THE ERROR OF MY WAYS

the error of my ways

THE ERROR OF MY WAYS

My daughter was one of eight teenagers shot at that party.

When I got to the hospital she was still in the resuscitation area .  I forced my way to the gurney.  Her eyes were wide with fear and pleading as the ER team frantically worked on her.  She slowly turned her head toward me as I cried, “Baby!”, and then her eyes turned glassy.  The cops had to pull me to ground.  I heard the cry of the monitors as their signals terminated.  Someone was screaming.  It was me.

I saw my wife running.  She was running to me but I couldn’t hear her.  I was a pair of eyes floating where my soul had vanished.  My face was hot and wet.  My heart dripped in snot to the floor.  I was defeated and I tried to die, I mentally willed myself to die, running after the death train taking away my baby.

My wife was religious and I saw the blow by the same Hand that she grasped at to hang on to.  We were parted forever at that moment.  Until death did we part.  I could not reach her.  She became a figure in the flat landscape.  I became a stranger in a strange land.

I was going to kill the boy who did this but a cop was saying they caught him.  He was a gang member who had made his bones with my baby.  I could not touch him for years.  I simply then decided to kill his family.  I was already in Hell without a soul.

I cooperated with the district attorney.  My baby was the only one who died.  I was so calm and soulless as they promised their enlightened justice that the cops did not protect the killer’s family.  I found his family in good time,  patiently and methodically.

I trapped them in their church one evening praying for their son.  I held the gun I had taken from my friend’s house.  I used my cell phone to show the cops the killer’s father, mother, sisters, brothers, grand parents, tied  with wire nooses that I had carefully fashioned.  I demanded that they get the killer to see this.  I was calm and reasonable and the cops thought that they could negotiate with the distraught but civilized grieving father.

I was conducting my own death train.

I demanded that the TV news be given the feed.  Yes, I was going to feed them.

The killer looked like a scared boy.  I told him I was going to make my own bones.  I held the camera to his mother and his baby sister.  The boy started to cry that he was sorry.

I lead his mother behind the altar and she screamed as I covered her mouth.  I fired a shot into the statue of the weeping Mary.

I lead his baby sister behind the altar.  She screamed and I covered her mouth.  I shot the statue of the baby Jesus.

The cops had figured out where we were and they arrived as I made the last family member scream.  Unseen by the eye of the camera the statue of Jesus on the cross shattered with my final bullet.

The boy had fainted.  The newscasters were in an impotent panic.

I held the gun over my head as I emerged from the church to face the battalion of cops.  The SWAT team had already discovered the family bound, gagged and unharmed.

“I’m coming, baby!”

I lowered my gun at the cops.

 

 

 

 

 

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