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She looked harmless to many at first glance—small, blonde, almost childlike. But under the unforgiving glare of courtroom lights, Aileen Wuornos was no longer invisible, no longer ignored. She was the accused. The confessed. A woman the media seized upon with a mix of horror and fascination, branding her a “female serial killer” as if the novelty of her gender mattered more than the wreckage of her life.
Prosecutors told a clean, terrifying story. They described a calculating predator who roamed Florida highways, luring unsuspecting men before killing them in cold blood. They showed photographs, timelines, ballistics. They spoke of intent and pattern, of premeditation and greed. To them, the case was simple: a murderer who deserved the harshest sentence the law could give.
She didn’t deny the killings. She denied the meaning assigned to them. Again and again, she said she acted in self-defense, reliving moments she claimed were soaked in terror—men who raped her, beat her, threatened her life. To Aileen, each shooting was a desperate act by someone who had spent a lifetime being hunted, used, and discarded. She wasn’t proud. She was furious. And she was exhausted.
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