Grieving families. My personal nightmare.
And I am a part of their nightmare.
I have to poke into their lives, dig deeper then anyone would like me to.
Really, I do care.
Still, I have to do my job.
It is not my fault, that I uncover mistresses and secret bank accounts.
I am aware of the dilemma an no longer hidden drug problem will be for the family and with your friends.
Yes, I am sorry to hear, that the man in the bag, being driven away, is someones father. Someones friend.
It touches my soul deeper then I will ever share with anyone, and definitely not with you
Even my wife, and absolutely not with my children.
Keeping a brave face for their sake.
And for yours.
Never-less, the scars this and every death leave upon my soul, are deep.
They wake me from each sleep, never restful, always disturbed.
Nightmares of tangled bodies, and the ability of human disdain of one another.
How can people be so cruel?
Yet, between the wanting to drown your and my sorrows in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, I return.
I always return.
Because someone has to.
Someone has to clean up, make sure that at least some of those scumbags will be locked up, away from you.
So I return.
My badge and gun always in reach.
But the question remains.
How can I survive another death?
Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2013-2014
This story was originally posted in one of my older blogs before moving over here to the wordpress platform