The list of individual lies was extensive, not exaggerations but premeditated mistruths, designed to prejudice and incriminate with no evidence to support them, never investigated, for, if they had been, she would have faced his same fate. No proof, only tears, appeals to femininity and childish innocence, the latter non-existent, an act. 

Lies told in a way to conjure up what had never happened, what she knew was false, and presented in a way that suggested she’d been coached. 

Outright lies of having told him to go away, so untrue as to be laughable, as she’d willingly conversed and even initiated conversations herself. She’d let him in, only to pull back, worried about your judgment, oh so-called friends. 

Claims of having been made uncomfortable by things she had given hugs and blown kisses for, omitted from her story completely, as well as having accepted them in advance. 

Claims of non-existent anger, without evidence, messages, one after the other, obsessive, until answered. Claims wholly unsupported by the record. Ask her to prove them to you. She cannot. A drive-by that never occurred, never happened, as he hadn’t even known where she lived. Claims of messages and letters he had not sent, and, for which, he had an alibi, along with ill-contextualized posts, stolen to be used against him. And blame for things sent by someone unknown, not him, someone she’d told. who decided to play her and him. 

So many lies that it was impossible they were accidental, a product of a faulty memory. Premeditated and evil. She played both sides, acting one way with him, while telling her confidante the opposite of how she really behaved, just for the attention. 

She completely omitted that he’d let her be of his own accord, he, not she, the one who had cut everything off. And she purposefully neglected to mention that it was she who would not leave him alone after that, knowing it would collapse her story. So she lied, obscured, omitted. 

Knowing that he had only messaged her twice more in regards to her refusal to leave him alone, an attack she made on him, she used them to report him, with only suspicion of other things, no evidence. She needed to create a lie to justify herself, to placate your advice, based upon her incomplete and sordid story, and she did just that. 

That what had happened later, after she had stabbed him in the heart, was something he should not have done but was in retaliation for her lies, her concocted story, was omitted from consideration, as she cried and they coddled her, sexist bastards every one.

She was charged, because she was guilty, and the charges did not even cover all she’d done. She libeled him in writing, making him out to be violent, when she was charged the same way and did not hold the same standard for herself. 

She later lied to the program interviewer, trying, maliciously, to get him rejected, knowing she was guilty, making more claims she could not prove. And she was likely later involved in making another report based upon lies told to her, known or unknown, but trying to get him banned from the field either way. Malicious, immoral, evil vengeance for what she had created … to bolster her story to you, to meet your expectations, oh so-called friends. 

She never mentioned her years of flirting, no, not innocent, blatant. Sexual innuendo. The touching. The contortions of her body, looking for his eyes upon her. She never mentioned her own messages, sent without prompting. She never told them how she’d loved her gifts or that she’d facilitated getting them. She never mentioned the hugs, those unasked for, the lingering embrace before break. She never mentioned blowing a kiss. She omitted it all to build her lie, a lie she undertook to appease you, her circle, and whatever using SOB helped her cook it up. 

She’d even claimed that he’d professed his love to her before break, never said, and baited him into telling her he’d liked her … because she’d wanted him to. Because she’d wanted him, until he tried to help her by warning her of something she was encouraging, flirting with a married man. But you, oh so-called friends, scoffed at the idea. So she followed your tacit instructions and rejected her heart. 

He apologized for it all, all he did, and he accepted his punishment. But she would not hear him, lost in vindictiveness and afraid she would fall for him again, because she’d craved it, as much as she lies to you now, lies to herself. And she, to this day, has never told you or anyone the truth. She has convinced herself that she has nothing to answer for, there only being one glimpse of guilt in the form of flowers, which told on her, told on her true feelings, but was quickly swallowed for your sakes, to maintain the illusion.

She lied. She lied with purpose, on purpose, and has never had to answer for it. She is guilty. You have coddled a viper who deserves condemnation, one who has used your friendship to cover her sins. But she will not help him, not admit, because of you, to save the lie, since she cannot bear to confess nor admit her feelings, maintaining the lie for you and damaging her own soul. Yet, she will answer either way, herself to him or in front of the bench.