My stomach sinks every time I drive by that street. I try not to look in that direction, but find myself wondering anyway. My car turns into the neighborhood and I reach the stop sign. I can see the fence from there and feel hot tears start to well up in the corner of my eyes. I take a deep breath. I can turn now and not pass by at all, but I keep driving. I creep by, wondering if the house is occupied. The garage windows are still painted. The side porch light is on.
The new owners seem to be taking care of the place. I sit and wonder if they know. Do they know about you? The horrors and sadness that happened within its four walls?
The neighborhood is decorated for Halloween, going between spooky and classic fun. This house is not decorated, despite being the scariest house on the block. I take another deep breath and drive away, hoping no one noticed how slow I was going, peering into the place I once called home. They don’t know me. I’m only a footnote in the overall story. I glance back in my rearview mirror, hoping your presence is long gone from that place.
We put that monster behind bars. It might be considered justice to some, but there is no healing from that. You are still gone, never to be found. I can raise millions of dollars for domestic violence awareness, but that doesn’t bring you back. That will never provide peace to the ones who loved you.
I wish they had demolished that house. I couldn’t even go inside after I found out what happened. I had a panic attack just sitting in the driveway. How anyone can just live there is beyond comprehension.
I take one last look as the house starts fading from my view.
We were so young, Heather. We were so young.