Yet you don’t see people crying over every single death. People die every day. Why cry over something you can’t reverse? They merely go down in history as a sum of figures.

The demonstration had proved futile after all; it could at best be described as a trapped housefly’s noble escapade to dive headlong out of a glass bottle through its thick glass walls. It wasn’t only foolish. It was thick. Maybe she wasn’t so bright after all.

“It is not my writing, Your Honour.”

Again, that faint crease across his brows. The murmurs of the panel are interrupted by a shriek. I spin around to see an ageing lady with streaks of silver in her greying hair. Alisa’s mom.

Words are hurled at my face. There are tears in her eyes and angry blotches of red on her pale, sallow cheeks. Her voice cracks towards the end; her pain ricochets off the surrounding walls.