I Survived: Sometimes I Don't Know Why
A stalker, survivor's guilt, and the question of meaning and mercy
Scrolling at night before bed, I’m often haunted.
“Breaking news: the up-and-coming pop singer known as D4vd has been arrested for the alleged murder of a 14 year old girl whose corpse was found dismembered and decomposed in the frunk of his Tesla.”
As I looked into the child’s eyes, full of the radiant innocence of youth and girlhood, I felt like I always do when I hear tragic stories of murder.
As if a stun gun shock has just rendered me paralyzed.
“D4vd arose to fame with his viral hit song, ‘Romantic Homicide.’”
ZAP. Another shock.
I stare at Celeste and I know she’s more than just a victim of a horrific crime: she’s my sister in trauma.
ZAP.
She’s my alternate destiny.
ZAP.
She’s the fate I don’t know why I escaped.
ZAP.
She’s the face of the eyes that accuse me in my darkest hours: “Why are you still here and I’m not?”
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know Idon’tknowIdon’tknowIdon’tknowIdon’tnonononononono…
I’ll trade places.
How do I make it go back? How do I barter with God my life for yours?
She was 14. I was 44.
We were both struck by romantic fantasy-driven psychopaths.
She was 14. I was 44.
She had everything to live for. I’ve had a long and full life.
She was 14. I was 44.
Why her and not me? Why her and not me?
Four years ago, my home was broken into while I slept by someone who thought he loved me: my neighbor and apartment maintenance man.