“Then I realized something. I was keeping my old wounds fresh and open, as evidence for a trial that would never come.”
It’s a striking quote, akin to a kick square to the chest. I lost my breath when I read it, probably feeling about the same as the author when he had his realization. I think it was meant to be liberating, to free the reader of their burdensome grudges and let them finally walk without the weight of their past.
It’s just sad to me. To think of a plaintiff alone in an empty courtroom, screaming and crying, demanding someone answers for her pain. No need for photographs or items brought out in labelled plastic bags, her blood and tears are evidence enough of a crime.
And yet, there is no witness to support her claim, no lawyer to call such a witness or defend her to the jury, no jury to hear a defense and come to a verdict, no judge to turn verdict into sentence. No defendant there to hear her sobs, to see her injury, to feel her rage. Not even a pitiful smile from someone in the gallery. Just a woman, a girl, really, yelling until her voice goes hoarse and her tears dry up.
Her shaking hands will never grasp justice, and neither will mine. Not in anyway that will satisfy us, that will free me from this hollow courtroom and bandage my wounds. Again, it should be a relief, that I don’t have to bleed anymore. And still, I ache.