The day he shot my sister, it was like any other day. Gold sun, warm breezes, and aqua air. It was perfect until it wasn’t perfect.
The skies didn’t darken until 5:15 PM. This is when he pulled the trigger. This is when he changed our lives.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three times.
Three times was enough.
One or two bullets would’ve placed her inside a brain injury facility, but the third bullet did the job properly.
Sometimes, I thank God her murderer did his homework beforehand, because seeing her incomplete and unfinished would’ve killed her twice.
He killed so many people that day.
They had her hooked up to tubes, ventilators, and ugly needles, but what I remember the most is her hair; newly painted with caramel and blonde highlights. She looked as if she’d just left the hair salon except for the blood that had dried and hardened on the right side of her head.
“Wake up. Wake up. Will you please wake up?” I know she heard me. I know she wanted to rise up from the stiff, white sheets. I know she realized she should’ve left him earlier.
I know so many things now.
For example, we cannot save people if they don’t want to be saved. We cannot change people if they don’t want to be changed.
It’s really quite simple.
And difficult.
When the doctor walked into the waiting room, we stood up from our chairs like obedient children.
“Did she wake up? Can she come home?”
He was emotionless, like that fictional character, Slender Man. Faceless. Just standing there shaking his head.
I hated him. I hated his chalky skin. I hated what I knew he was about to say.
Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it.
I wanted to plug my ears, finish mowing the lawn, push the clock hands back to May 25th, May 24th,1978. I wanted to break every finger on Mike’s right hand, give him a piece of my mind, tell him how I really felt about him, why the hell did she marry you. I wanted to cuss a silent God, ask him why He never answered my prayers. But more than that, more than anything, I wanted to scream and scream and scream until every bit of darkness emptied from my body.
Puddles of sorrow.
Regret.
Hopelessness.
A universe without poetry.
When I left the hospital, I felt as if I were leaving half of my soul in that white room; half of my heart beating on the tiled floor.
I still feel like that.
Once– a doctor had asked if I wanted to take a pill to erase the pain.
I said “YES. Hell, yes.”
But I changed my mind.
The pain has become part of me; gets me up in the morning, causes me to be pro-active.
The pain makes me write the truth, makes me tell Kay’s story, makes me connect with other women going thru the same thing.
The pain of Kay’s murder has become my story, too.
————————–
Are you in an abusive relationship? Are you hoping he will change? Stop hoping and save your own life.
TODAY.
You are not along.
You are loved.
You are rising.
Domestic Abuse Hotline: 1 800 799 7233
Photo by Sydney Sims on Unsplash
