family was torn apart? Okay, so are many others every single day. Two people die every second, and they probably have families who care for them. You are not special. Your dead sister is not special.

I yawn. My jaw is tight from clenching my teeth, and the stretch feels nice, loosening my muscles a bit.

"Oh, I’m sorry, are you _bored_?"_ _The woman screeches._ "_Am I boring you by talking about my sister?"

I do not sigh in annoyance, even though it's my first instinct. I inhale evenly through my nose, taking a deep breath the way I've been taught in court-ordered therapy and anger management classes.

I know better than to speak, but I can’t help the smirk. Which, of course, riles her up even more, to the point that she’s yelling and the judge has to raise her voice in warning.

Now _that_ is exciting.

It could have been, anyway. Instead of continuing to make a scene, she takes a moment to gather herself. What a shame. Imagine getting kicked out of the trial of the year for going fucking ballistic on the guy who killed your sister — that's a _real_ impact statement.

Hers is the last, and thank god. I want to yawn in peace.

When she is seated again, the judge asks if I'd like to say anything to the families of my victims.

I would. Of course I would.

I look around the room, look at the misty eyes and mottled cheeks. I know what people think of me: That I wasn’t loved enough as a kid, that I hit my head one too many times and knocked something loose.

They want an explanation. They want to know _why._ That’s the common denominator in all of their stupid speeches — _why, why, why,_ like a toddler. They can't understand that I simply _am_. They've all been studying me under the blinding courtroom lights like scientists studying an animal, hanging onto every word I've said, desperately trying to understand something that is beyond them.

I look at the sister. I lean towards the microphone.

Most take this chance to apologize, or they try to continue pushing whatever bullshit story they've concocted with their defense team. But I am not sorry. I don't know these people. Their sobs do not pain me.

I'm not sorry, and I dislike lying.

“I am pretty bored, actually,” I say, and the high I feel from the uproar is glorious.