My 4 Hours in Prison
The sight of her face is an uneasy reminder that she is still young. Young enough to still fall in love, to still get married, to still give birth to babies… to still have a life.
For some reason, that isn’t sitting well with me. She took a life, my father’s life. And he’s still dead. That common phrase keeps coming up from somewhere deep within my psyche: An eye for an eye. I shake it off and remind myself why I am here. I continue to watch her walk into the small conference room where myself and the two facilitators are standing at a small round table acknowledging her entrance. It feels weirdly wrong, as if she was someone of importance, royalty…a queen. I don't like it.
This entire scene is moving in slow motion with involuntary tears running down my face. I notice that she, too, has water streaming down from blurred eyes; eyes that have found mine. As she gets situated into her seat, a very faint, half smile dangles in midair as if her face is seeking guidance from the room. Do I smile? I think my face is asking the same question. It is literally the most awkward moment of my entire life. This is the truest form of awkwardness. And what makes it even more so, is her eyes never leave mine. They are locked. And then I remember why I am here.
To look deep into the eyes of my father’s murderer in hopes to reveal some kind of knowing. To seek the answer to my pressing question:
Is she a monster?