She entered the world unwanted and learned early that love came with fists, abandonment, and slammed doors. Long before Florida’s highways, she was a child sleeping in the woods, selling herself behind gas stations, swallowing rage like medicine. By the time she stood beneath the harsh lights of the courtroom, every scar had already testified; the jury only heard the final echo. They saw a cold-blooded killer. They never saw the girl begging to matter.

On death row, the noise faded. No more microphones shoved toward her face, no more strangers debating whether she was evil or insane. Just concrete, fluorescent hum, and the weight of seven dead men pressing against the silence. Some call her a monster, others a victim, but her legacy lives in the space between those words—a warning of what grows in the dark when a broken child is left to rot.