A layer of skin is the difference between her being a murderer and a suicide victim. If she’d stabbed my child two months later she’d be in prison for the rest of her life but she stabbed him while he was still in her body. Women love to talk about how it’s “their body, their right” but what about my rights?! My fucking justice!
Watching her in the hospital room, lying in the bed I could feel nothing but hatred. The bitch wanted to hurt me, she wanted me to not just feel the pain she was feeling but to feel a pain that no man or woman should ever feel. The pain of burying your child.
Closing the door and blinking away the tears that I could no longer control, I sat at her bedside and shook her awake. Her eyes were red, she was groggy but she knew who I was. The look in her eyes wasn’t one of sorrow or regret, it was one of hate. She blamed me for the murder just as much as I blamed her. “I hope the bitch was worth it,” she said. I kissed her on the forehead and responded, “Say hello to my son for me.” I gripped my hands around her neck, she was too medicated and weak to scream. The harder I squeezed, the harder I cried. The blood vessels in her eyes popped, her body went limp and I let go… She gasped for air and I placed my head in her lap. She was coughing and choking but she put her hand in my hair as I lay on her thighs. I hated her, she hated me but no one else knew what I was feeling but her and that bond kept me from killing her. That bond kept me from loving Alexis.