[ WP ] You die and go to a court room deciding your afterlife . The jury consists of 6 people who love you and 6 people who hate you .

The gavel fell, and recess began. One by one, the jury filed out into the corridor. A tall figure in white motioned them on to the jury room. 
 
 `` Let me know if you need anything.'' The figure intoned from one of its three faces. `` And remember, you must all come to a unanimous decision.'' 
 
 The twelve jurors shuffled into the room and took their seats. 
 
 `` This never gets any more interesting.'' sighed an elderly gentleman as he pulled out a chair for the slightly younger looking woman next to him. 
 
 `` Think how I feel, having to do this twice.'' the woman smiled. 
 
 There was a cough from the other side of the room. Nobody had < i > told < /i > the jurors to assemble themselves based on their feelings for the accused, but naturally, they had arranged themselves this way. 
 
 `` If this trial is anything like the last one, I suppose you're wonderin' why I hate your son.'' Juror # 4 was a woman, about 60 years old, her skin yellow and taut. 
 
 Jurors 1 and 3 pursed their lips together. Juror # 5 got to his feet. 
 
 `` Now, now,'' said the man with the slicked back hair. `` I had the pleasure of knowing Wi - the defendant - only a few short years, and yet in that time I knew him as the most charming young man I ever did meet. Hate is a strong word -'' 
 
 Juror # 2, a child of about 8 years old, stuck out her tongue and made a loud raspberry noise. 
 
 `` You do n't know anything!'' she said, and folded her arms petulantly, `` I *hate* William.'' 
 
 An air of awkwardness descended on the room. Most of the jurors remembered Sally Adams. She'd been a bit of a bully, back before the sickness, but everyone knew how big a crush she'd had on William Waters - and everyone remembered how just two months before she went into hospital, he'd refused to take her to the dance'in case she falls over again and pees herself.' 
 
 Surprisingly, it was Juror # 4 who spoke up again. 
 
 `` Now I'm not saying that William was n't a little shit to teach. I'm not saying he was n't spoilt and childish. But Sally, you and he were kids. He did n't know any better.'' 
 
 Juror # 7, a young man in a letterman jacket with a bandage covering the hideous gash on his forehead, followed up. 
 
 `` He cried at your memorial. Nearly dropped his candle.'' 
 
 Juror # 9 barked in agreement. 
 
 `` Does anyone here,'' began the slick-haired uncle, `` have any grievance against the defendant which they genuinely believe, beyond all doubt, that he does not feel deeply apologetic about?'' 
 
 The room erupted into whispers, and heckling. It seemed that for all their posturing and heckling on the stand, not one of the jurors could say for sure that they *genuinely* hated the defendant. Certainly, they did n't hate him enough to condemn him to hell. It seemed as though a unanimous decision had been reached - and they had n't even needed a coffee break. 
 
 But then the shadow in the back of the room raised their hand. Juror # 12 had declined to take a seat with the others, instead opting to go and stand by the window, just looking out at the sky. For the most part, the other jurors were very comfortable about this. For one thing, none of them knew Juror # 12. They could not place their features from elementary or highschool, college, or workplace. Throughout the trial, # 12 had remained quiet, never taking their eyes from the figure of the defendant. 
 
 `` I'm sorry.'' Juror # 12 croaked. `` But I feel as though I do hate the defendant. Enough to send him to hell.'' Their voice was cracked, as though they were speaking through several layers of grit. As one, the room glanced towards them and immediately averted their eyes. Juror # 12 was not a nice sight to see. They wore no clothes - not that it mattered, since they were barely even recognisable as human. Their skin, the texture and colour of a boiled lobster, folded around their neck and armpits like congealed fat in a pan, the ripples broken at points with jagged scar tissue. They had no genitalia, only a hideous pile of bubbling flesh, and their chest was a lattice of criss-crossing scars. Their face was the worst thing to behold - one eye dangled limply from its socket while the other bulged out like a balloon, horrible and red. There were no teeth in their mouth, only bloody gums, and their hair was patchy, as though it had been shaved by a mad barber. 
 
 The assembled jurors looked at one another. Trembling, Juror # 3 stood to speak. 
 
 `` Who are you? How do you know my son?'' 
 
 A tear dribbled from the corner of Juror # 12's one intact eye. 
 
 `` I was his victim.'' 
 
 
 

