Monday, July 4, 2011
From "Highway to Vengeance" by Brian Springer
Almost exactly 72 hours after my wife was murdered, I found myself sitting alone in front of the eight-foot long, four-foot wide, six-foot deep, still-uncovered rectangular hole that held Josie’s coffin, and inside that, her body.
Every waking minute since Josie’s death had been hell, but the previous two hours I felt like I’d been residing in the ninth circle. Wave after unending wave of anonymous faces offering up hollow words of regret, apparently oblivious to the uselessness of their words.
Neither the speakers nor the words uttered to me mattered in the least, but I nodded my thanks to every concerned individual, going through the motions of courtesy that were expected of a grieving husband, the whole time wishing I’d had the balls to not even show up. It’s not like Josie would have cared. She knew how much I loved her; hell, chances are she wouldn’t even have wanted me to come watch her suffer the indignity of being put under the ground forever.
The important thing was that the whole process was now over, which meant I could go to work on hunting down the men responsible for her murder without any further distractions.