A Little Relief
by jawofech
On Easter weekend of 2000, a young woman was murdered by her ex-boyfriend in her apartment as her 3-year-old son stood watching.
She was 20 years old. She was getting her life together. She was a wonderful mother who loved her son fiercely. She was not perfect, just a girl who made some mistakes along the way and came out with a few bumps and bruises and a son to remind her to pick the right roads from here on out. She was doing that: Picking the right roads, making the right decisions, putting a future together — gathering the skills and maturity she would need to make a life for her little boy.
She wanted to be an RN like her mom. Eventually she could have done it, if she'd been given the time. But, unfortunately, in the end, it would not be like that. In the end she is gone, her parents are left grieving, never understanding, and raising a toddler who, to this day, asks when mommy is coming home. A toddler who is terrified of teddy bears because he sat in a car seat covered in them as he watched his mother die. A toddler who rips the wings off stuffed angels in an attempt to make mommy come home from heaven.
In the days after the murder my phone would ring at odd hours of the night. It would be the girl’s friend, sobbing, unable even to speak; I would lay the phone on the mattress beside my head and listen to her weep. Occasionally she would sputter out the horrendous thoughts that haunted her in the dark hours. Things like “she must have been so scared”. It was tearing her up inside that her friend's last emotion must have been terror.
In a florist shop, among the roses and gaily-coloured carnations, a man who had been like a second father to the murdered girl suddenly began to cry. In the middle of placing his order for her funeral wreath, he realized what this meant and laid his head on the counter and wept.
Today the man who killed her was sentenced to life in prison with the possibility of parole in 10 years. Assuming they count the year he has already spent in prison, the family will be back, reliving their own personal hell in front of the courts yet again, in about nine years’ time.
Today did not bring the relief one might expect. The family was surprised at how they felt. They expected a “justice-has-been-served” feeling of vindication. After the court sentencing today the parents of the murdered girl and their two closest friends went home for pizza and what they thought would be a celebratory drink or two. It felt nothing like a party where good has prevailed. It felt more like a gathering where the members are unsure who won the battle in the end and can’t figure out what it is they should be thankful for. It was a lost and battered group that shared that pizza, alternating between introspective silence and rambling thoughts on what had happened to them since this all began.
Some of them are glad that the man who killed this girl will be going to the big house “to play with the big-league boys now, baby.” They are venting some by imagining this man punished in ways her family could only dream of doing, and it seems to ease their minds some. Some of them are wishing for the day that he is so emotionally crushed by the weight of where he is that the realization of what he has done, if only to his own life, is painful and unbearable, and this seems to ease their minds some.
No, today brought no relief in the ways one would expect. No “it's over.” No “time to move on.” No “he got what he deserved.” Instead, today brought only a deep sadness and a half-healed wound, pried open and left gaping and sore.
The relief that today brought came in unexpected ways.
Today brought the fact that the media would no longer be knocking at the door or calling on the phone for a statement on how they feel about their loss. That is some relief.
Today brought the end of meetings with attorneys to go over, again and again, details of the days their daughter lived and the night that she died for future court appearances. That is some relief.
Today brought the fact that the grisly crime scene photos would not be shown in open court for all to see and look at their daughter in death when they had never known her in life. That is some relief.
Today brought the opportunity to face the man who took their daughter so horribly and give voice to the anger and despair and incredible pain he had caused. That is some relief.
Today brought the realization that the battle is far from over, but that it just might be endured if never won. That is some relief.
Healing is done is small ways and encompasses failures and successes alike. It measures painful steps and joyful strides equally, searching for a little relief. In the end, all things considered, there was some relief today. That can only be a good thing.