In Darkness

You are standing on the edge of the precipice, and there is total darkness beneath your feet. It’s all encompassing, this feeling of leaden sickness. For all you know, you could already be falling.

The radio is on in the background but you can hardly hear it, the mindless drone of adverts with happy families and upbeat, chirping pop music. They’re selling, but you aren’t buying. There’s something bigger happening here, and you’re determined to see it through to the end, wherever that may lead you.

It’s not that you ever particularly knew Dad - because even though it’s been almost fifteen years now, even though you weren’t close when he was around, he’ll always just be Dad as far as you’re concerned. He wasn’t the best and he wasn’t the worst, and most importantly he was hardly ever there. You shouldn’t care as much as you do.

This was where he was always bound to end up, really, on the stand in front of a courtroom of people. It’s crass to say you have a front row ticket, but that’s what it felt like when you were sitting there, listening to the prosecutor state her case. Like you were watching his death sentence play out in front of you and sooner or later, they’d bring out the executioner for a public hanging. 

You don’t know if he’s guilty or not. You pray to god that he isn’t, but he could be and you know it. You’d thought that murder wasn’t his style, but what do you know? Fifteen years late to the party and you think you know everything, it’s embarrassing; you feel humiliated sitting in that crowd of people, even though nobody here actually knows who you are, or how much this matters to you. 

There’s a vice around your rib cage, and it tightens with every shaky, tentative breath you take. You want to gasp, swallow lungfuls of air like you’re drowning, but more than that you want to sink below the surface and fade completely into the background. Does Dad know that you’re here? Maybe, maybe not. You told him you would be, but you expect he has about as much faith in you as you do in him. It’s not fair, because you're not the one that left broken hearts and promises when you went away, but that’s all in the past now. It has to be - there are more pressing concerns.

Someone to your left is whispering, and you can’t help but overhear even when you wish you could cover your ears and scream.

“What would you bet?” A woman in her late fifties mutters under her breath. She has a thick, Southern accent and it chills me, just then, how far this case has reached. She’s tall even when sitting down and tacky, blood lipstick covers her mouth in a ghastly smile. The cracks and crevices in her lips make it seem as though her face is shattering porcelain. That’s how you feel - like a doll that’s been dragged around everywhere, and now you’re just going to disintegrate into a dust cloud.

“My money’s on guilty,” her husband answers. “But they could surprise you. These people always get let off because people take pity on them. They think a rough childhood means you don’t got no control over yourself or your own actions.”

The woman tuts, clearly upset at the prospect of your father’s innocence, or at mercy being shown. You think over his words briefly, wonder if this is true or whether it’s just another lie that people like to tell so they don’t feel bad about condemning other people. People who had bad childhoods. 

You don’t have long to think on it, because suddenly the gavel knocks against wood and the door creaks open. The jury files in one by one, a train that leaves doom and destruction in its tracks. They take a seat in unison and a hush falls over the courtroom; the silence that follows is pregnant with fear and tension, and your stomach turns. They look so innocuous lined up like that, even in their fanciest suits and even with their sternest expressions, that they could be commuters on their way to work. They could be business executives in a meeting. They could be mothers and fathers or wives and husbands or real, actual people, instead of the faceless mob that wants your father dead.

You haven’t even heard the verdict yet, but you already know what it’s going to be. That’s just the way it is, the way it’s always been. 

A flutter of hope unfurls in your chest regardless, one last, trapped butterfly. 

Just one person, you think. Just one person is all that you need, Dad, and maybe you stand a chance. 

But you know, no matter what happens today, he never stood a chance in the first place.

*

Guilty. We find the defendant guilty. I imagine the words over and over in my head until I’m practically mouthing them. I’m positively vibrating with energy, with the hopeless desire to hear those words spoken aloud by somebody else. 

It’s less of a desire, really, and more a matter of my own impatience. I haven’t even heard the verdict yet, see, but I already know what it’s going to be. They’re going to stand up and they’re going to say we find the defendant guilty and this man will die for what he did to my daughter. 

I paid enough money to see him burn, the least I could do is enjoy it.

But I can’t enjoy it, not really, however much I try. There is something bone tired inside me that can’t muster up any sort of sick enthusiasm for the announcement. I can seek justice and I can seek revenge, but nothing will ever bring back what was stolen from me.

He deserves it, I tell myself, and they would have found him guilty anyway. Even without the money, even without the investigation and the hard work and the bribery, they would have come to the same conclusion. I know it. He’s guilty and he deserves this, is what I tell myself. 

The girl is here too, which I hadn’t anticipated. She doesn’t know me, because I am tucked away to the side of the hall, hidden behind a little crowd of rubberneckers. I’m free to watch her as much as I want without her picking up on it, unless she can feel a prickling at the back of her neck, and simply know that there are eyes on her.

I doubt it. She’s too preoccupied, and I can’t blame her for that. I’m surprised she’s here, really, because it doesn’t sound like he was much of a parent to her. It’s harder to swallow what I’ve done with her looking on. I wish I knew which way she wanted this to go, so that I could ease some of my regret.

The judge says please rise and the jury rise, popping their heads out of the earth and looking around, blinking their slitted eyes like kittens and realising for the first time that their decision has monumental consequences.

But it wasn’t their decision, was it? It was mine.

Guilty, guilty, guilty. That’s what I’m waiting on them to say. My life has already been ruined, so shouldn’t I be able to take down theirs before I’m gone? It seems only fair.

But it doesn’t, and I know it. The girl is crying, whether she realises it or not, hot streaks of tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Her bottom lip trembles. She’s wishing for his safety, I suddenly understand, but it will not come. She’ll be disappointed, again.

I am doing the right thing. I know it. Sometimes things that are fair aren’t always right, and things that are good aren’t always the best option. I will do this one last thing, I’ll see it through, and then I’ll never do anything else, ever again. 

The word plays in my head on a loop as the judge asks the question, the one that will change everything.

Guilty guilty guilty.

*

We are standing on the edge of a precipice, and the darkness just swallowed us whole.