She was four. Just turned four actually, and I was taking her to the toy store that day. Spending a little bit of time with her, you know. Father-daughter bonding. I remember she was so sweet, the innocent little smile as I tucked her into the car seat. She laughed and smiled and told me how happy she was that she was now four.
I told her that she would be going to school before she knew it. Then be in middle school, and high school. I could just picture her first dance, the little boy coming over all nervous and putting the corsage on her dress and her just smiling and laughing. And then I told her, before we all knew it she would be married and have her own children, and I would be the greatest grandpa in the world.
I turned the DVD player on then for her, put some cartoons on. And all the way to the toy store I pictured her growing up so fast. I remembered when she was born and the first time I held her in my arms. The first diaper I changed, the first burp, the first steps she took. The first word she said…it was “no” like a lot of kids. She’d just say it over and over again. Even when it didn’t make sense she’d say it, and it was adorable.
I remember looking back before I got there and seeing her asleep. We were stopped at a red light. The red light. And then it went green, and the next thing I knew I could hear the squeaking of tires, the crashing of metal, crunching and tossing over and over again. I could feel my ear being ripped off, my head being hit open, and the glass shattering and cutting my face.
I remember it. It was so vivid. I remember the last thing I saw was her pacifier sitting on the pavement. The roof of our car was gone, and it sat on the pavement. And then I blacked out.
I came to in the hospital a couple of days later. I didn’t know what happened, couldn’t remember much at first. My legs were broken. My left arm was broken. I had suffered a lot of damage to the side of my head from the impact. They told me what had happened.
They told me I was in a car accident. That a drunk driver didn’t stop his Hummer on the red light and slammed into my car on the passenger side. They told me that my car was flipped up into the air, slammed back down and was hit by another car that couldn’t stop. They told me the second hit had flipped the car from its side to rest upside down.
They told me she didn’t make it.
Her beautiful little four year old body didn’t make it. Her innocent self didn’t make it. What was I to do? I tried to get up, but the pain was too much to handle. Both the physical and the emotional. I cried that night to sleep. I cried, and cried.
I blamed it on myself at first. I couldn’t move, I had nothing to do. The TV got so boring after awhile. There was nothing left for me to do but blame it on myself. And then I started healing. I came to terms with my daughter’s death. I knew there was nothing I could do to bring her back.
I started therapy. Started walking again. Started remembering how to do things and doing them on my own. And then I was all better one day. It was just great. I felt relieved. Then I walked into my home and didn’t hear her yelling daddy. It hit me harder than any of the pain I had dealt with during my rehabilitation.
Then I remembered. It wasn’t me who did it. It was the drunk driver. The stuck up, rich, cocky little excuse for a man. Wasn’t even his car. And where was he? In rehab after making a plea deal. Turning in a drug dealer gets him out of killing my daughter?
All he had to do was rehab, pay a fine, and do some community service. You think that’s justice? You think that a man who doesn’t care he killed a little girl, a sweet innocent little girl is going to give a damn about rehab or community service? He cared about not getting his ass pounded by Big Willie if he went to the slammer. He cared about not getting gutted in a prison fight.
And day after day I would come home and hear silence. Day after day, I wouldn’t hear a damn thing as I walked in. Then it was her birthday again. I played the “what if” game with myself. What if I had just taken her later? What if I had taken her earlier? What if I had just gone to the park with her instead?
I lost it. It was his fault. And he was at his big house in the land of suburbia, drinking his red wine and laughing it up that he got away with it all. So I put my shoes on, got into my car, and went to his house.
And I knocked on the door and told him who I was and that I just wanted to talk. And he let me in. He put on this fake routine, told me he’d offer me a drink but wasn’t allowed any alcohol in his home. I could see the glint in his eye, sparkling to let me know he was bullshitting me.
I couldn’t take his fake grimace, his low saggy eyes and cheeks to say he was sad. So I asked him where the bathroom was. I went. And on my way back I saw he had his set of keys on a nice little key holder on the wall. I ripped it down, walked in behind him, and smashed it over his head.
He fell. The thing broke. And he was going to get back up when I kicked him square in the head. Grabbed his clock and just took it to bash, Bash, BASH his head in. I just kept pounding over and over and over again. There was so much blood, but I kept bashing and bashing. I hated this man.
I saw that he was dead. It was done. I was covered in the bastard’s blood. But I still could not take the sight of him. So I went to the kitchen and found his butcher knife. I cut his face open. Threw that shit in his fireplace. And he had little facial features, but I still couldn’t take his body being there.
So I took the knife and stabbed it. Over and over again. Hoping that the stabbing would make the body go to waste, make it disappear. And instead there was just blood. It was everywhere. My hands were stained red.
And I still could not stand the body being there. So I turned on his fireplace, and let it burn the face I put in there. I took his body and one last time beat the living shit out of it and threw it into the fire. I left it there. The house burnt down. And then you found me and took me in and charged me with his murder.
And I sit here, right here and tell you this- because as he’s burning in hell I still want to kill him again.
For your justice, will never be enough for what I lost. His death, will never be enough for what I lost.
And this anger I will always have will never be lost, because of him.
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