[ TRIGGER WARNING - MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, ABUSE, AND RELIGIOUS TRAUMA AS PERTAINING TO THE CHARACTER’S BACKSTORY ARE CONTAINED IN THIS DOCUMENT. NO SPECIFIC SEXUAL ASSAULT EVENT IS DESCRIBED IN DETAIL, BUT IT IS BRIEFLY MENTIONED IN CONTEXT. IF YOU WOULD LIKE A VERSION OF HER BACKSTORY THAT OMITS THIS ASPECT, CLICK HERE. ]

Cartersville is a fully conservative, predominantly Southern Baptist town nestled comfortably in the woods of northwest Georgia. Within this town, a small Catholic community of about 1,000 flourished in the late 90’s. In this community, Alyssandra Camille Gray (born [REDACTED] [REDACTED] Gray) was born on to a Catholic family on August 12th, 1997. Her mother, Deborah Gray, had given birth to who was then a baby boy, right alongside her best friend and church brunch co-host. Her mother’s best friend, whose name she has long forgotten by now, gave birth to a baby girl - practically a biblical miracle for the two.

They decided before the two children had even been born that they were to grow up in the church together and be married just after they were old enough to legally do so. To these women, this was a dream come true. A gift from God, as they had described it to the children as they grew up.

Very early on, though, Deborah learned that she would have to work for her end of this gift. Alyssandra, starting at the age of 6, showed signs of disobedience. As Deborah attempted to cut her hair short as to fit in with the other boys in the town, she screamed and fought and attempted to wrestle away from her mother’s grasp. She wanted it longer, she insisted that she didn’t like it short. Her other rolled her eyes and had her father hold her down, insisting that she looked best that way.

Another instance occurred at church camp that summer. She decided that she didn’t get along with the other boys in her dorm, opting instead for skipping rocks alone in the lake, or sneaking off with the girls to read books under the trees. She opted out of capture the flag games or BB gun shooting lessons, for which she was ostracized and punished by camp leadership. She was forbidden from mingling with the girls, and was picked up early by her parents after the camp counselors reported her behavior.

In order to crack down on this behavior, daily bible study sessions occupied most of her time for the next year. Specific verses were emphasized, and she was forced to copy them down until her hands ached and trembled. 1 Timothy 2:12 comes to mind - “I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; she is to remain quiet.” She didn’t agree with this. She enjoyed when the girls at camp read books to her, and loved hearing their loud and free giggles as they played hide and seek in the forest. They were innocent and full of life, something that this book taught her was a crime.

She was meant to learn her place. She was meant to embrace her authority over the girls around her, and to remain in touch with the masculinity of the boys and men around her. An embroidered cloth with 1 Corinthians 16:13-14 stitched into it was framed on her wall: “Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong.”

The sign conveniently omitted the latter part of the quote, “Let all that you do be done in love.”

At age seven, her behavior did not change. Not with the crack of a belt, the smack of a hand, and not with bible verses flooding out of his mouth like bile. She fought with her mother to let her wear looser clothing to church, she demanded that her father let her play outside instead of studying scripture, she ran out of church and refused food for several days to protest bible study.

Her parent’s last resort occurred on July 14th, 2004. She had been dragged into their local church by her parents as she kicked and screamed, all the way up to the pulpit where the old pastor stood with his arms crossed. They pleaded with him, begged him to fix their son, tears in her mother’s eyes as she cried. “He’s cursed!”, they said, “The devil has taken him away! Please bring him back, please ask God to bring him home!”

Up until now, Alyssandra had not felt shame. Confusion, yes, but never shame. She was not ashamed to enjoy the company of the girls around her. She was never ashamed to like their long hair, or their innocent laughs, or their skirts and blouses. She was confused as to why she could not have those things either. Why didn’t God want her to be happy? Why were her desires so wrong? Was destiny and obedience really worth all this pain?

The pastor looked down upon her, fake kindness seeping from his features. His eyes were soft, but empty - nobody was home anymore. The look put a chill in her bones. She had met this pastor before, but never like this. Never as an offering. He consoled her mother and rested a hand on her father’s shoulder, assuring them that private bible study sessions would allow for a more intimate connection with God. “He needs to reach out to God, to form a relationship. Once he knows that God waits for him on the other side with open arms, he will return to you. I will take care of this, Mr. Gray.”

His tone indicated sincerity on the surface, but something laid beneath it that Alyssandra could barely hear.

Delight. Something no man should feel when a devil boy is laid at his feet.

Over the course of her first session, she learned why.

Her parents didn’t believe her. Of course they didn’t, she thought after her father slapped her across the face. They never would. She held her own face in her hands, sobbing for help, for God, for her mother. She would not be saved.

So she submitted.

Painfully, begrudgingly, she submitted. It felt like letting them win, like letting God win. She sat quiet during haircuts, she studied the bible well enough to recite it by memory, she didn’t complain when her parents drove her to her private sessions with the pastor. She didn’t fight back, didn’t speak a word that wasn’t a prayer or admission of subservience.

She signed up for BB gun lessons at camp the next year. She started going to the shooting range with her father when she was 10. She started hunting when she was 11, and started boxing lessons at 12. She sold the story to her parents beautifully. She wanted to grow up into a strong man, a dominating one, one that could fight against a world that wanted to silence her faith. They were happy with this, proud of the pastor’s work. She felt their love again, all sticky and leaking with conditionality. Her suits were pressed, her A’s were straight, she started dating her mother’s friend’s daughter when she turned 15. It was a performance, of course. There was no love, no passion, no enjoyment for either of them. They lied about their desires through their teeth, fantasized about white picket fences that they would despise, discussed names for children that they never fully committed to.

By this time, Alyssandra was fighting with gritted teeth. Her aim was sharp, her hits landed hard and fast, she rushed through classes, graduated with high honors. She earned the respect of her community, her girlfriend, her parents, troubled past long gone. She was perfect.

Until she ran.

The duffle bag under her bed sat for three years, slowly accumulating everything she would need. Loose shirts she stole from the lockers of her classmates, her boxing gloves, her secret i-Pod that kept her “sinful” music, the cash from her job at the local Salvation Army, her gun, her knife, and a pair of boots she secrely bought from the mall a month prior.

She was 17 when she escaped, and would turn 18 in one month. She had one month to hide, one month until she could not be handed back over to her parents. She did not leave without a plan, of course; she would ensure that they would never take her back to begin with.

The woman who killed her pastor was not a rebellious little boy. She stood over the pastor’s bed, admiring the blood that leaked onto his pillow from the hole in the back of his head. She wished that she could have dragged it out, extended the favor of a lifetime of shame that might have made him want to peel his own skin off in the same way that it did to her, but she had no such time. With the pull of a trigger, it was over.

And then, she was free.

For a month, she ran. She slept in back alleys, in stranger’s cars, on bathroom floors. She hitchhiked north, farther and farther until the summer heat softened as she put distance between herself and the equator.

Somewhere on the way from Pennsylvania to New York, she sat in the passenger seat of a car with a woman who couldn’t have been much older than she was. She was the first person on her journey that had ever asked her name, and that fact occurred to her when she didn’t have an answer.

“You got people looking for you?” is what the woman asked. She shook her head, but bit her tongue regardless. Of course she had people looking for her, but this woman didn’t have to know that. Not when she was so close to her new life.

So she asked for the woman’s name instead. “Alyssandra”, she said. It was a beautiful name. She got it from her grandmother, and she always insisted that people call her by her full name. To reduce such a beautiful name down to a nickname felt insulting to her grandmother. She agreed.

The woman filled the silence by talking about her own family. She was a graphic designer who was heading back up to New York after visiting family in Pittsburgh for her nieces birthday. Her mother, a woman named Camille, sent her off with a goodie bag full of snacks that she graciously offered to Alyssandra. As much as her stomach turned at recieving the handout, she knew that she needed it. She was already a small girl, standing at about 5’7 and had naturally always been a bit thin. She had bags under her eyes from restless nights spent in fight or flight mode, and her hands shook with the warning signs of malnutrition.

The rest of the drive was quiet. The woman didn’t push about where Alyssandra came from, or where she was going. She just turned up the Avril Lavigne song on the radio and let that fill the silence.

The woman left her in front of a small hotel on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, where she worked. The afternoon sun beat down on the pavement, and strangely enough, Alyssandra felt a bit small. When she got out of the car, the woman asked her about her name again. All she could say in response was that she liked hers.

“Then take it,” the woman said with a laugh. “It’s a nice name. I think it suits you, don’t you think?”

Alyssandra offered a curt nod in response, along with a brief thanks, and the best smile she could offer. As the woman drove off, she stared into the traffic along the street. Her plan ended here, alone in the city she had once been told was full of sin. She did not feel as free as she hoped she would. She didn’t find herself feeling much of anything at all. Whatever was left of her childhood would be kept close to her heart, emotions included. Every moment of happiness, or every instance of shameful sadness, would be kept inside. She would guard the little girl she once was, the one she always was, with everything she had. Nobody would ever touch that little girl again. Not God, not man, not the world.

Then, with her baggage safely tucked inside her heart and in her arms, she got to work.

It was inevitable for her to find mercenary work, really.

Alyssandra went to college knowing that she would need to make a sustainable living, but the work she did at night was what paid off her loans. It was slow at first; initially intercepting creepy men who catcalled women at bars. Then, making sure they’d never make that mistake again as long as they lived. Ultimately, it snowballed into ensuring that they wouldn’t live to get another chance.

She devoted the day to her studies. With emotions locked away, her logical processes were heightened. An analyst job was on the horizon, and she didn’t mind the monotonous work of the daylight hours. It kept her mind sharp, so that her aim at night could be even sharper.

She developed a pattern. A habit, perhaps, when news outlets caught wind of the murdered and mutilated men littering the alleys of Hell’s Kitchen at night. They reported of good men, devoted fathers and loving husbands, active members of the community. She imagined, then, the pain of the women they had terrorized, seeing these men hailed as martyrs in the community.

What the news outlets couldn’t ignore was evidence. Evidence stapled to the clothing of these men, and occasionally mailed to the front doorstep of the news outlets themselves. USB drives containing videos of the violent actions of these men, photos of their attempts at violence, anything she could get on them.

They called her “Snapshot”, then. She hated the name. Made her sound like she was engaging in a hobby rather than keeping the streets clean, but it isn’t like she could write the Bulletin and ask them to change it.

The opinions of the press had nothing to do with her work anyway.

For the next decade, she would remain in Hell’s Kitchen, making up for the justice that God refused to deliver. In her cheap apartment, among her collection of knives and stacks of CDs and her stuffed animals, she felt new. She kept her hair past her shoulders, kept track of her estrogen doses, made sure to relax the tension in her jaw, but not in her fists, lest she be caught off guard.

Freedom was never a destination. It was never a time, a place, a moment. Freedom was in autonomy, her ownership over her body, her words, and her actions.

And until God strikes her down; a free woman she will remain.