%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
Tragedy strikes, tearing a family apart. What can bring healing? |
| Dan Sullivan lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The clock said it was 1AM. Katydids chirped faintly. Sleep fled his grasp, the unending burden of loss and guilt haunting his every moment. He rolled out, trying not to awaken his wife Reema, sleeping soundly with her back to him. He slipped into the hallway, past Monica's bedroom door which had remained sealed since her funeral, downstairs to the living room. Dan took the family photo album off the bookshelf and brought it to the kitchen table. There, by the cold light of a full moon, he gazed at the pictures, the archives of a beautiful life which now seemed so faraway and dreamlike. There were no baby pics of Monica, having fostered her at six and adopted her shortly after. Photos captured all her milestones: first day at school, plays, sports, her award-winning science project at ten, her violin performance at twelve. Quiet family moments, in the garden or celebrating the holidays. Monica at nine, holding a magnifying glass up to her brilliant blue eye with a glowing smile. “I wanna be a detective and help people when I grow up, just like you!” Memories came alive: learning to ride her bike around the neighborhood. That sense of freedom was her greatest thrill; she adored her turquoise bicycle. Dan often accompanied her on his own bike. That evening, he hadn't. She wanted to visit a friend around the corner. Reema asked him to drive her there, being after dark. He was too busy; a crucial zoom meeting with a witness was about to go live. He assumed his wife would take her. She had a migraine and couldn't. So Monica, thirteen years old, set off alone on her bike. She never came home. She never made it to the friend's house. A drunk driver came speeding through the neighborhood, struck and killed her, and fled the scene. Dan never got to say a proper goodbye. Her last words to him on her way out, “Bye, Dad!” He'd only murmured something in response, adjusting the headset, engrossed in his case. Why? Why had he not said he loved her? Why couldn't he have dropped everything to drive her safely where she wanted to go? Couldn't he have at least told her to stay home? What kind of father was he? Seven years Monica had been their child. Looking back, he realized regretfully he'd spent most of that time absent in body or mind. Often, investigations required being on the road, and even when he was working from home, by definition his attention was not on his family. Now his life was on hold, as if he were only waiting for Monica to burst through the door and everything would return to normal. He would apologize, hug her, hear her bright, laughing voice again, see those innocent eyes behind which all the secrets of girlhood lay. “Hey Dad, I'm home,” Monica whispered in his ear. “How's that case going? Did you get to speak with the witness?” He turned, gazing long into her eyes. “No, honey, I didn't get a chance—” “Dan!” Reema's sharp voice pierced his dream and his heart. She shook him by the shoulder. His head rested on the table, neck stiffened and aching. “What are you doing? Get up. It's six in the morning.” He straightened and rubbed the back of his neck, cringing inside as she continued, “Will you ever finish that case? The client can't wait forever. They're not paying you to mope.” “I—I’ll get to it…” He watched as she darted around the kitchen, clanging pots and pans, lips pressed thin. Though they did not speak of it, he knew she had not forgiven him for letting Monica go that evening. He wanted to reach out, to comfort Reema as she cried alone, to find solace in her support, but the tragedy only drove a wedge between them. She brought her meal to their bedroom to eat at her computer, leaving Dan in the empty kitchen. He hardly felt like eating. The hit-and-run driver's trial was scheduled for that day. It had been three agonizing weeks before he turned himself in, and another two months before the trial. A faint hope flickered within Dan's weary heart. Surely the justice system would make things right. *** At the stuffy, overcrowded courthouse later that day, the judge's gavel came down, irrevocable. A technicality, pointed out by the defense attorney, prevented the case from moving forward. “All charges against defendant Eric Granger are hereby dropped. The case is dismissed.” Dan squeezed his eyes shut, blotting out everything. Could this be happening? He reopened them to stare across the room in a fog. Young Eric stood up, a look of relief on his face. Dan turned desperately to the prosecutor. “Is there no way…?” “Unfortunately, no.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry. There's nothing more we can do in criminal court.” Reema made an indignant sound, a tiny scream of pain. Dan reached for her hand. She pulled away. “You could have handled this case better yourself—detective!” She got to her feet and shoved out of the courtroom, nearly breaking down in tears. As Dan stumbled after her, Eric approached him in the crowded hallway. “Sir? I—I wanted to offer—” “Go to hell,” Dan mumbled, head down, shoulders hunched. He glanced up long enough to see Eric moving ahead, saying something to his lawyer, who was laughing. What faint quiver of light there had been within his spiral of sorrow vanished like a candle in a hurricane, replaced instead by a raging wildfire. Only one option remained to enact justice upon his daughter's murderer. *** Dan gripped the steering wheel too tightly as he rounded the bend, reflective yellow warning signs glowing one by one in his headlights. He thought of the note he'd left for Reema in the darkened house. It didn't say what he was about to do. It only said, “I'm sorry. I love you. Goodbye.” Those three sentences summed up his life at that moment. Sorry for everything that couldn't be forgiven. Love for everyone he would never see again. Farewell to a world of fickle injustice, where glitches let murderers run free. Pulling up to the apartment building, he checked the room number one last time. Satisfied, he reached into the glovebox for his gun and stepped outside. Two floors up and three doors down, Dan faced the apartment where Eric Granger lived. He took a deep breath, glanced over the landing at the waning moon sinking towards the horizon, and tried the doorknob. It turned easily. He flung the door open. Inside, carpet hushed his steps. A light in the kitchen betrayed the dweller's potential location. Eric sat at the table, with several books spread open in front of him. His head was bowed. At first Dan thought he'd fallen asleep. “Granger!” Dan's harsh voice splintered the silence. Eric jumped, spinning around in his seat. His eyes widened when he saw the gun aimed at him. “Sullivan!” He raised his hands. “Don't do it. Please.” “Why not?” Dan set his jaw. “You deserve it.” “I tried to apologize.” “You can't apologize for being a drunkard behind the wheel. You destroyed my family. And as if that wasn't enough, you lacked even the decency to stay at the scene. Three weeks you hid from the law like a gutter rat.” They locked eyes for a long moment. “I can't undo what I've done. I know that,” Eric said at last. “I never wanted to kill your child, but I did. I know I should have turned myself in sooner. Those three weeks were hell for you. You have no earthly reason to forgive me whatsoever.” “Exactly.” “And yet… Why would you do this to yourself? How will you live, having taken a life?” “I could ask the same of you! I'm supposed to let you go so you can hit-and-run someone else?” “I'm a different man. God saved me. He turned me from my wickedness, from the alcohol. That's why I came forward.” “Saved! You think you can play the Jesus card—a foxhole conversion?” “I'm not saying I don't deserve to die for what I've done. I'm a wretched sinner, saved by the grace of God.” Eric waved at his books. “I've been sober for two months. He renewed my heart.” “I don't care. Of course you tell yourself God forgave you. You think that means I owe you forgiveness too?” Eric’s eyes flicked around the room, refocusing on Dan. “No, sir. You don't owe me anything. You owe it to yourself.” “Myself?” “In forgiving me, you also forgive yourself. You think revenge will resolve the pain. It won't. Only God can do that.” Dan took a long, shuddering breath. Eric leaned forward, playing his last card. “Listen—you think Monica wants you to kill me?” Dan winced. Clear as a bell, Monica whispered in his ear, “Don't kill him, Daddy. He didn't mean to do it.” Dan lowered the gun. He turned and started to walk away without another word. “Wait!” Eric pushed back his chair and stood up. “What will you do? Your wife needs you. Don't—!” Dan looked back, startled. “How did you—?” He swallowed hard. “My wife hates me. Ultimately, it wasn't your fault Monica died. It was mine. If I hadn't let her go, she'd still be alive.” Eric followed Dan, holding out a hand. “I'm sorry. The burden is unbearable. You don't know how many times I thought of taking my own worthless life since it happened.” “Really?” They stood for a moment. Eric rested his hand on Dan's shoulder. “Sit down. Let's pray together.” Dan holstered the gun, rubbing his forehead as Eric guided him to a seat at the table. He saw now that it was a Bible and devotional books laid out. “I don't get it. I broke into your home with a gun and a vengeance and you still want to pray for me?” “I forgive you.” “You're the only one.” “God will. Christ came to save us from this cycle of despair. You need to give your life to Him.” “I go to church. I thought being Christian is about attending church and being a good person.” “It's about salvation, a saving relationship with your Redeemer.” Dan let out a long, exhausted sigh. He rested his head in his hands. “I need to heal.” “I understand. I don't know the answers. You should reach out to your faith community.” As they sat quietly together, Dan's phone rang, shattering the tenuous peace. It was Reema. “Dan, where are you?” Her voice was cracked, frantic, tearful. “Come back home. I need you!” “I… I need you, too, honey. We can't heal alone. Do—do you still love me?” “I still love you or I wouldn't be calling! I never meant to shut you out. Losing Monica wasn't your fault any more than mine. I'm sorry. We need to attend grief counseling. We can't lose each other.” Dan knew he'd been closer to losing himself than she would ever know. “I'm coming home right now. Keep the lights on for me, ok?” A familiar phrase he used when he'd have to travel for a case. “I always do, sweetheart.” When he hung up he looked over at Eric. They were both near tears. “Thank you for holding me back from the brink. If I'd left, she would've rung too late.” Eric closed his Bible and handed it to him. “Take this with you. I'll be praying.” When Dan pulled into the driveway, every light in the house was on. He rushed to meet Reema, waiting on the front porch. As they fell into each other's arms, he prayed God would give him the strength and grace he needed to move forward. notes ▼ lyrics to Destroyed ▼ video ▼ Additional inspiration: video ▼ video ▼ |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
