Wife of a Terrorist.

I ran out of the house just to get away. Some of the photographers and bloodhound journalists followed for a few blocks but I soon gave them the slip. Here I sit on a wooden park bench, wanting the pounding rain to cleanse my forever tarnished soul.

My chest heaves as tears mix with the waters of the puddle beneath my feet. For a moment I am lost in thinking that when the storm clouds clear, my DNA will evaporate into the sky along with the rainwater. Right now, I wish I could float away too. I have never in my life, felt so alone.

My makeup is starting to run on my pale skin. My mascara is smudged all over. I really don’t care anymore. I dig my nails into the flesh of my left arm, just to check that I am still alive. It takes blood to flow before I feel pain. I didn’t think I could feel possibly any worse, but now I do. I try to use my sleeve to wash some of the salt from my eyes.

The adrenaline-sapping past couple of days have tested my own convictions about life. Mainly about how some people view it as a cheap resource. Am I just a pawn in telling the morbid tale of my bastard husband?

How did I not know? How could I have lived with this monster for eleven years and not suspect him of such unspeakable acts? How did I not see the telltale signs? Did I turn a blind eye to anything remotely off?

Forever I will be judged by the hatred in people’s eyes, wondering if I ever knew. They will wonder if I was complicit in the gruesome tragedy. I do not care about what they think, even though deep down inside, I do. I know I am innocent of their accusing glances.

Even my own direct family has had their suspicions, but no one shares their thoughts. I can tell by the way they shuffle about and avoid my gaze. This, above all other times, I need their support. Instead I get mutterings and shrugged shoulders.

We shared everything together. We were the picture of happiness. Was it all just a façade? Or was it evil lurking behind toothy grins?

I hope our two children of eight and six years old, are not affected by this. I don’t think they fully comprehend the situation, but they know that their Daddy is in some sort of trouble. They have been shielded, to an extent. I honestly hope they are young enough to forget this all in time. But snippets and snapshots of history will forever know our surname – all because of him.

How could I not have spotted any sign of such vulgarity, racism and ignorance? Were there any signs that he was capable of such atrocities? He was always so kind and thoughtful. Where did he hide his weapons? Where did he fund the cash needed to finance such a vendetta against innocent men, women and children?

The police have drained me mentally and physically. Here the rain is reinvigorating my body, washing away the insinuations that have been thrust upon me. They don’t believe me. They could not believe that I had absolutely no inkling. In my heart I know that I am innocent. I was not complicit in any of that bastard’s dive into depravity.

My solitary moment in the park is interrupted by an ever eager journalist with a camera. It is pointed in my direction as the reporter speaks into a microphone from about one hundred yards away. They’re trying to be quiet, but are making more noise than the howling wind and bone-chilling sheets of rain.

I don’t care if I look like shit. People have made up their minds about how dark my soul must be anyhow. So a brief glimpse of a grainy picture of a soaked woman, sitting on a park bench crying her eyes out - won’t change their minds anytime soon. They’ll just think I’m even more mental than they first thought.

I sit back and spread my arms out up to the sky. This is the first bit of peace and quiet I have had to myself in almost a week. No insane or inane questions. No arguing - defending my own good name. I can hear my own heart beating, fuelling my empty stomach and soul. I stop crying. I pull down the rolled up arm of my blouse to cover the drops of blood on my arm. Hoisted aloft, the blood falls toward my armpit. My sense of desolation deepens – no one can help me or answer my questions.

I walk toward the cameraman and his bubbly blond sidekick. I look directly into the lens of the camera and politely ask that they leave me and my family alone. The pint sized blond fires questions at me, just like Albert did from his guns one week ago. I ignore them all and walk back toward the house.

My cameo in the park is already running on the news as I re-enter the house. I walk up the stairs and turn on the shower. I step into it, still fully clothed. My mother has followed me, concerned for my wellbeing.

I crawl into a bawl. I rock back and forth in the tub. The feeling of pounding water seems to soothe me. My mother turns off the shower and holds me close. Despite her frail frame, she manages to squeeze me tighter than I ever remember. The hug takes me and I cannot cry anymore. I wail.

I disrobe the wet clothes and scuttle under a warm duvet. Reassurance from my mother distracts me from the shivering. How does life move on from here?

Will this nightmare ever end? When will the sins of his actions be washed away? Will life ever be the same?