Irate is not a strong enough word.

Years of studying, of time spent moving my index finger across diagrams of human anatomy, none of which was funded by my own family but rather the Tallis’, wasted.

A charity case. Before, throughout, and after Cambridge, that’s what I was. It was an invisible jacket; an identity that I wore. Naked to the eye, yet it was known to everyone.

But I worked hard, proving that every penny the Tallis family spent on my education was worth it. It was more money than I’d ever seen in my lifetime, but it meant that I could study medicine. I could finally earn enough to have respect, to rise to the same level as Cecilia, as Leon. As Briony.

Briony, whose stories… nay, fantasies managed to destroy any dream of freedom I had all in a single moment. The accusation cost me everything.

Never had I touched Lola – I’d never entertain the thought – but why would they believe me over a thirteen-year-old girl when I was just the cleaning lady’s son? I was nobody to be respected. Not like they were. Not even close.

So they locked me behind bars. Trapped. There were moments where I could hardly convince myself of my own innocence, and then I’d remember, which was when it would fester. The anger. All of this, a consequence of a girl who made up stories. I was to be trapped here, likened with rapists and murderers because of her.

The only way out now is through combat. War. This isn’t freedom. I’m still a prisoner, only now dressed in uniform, that invisible jacket still laying on top.

Perhaps a hanging would have been a kinder sentence.