Henceforth lies the last remaining memoirs of the silver-screen siren Evita Deadtree, before she was convicted of multiple counts of first-degree murder.
I’m sure she gets that a lot. She must have rehearsed it over a thousand times, like a poignant line in one of her movies, and I guess she was even used to repeating it twice for those who were struck-dumb by the peculiarity of it. Her name added to, but did not limit the intrigue of this incredible woman; and while there were scarce clues of it’s exact origins, I was aware that it stemmed from an old legend, a foolish ancestor, and a prejudiced community that lived some centuries ago. While the police who were attending to her could be forgiven for not knowing who exactly she was, I could not pretend to be endowed with that luxury. She was a legend in her own right - the type of woman that would usually make you faint at the thought that you were going to meet her. She was ‘the woman from the TV’ who my father fancied; the one who I used to watch in black and white movies of at home with my family, curled up in a large robe with a tub of popcorn and my feet sticking out of my socks. I knew the air of charm she had exacted over the previous journalists who she had met before me, who danced past the serious questions about her offenses, purely because she was their childhood idol and in their eyes, of course she couldn’t have done the things she had been accused of. Could she?