You Don’t Know Me

You don't know me. No, of course not.

I'm a stranger. You pass by, not noticing.

I have always found funerals touching, especially when the coffin is so small it could only contain the remains of a child.

I want to say; "don't worry! Its alright. The person who caused your misery will not harm anyone else."

I am aware it would give you a sense of closure. But I dare not! For you would know. Soon, others. They would know, also.

Her killer is dead.

But for you, the damage is already done. Your family is like a proud ship, wrecked on the rocky promontory of someone's greed.

If only I could have stopped them before they killed her!

You probably feel guilt that you couldn't stop her from buying drugs from a stranger.

I feel guilty because I hadn't been able to stop the stranger selling them.

We are bound together by the ropes of a compelling emotion. We both failed her. There! I have said it! The truth, even when only acknowledged to the self is hard to swallow.

Logic tells me I am are wrong. We didn't fail your daughter. The one who failed  her was the scum who sold the poison that killed her, snuffing out her young, promising life.

Only 14, small for her age. Now nobody will ever know if she would have grown taller, blossomed into a beautiful young woman, fulfilling her early promise.

Why do only the beautiful young, with so much to look forward to, kill themselves with the filth pushers sell?

Why? Does death automatically beatify them in the minds of teachers, parents, friends?

Or are they more at risk from the pushers' siren songs? "Here, take this drug and you wont be isolated by your beauty and intelligence! Take it and you'll be like all your less-gifted friends, the ordinary people you so crave to be like?"

Ecstasy? What a misnomer! Is there ecstasy in becoming so dehydrated your body turns on itself and your heart stops?

No.

I have always hated drugs -I admit it, I drink, I used to smoke and I had an ambivalent attitude towards cannabis, but drugs that are so dangerous they can cause death with just one tablet?

I hate the people who sell instant death.

But what would you do if one of these people who deal in drugs that can kill innocent first time users came under your power?

Report them?

Do nothing?

Or would you take upon your shoulders the ultimate responsibility?

To kill?

Probably not.

But I chose to face the evil, wipe it off the earth and ensure it didn't have the chance to kill again.

I stopped it, before it killed again. Some unpleasant memory filters to the surface of my mind. Ah, yes! The infamous so-called "Zodiac" killer with his "stop me before I kill again" taunts.

The difference was that the killer I faced didn't care. Didn't want to be caught, didn't care if they killed again.

That  the killer showed no remorse, even gloated over the death made the whole situation jump at me and clutch my heart with a grip of ice.

I found the scrapbook. I was looking for something else, can't remember what. But I found the scrapbook.

It contained press reports of your daughter's death and the subsequent inquest.

It wasn't the cuttings that horrified me. It was the notes made on the grey pages of the scrapbook.

"Silly bitch! That'll teach her to buy ""E"" from me!!!"

"I'll bet the silly cow won't do that again!!!"

"Glad nobody knows it was me who sold the her the E. Mind you, I didn't know she was 14. She only looked 12. Still, she had the fifteen quid to buy, so she was old enough!!!"

Sick way past the depths of my soul, I searched through the wardrobe. I found the hidden stash of drugs and the records of deals that showed a person who was not only methodical but amoral to the point of evil.

I found a diary. God, I wish I hadn't found any of that stuff! The diary was a detailed record of sexual and moral depravity that made me feel physically ill.

I didn't decide to kill immediately. That decision grew, like catching a cold. When you catch cold there is first the scratchy throat, the tickle in the nose, the sneezing and then the fever.

I suppose my decision to kill was rather like the fever part of a cold. I suddenly knew what I had to do.

I am not going to dwell on how I killed, but there is a new grave in the old, closed part of the churchyard which contains the body of a killer. The murderer of your daughter.

By chance I can see their grave from here. So in a way there are two strangers at your daughter's funeral.

Both of them killers, only one alive.

Alive for now, that is.

Because although I knew what I had to do, I can't live with it.

I challenged my little sister with my discovery. All she said was; "She deserved it, bruv! Yeah, I sold her the gear that killed her! What are you going to do? Hand me over to the filth?!

"What would that do the loving memory of our dear mum and dad? When they lay dying in hospital, you promised them you'd look after me. Well, look after me, you git!"

Her use of the term "filth" for the police showed me that she was no longer my little sister.

Until that moment I had intended to hand her over to the police. Her bringing our parents up was, I suppose, the "fever" point, when I decided to kill.

I stand here, close enough to see your daughter's funeral, but far enough away to avoid detection.

I will kill myself, by taking all of the drugs my sister had stashed away in her room like some kind of Satanic squirrel. Then I can apologise to my parents for my failing them. And I can apologise to your daughter, too.