A few weeks had passed; a few weeks in which my life had been turned upside down. The person, who I had dreamed about and planned to spend the rest of my life with, was gone. Just like that. No time in this world now could ever make up for what I had painfully lost. She was my life. Oh Becky!!!
All I see every time I visit her grave is painful memories which hurt me more as the days go on. Every passing moment made it clearer that she would never be returning home; a thought which sometimes, made my body freeze to the very core. I would go to sleep hoping and praying that when I woke up the next morning, she was there next to me; fast asleep, sleeping like an angel. But no, I was surrounded by silence, by desolation, by thoughts. Those once beautiful memories now lost in despair. My situation was irreparable.
My soul-mate was ripped from me like the force of Satan. My defective heart, my love’s horrific laceration being the image I cannot ever dispel; the gushing of her blood flowed free like a fast river; that awful stench hindered my ability to breathe. The smell, which consumed my energy, had drained the strength I had within me making me weaker than ever before. My nose had shrivelled up and the tears ran free from my eyes as I poured my heart out onto the Glasgow concrete.
But then I was left with nothing, except a photo album and a face which defines ugliness; for what? A handful of free jewellery in sacrifice for my girl’s life; what sort of fair deal is that? They blatant, irrational, incoherent and immature youths permanently disfigured me while they walked free from the carnage they had produced. They sadistic people we as a society called teenagers, left me at the scene screaming into my fiancées beautiful eyes be...
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... fixed and adamant. Who found the body again? Teenagers…? Ah, thought so, a shortcut from the local skate-park to the street I guess.
Every evening I look through the steel barriers of my puny, unsuitable cell thinking of Becky, but not regretting my actions. I can sometimes sit there for hours watching the sun go down and watch as a new life come to light. Sometimes I wish prison life would do that. Even for the fraction of a second, feeling free would complete me. You see, I don’t regret the murder, but the way I committed it; somewhere more secretive would have done the job. That sounds grim right? Well yeah, indeed it does. To you and the rest of society, it probably sounds inhumane and unforgiving, but let me tell you this; what would you have done if your loved one was taking away from you? Would you have been able to control your emotions? I don’t think so.
It was a few days before I left for school and my best friend, Kate, was throwing a good-bye party for our group of friends. I was so excited for this bash seeing that it would be the last time our group would be together for a while. It was a time for all of us to move on and embark upon futures that held so much for all of us, and to say farewell to the people and memories that had shaped us.
Diane Urban, for instance, was one of the many people who were trapped inside this horror. She “was comforting a woman propped against a wall, her legs virtually amputated” (96). Flynn and Dwyer appeal to the reader’s ethical conscience and emotions by providing a story of a victim who went through many tragedies. Causing readers to feel empathy for the victims. In addition, you began to put yourself in their shoes and wonder what you would do.
Often when a person suffers through a tragic loss of a loved one in his or her life they never fully recover to move on. Death is one of hardest experiences a person in life ever goes through. Only the strong minded people are the ones that are able to move on from it whereas the weak ones never recover from the loss of a loved one. In the novel The Sweet Hereafter by Russell Banks, character Billy Ansel – having lost his family serves as the best example of brokenness after experiencing death. Whether it is turning to substance abuse, using his memory to escape reality or using Risa Walker as a sexual escape, Billy Ansel never fully recovers from the death of his twins and his wife. This close analysis of Billy’s struggle with death becomes an important lesson for all readers. When dealing with tragedies humans believe they have the moral strength to handle them and move on by themselves but, what they do not realize is that they need someone by their side to help them overcome death. Using unhealthy coping mechanism only leads to life full of grief and depression.
“My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine.” (3rd Edition, Page 218, Shelley)
Capital punishment is not an effective punishment or deterrent for murder or any crime for various reasons. To many prisoners, being detained in a prison is much more of a punishment than death as is it a constant, conscious deprivation of liberty and rights. This idea is represented though US Oklahoma bomber Timothy McVeigh who claimed after dropping his appeals against his death sentence that he would rather die than...
I rushed out of the bedroom confused. I began to realize what was going on. I ran to where I last saw her and she was not there. Never before I felt my heart sank. My eyes filled with tears. I dropped to my knees and felt the cold white tile she last swept and mopped for my family. I look up and around seeing picture frames of of her kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren smiling. I turn my head to the right and see the that little statue of the Virgin Mary, the last gift we gave her. I began to cry and walked to my mother hugging her. My father walked dreadfully inside the house. He had rushed my great grandmother to the hospital but time has not on his side. She had a bad heart and was not taking her medication. Later that morning, many people I have never seen before came by to pray. I wandered why this had to happen to her. So much grief and sadness came upon
I would shut my eyes because I knew what was coming. And before I shut my eyes, I held my breath, like a swimmer ready to dive into a deep ocean. I could never watch when his hands came toward me; I only patiently waited for the harsh sound of the strike. I would always remember his eyes right before I closed my own: pupils wide with rage, cold, and dark eyebrows clenched with hate. When it finally came, I never knew which fist hit me first, or which blow sent me to my knees because I could not bring myself to open my eyes. They were closed because I didn’t want to see what he had promised he would never do again. In the darkness of my mind, I could escape to a paradise where he would never reach me. I would find again the haven where I kept my hopes, dreams, and childhood memories. His words could not devour me there, and his violence could not poison my soul because I was in my own world, away from this reality. When it was all over, and the only thing left were bruises, tears, and bleeding flesh, I felt a relief run through my body. It was so predictable. For there was no more need to recede, only to recover. There was no more reason to be afraid; it was over. He would feel sorry for me, promise that it would never happen again, hold me, and say how much he loved me. This was the end of the pain, not the beginning, and I believed that everything would be all right.
As I walked through the door of the funeral home, the floral arrangements blurred into a sea of vivid colors. Wiping away my tears, I headed over to the collage of photographs of my grandfather. His smile seemed to transcend the image on the pictures, and for a moment, I could almost hear his laughter and see his eyes dancing as they tended to do when he told one of his famous jokes. My eyes scanned the old photographs, searching for myself amidst the images. They came to rest on a photo of Grandpa holding me in his lap when I was probably no more than four years old. The flowers surrounding me once again blended into an array of hues as I let my mind wander……
I have felt the pain of the loss of a Sister; have felt the pain of the death of my Mother, and felt the death of my Father. I know how it feels. I experienced it. It is painful, looking at those old kind folks who bore you; who took care of you; went through all kinds of sacrifices and pains just to look after you for years and years, until one day the child stood on one’s own two feet, and then … there they are, the parents, helpless and lifeless in front of you.
“The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe.” University of Virginia, n.d. Web. 27 March, 2014.
Sentence was passed and in that moment my whole life completely changed. In the background, you could hear the people chant, “Justice has finally been served!” They don’t know me I thought. Everybody makes mistakes, right? But, where was my second chance in life. My luck, the death penalty became legal again and eagerly waiting for me to become its newest member. My palms grew sweaty as always when I grew nervous and scared. There was nothing I could do. These people wanted me to pay for what I put them through.
Therein lies the unique chance for a sick soul to heal, to be cleansed and rested. But good cannot come of evil, and so the sickness of his soul only further infects his state of being. His mental disintegration, once proposed to be on purpose, continues uncontrolled. In the desert of his mind, void with the utter emptiness of the knowledge of death (his father's and the death of his faith in his mother) lies the supreme enemy to neurotic despair: romantic love. For romantic love assures power, it can create a sense of purpose, inspire heroism and beauty.
Two years and four months ago I died. A terrible condition struck me, and I was unable to do anything about it. In a matter of less than a year, it crushed down all of my hopes and dreams. This condition was the death of my mother. Even today, when I talk about it, I burst into tears because I feel as though it was yesterday. I desperately tried to forget, and that meant living in denial about what had happened. I never wanted to speak about it whenever anyone would ask me how I felt. To lose my Mom meant losing my life. I felt I died with her. Many times I wished I had given up, but I knew it would break the promise we made years before she passed away. Therefore, I came back from the dead determined and more spirited than before.
Proponents of the death penalty are right to argue that capital punishment does provide a sense of “closure” to those who are faced with the tragedy of losing a loved one due to homicide, but they exaggerate when they claim that this is the only means by which murderers receive just punishment for their crimes. Advocates of the death penalty fail to recognize that there are alternative methods – such as psychotherapy – that are able to replace the barbaric method of the death penalty.
I ran into my room in a frenzy, knocking down anything that came across my path. I felt like the walls were closing in on me and I just wanted to curl up into a ball and die. I kept thinking it was a cruel dream and that if I pinch myself hard enough I would wake up in a heavy sweat, but that was not the case. The thing that affected me the most about it was that it was so unexpected. When you put your dog down because of old age or sickness, you at least know in advance that it is going to happen, and you can prepare for it. However, when I found out about Sammy, it hit me like a Mac Truck because of how abruptly it happened. After a short while, I worked up the courage to go downstairs and accept the reality that came before me. I called both my sisters to tell them the terrible news. The phone call between us could have been mistaken for a foreign language due to all of the crying that we shared. They told me they were coming home as soon as possible with my dad, and would buy a small gravestone for her. I began to call my mom’s name to tell her, but there was no response. I frantically tried to find her, and I decided to check the backyard. As I glanced through the window I saw my mom tirelessly burying a hole. I opened the door, letting my other dog Beau out in the process. I rushed over to my mom and tried to make her stop digging, knowing that as soon as she was placed in that endless hole of dirt, that she was gone forever.