I wanted to do my own little adventure around the city today that didn't involve Michael or Lucy. I went to a place I used to visit many times when I was younger: the library. Ideally, the New York Public Library, which was the one I was going to today. I remember spending hours roaming around and looking at books, some I knew I couldn't even read. My parents never wondered or questioned where I was, in fact, I think they were just glad I was gone.
When I stepped into the giant library, it almost felt nostalgic. I felt like a child again; lost in the museum of books and stories that could allow me to escape from reality. It was the only place I could get away from the noise of the city or from my parents' constant fighting, and bury my nose in the pages. I wandered around, scanning different titles and authors while also admiring the grand building. It was all so peaceful, no wonder I loved it here as a kid.
After only half an hour of wandering, I came across some newspapers. But, not all recent ones, some were from years ago. 1966, 1967, 1968.... 1969. It caught my attention, and as soon as I saw a stack from 1969, my mind raced to one thing. I dug through them, trying to find one specific article. And, well, it didn't take me long to find. At the time, no one had seen anything like it since some girl named Mary Bell a year prior. Everyone had a freak out that children were turning into monstrous killing machines, and we were entering some new era of rebellion. It was ridiculous, of course, but I can't blame them. My case was everywhere in the papers, the press ate it up. A child being accused of murdering her father was the type of story they were searching for- their big money maker. My pathetic mugshot was on practically every pole and article you turned to at the time. It was humiliating, I guess that's one way to build a reputation.
Well, I wanted to find out more about who really killed my father anyways, and I guess this is a start. It just wasn't what I was exactly expecting to find first, I didn't even know they still had copies of this exact newspaper. I began to read the article, examining everything they wrote about me.
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"A ten year old under the name of Cynthia Quinn has been accused of murdering her own father, David Quinn, around 15th street at approximately 22:00. Her mother, Michelle, frantically called 911 after witnessing her in the act. "I always knew she was a troubled young girl and never took a liking to her father," says Michelle, "but I never expected she would ever commit such a horrifying crime". Her friends and family are all taken by surprise by this incident, grieving the loss of a beloved husband and father. She is expected to appear in court in the upcoming weeks.
More on this case will be posted as we receive more updates."
Blah blah blah, crime rates, blah blah blah, "evil lies in the most innocent forms". It was almost jarring to read something like this knowing how untrue it was. What the hell did she mean "troubled young girl"? I never did anything! I did mostly everything on my own, I hardly ever got into real trouble. The only "trouble" I got into was being yelled at by my mom or dad for stupid shit like not doing the dishes without being asked to. It baffles me how anyone with half a brain could sit there and truly believe that I was a murderer. I was ten years old, for Christ's sake. I was smart for my age, but not that smart. I hardly understood the concept of death, let alone murder.
