Becky almost married the wrong man. Today he’s a police officer in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I know his name and his address and his phone number and about the night he strangled her until she passed out and was left for dead on an apartment floor. I know about the punches she took, the bruises they left. I know about the friends he chased away and the distance he put between her and everyone who cared. I know about the pounds she shed and the books she read hoping he’d stop calling her fat and stupid. I know about the constant checking in he required, the caged life he slowly backed her into.
Becky came home from a friend’s house last night and hugged me harder and longer than usual. The woman she and other women spent the evening huddled around and listening too is married to a man very much like Becky’s college boyfriend. Cunning. Duplicitous. Charming. Moody. Loved by all who don’t truly know him. Violent and verbally abusive and always deeply sorry and trying to change. A Christian. A fraud. An ass.
And I’m angry.
I’m angry because his friends and his family didn’t stop him before it came to this.
I’m angry because there’s no justice in this world. There’s no karma. No payment equal to the pain.
And there’s my telephone and here’s my blog and I have the power with either to destroy two cruel men – to strip them of dignity and position and even possessions. To make them pay.
I’m feeling a small jolt of the powerful impulse that moves men to war against each other. Anger is powerful. Vigilante justice is very attractive.
And this morning I’m tempted.