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墨書 Inktalez
On the day of the trial, the entire village turned out, and the area outside the courthouse was packed with people. They held homemade signs that read: "Support Zhang Hong", "Against Domestic Violence", "Justice for Victims"… This scene brought tears to my eyes.
Inside the courtroom, the prosecutor was unexpectedly gentle. He detailed the case and then stated, "The victim, Wang Qiang, has long subjected the defendant to domestic violence, causing her to live in a state of extreme mental oppression. Although the defendant's actions constitute intentional homicide, we must consider the special circumstances of this case and recommend a lighter sentence."
My defense attorney presented a thick stack of evidence: my injury assessments, police reports, hospital diagnoses, witness testimonies, and even records from the village committee about Wang Qiang's drunken disturbances.
"The defendant committed the crime out of desperation after enduring unbearable suffering. She voluntarily surrendered to authorities afterward and truthfully confessed to her actions, showing remorse. According to Articles 232 and 67 of the People's Republic of China Criminal Law, we suggest that the court impose a lighter sentence on the defendant." The lawyer spoke passionately.
Throughout the trial, I felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue and relief. Regardless of the outcome, at least the truth was laid bare for all to see; at least someone heard my voice; at least my children knew I was not a monster who killed for selfish reasons.
After the trial concluded, the panel announced a recess and would deliver their verdict on another day. The wait for the judgment was excruciatingly long, but compared to the hell of the past twenty years, it was nothing.
I continued my life in detention, began reading books, and even taught other female inmates how to sew clothes.
A month later, the court delivered its verdict.
"The defendant Zhang Hong is guilty of intentional homicide. Given that victim Wang Qiang bears significant responsibility for this case due to his long-term domestic violence against the defendant; and considering that after the incident, the defendant voluntarily surrendered and truthfully confessed her actions while showing remorse, she is eligible for a lighter sentence under the law. The court sentences defendant Zhang Hong to five years in prison."
Five years. Much lighter than I had anticipated.
When the judge finished reading the verdict, I neither cried nor laughed; I simply nodded silently.
My lawyer told me, "This is already a very lenient sentence. Considering the special circumstances of the case, the court has shown maximum leniency."
As I walked out of the courthouse, sunlight fell on my face, and I took a deep breath. For the first time in twenty years, I felt so free and so light, even though five years of prison life awaited me.
In the crowd, my son and daughter ran towards me and hugged me tightly.
"Mom, we’re waiting for you to come back," my son said firmly.
"Five years will pass quickly; then we can live happily together," my daughter said with a smile while wiping her tears.
Holding my children close, I felt a mix of emotions. Yes, five years would soon be over, and the nightmare of twenty years had finally come to an end.
Women's Prison is not a paradise, but for me, it is a thousand times better than that home. Here, there are rules and order; no one comes back drunk in the middle of the night to beat me, no one burns my arms with cigarette butts, and no one threatens to kill me and my children.
I was assigned to work in the Sewing Workshop, which is exactly what I excel at. At first, the other inmates looked at me strangely; after all, I am a murderer. But as time passed and my story spread throughout the prison, those looks gradually transformed into sympathy and understanding.
"I understand you," a female inmate serving time for assault whispered to me. "I was once beaten so badly that I ended up in the hospital. I was just luckier than you; I only needed a pair of scissors to make him lie down for three months."
Not just the inmates, even the guards were particularly lenient with me. When I woke up from nightmares, crying in bed, the female guard wouldn’t scold me but would hand me a glass of water and softly say, "It's okay. No one can hurt you here."
I began reading in prison. Starting with basic literacy, I eventually learned to read newspapers and magazines. I read reports about domestic violence, the enactment of the Anti-Domestic Violence Law, and more women like me standing up to say "no."
Every time I read such news, I would cry—if these laws and awareness had existed twenty years ago, perhaps my life would have been completely different.
My children came to see me once a month. My son got into college, and my daughter found a stable job in the county. They never blamed me for killing their father; instead, they felt heartbroken for everything I had endured.
In my third year of imprisonment, one day the warden called me to his office and told me that a reporter wanted to interview me. Surprised, I asked why. The warden explained that my case had been included in the Law School's curriculum as a typical case study of victims of domestic violence who retaliated.
Facing the reporter, I recounted my story—from the day I married Wang Qiang to the moment I finally picked up the syringe out of desperation. My voice trembled, but my gaze was firm; I did not shy away from any brutal details.
"Do you regret it?" the reporter asked me at last.
I remained silent for a long time before slowly responding: "What I regret is not killing him but not seeking help sooner, not leaving when he first hit me, not calling the police when he threatened me. I could have had more choices, but at that time, I didn’t know and didn’t dare."
In my fourth year, I received an opportunity for early release due to good behavior and the special circumstances of my case; the court approved my release one year early.
On April 7, 2013, I stepped out of the prison gates.
The sunlight was blinding, and I instinctively raised my hand to shield my eyes. Outside the prison, my son and daughter had been waiting for a long time; they had grown up and matured.
"Mom, welcome home," my son said as he embraced me tightly.
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