When Death Would Have Been Cleaner

 

His name was Robert. Once upon a time, I loved him. Once upon a time, I believed he was honorable. He wore the uniform of the United States Air Force. He swore an oath to his country, to decency, to something greater than himself.

But Robert shattered all of it.

First by using meth. Then.....

He broke into a little girl’s bedroom. I’ll let that sit there. Because there are no excuses. No explanations. No justifications. He chose it. And he deserved every blow that father laid on him when he was caught.

This is not the man I loved. That man is gone. What’s left is a predator in a prison jumpsuit, and he will likely die in there. Good. Let him.

If Robert had died before this crime, I would have grieved him cleanly. Death is hard, but at least it’s honest. You cry, you bury, you remember the best of them. I could have carried that. Instead, I’m left with something far uglier — the knowledge that someone I loved betrayed his uniform, his victims, and every shred of respect anyone ever had for him.

It feels like my memories themselves have been desecrated. Every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment now carries the stench of what he did. That is the cruelty of this kind of loss: it taints the past as much as it poisons the present.

Robert betrayed his family. HE betrayed me. He betrayed his oath. He betrayed his country. And he betrayed the little girl whose life will never be the same.

There’s no coming back from this. No forgiveness. No “but he was good once.” He is gone to me.

If death would have been cleaner, then this is rot. A living corpse who will rot in prison, and who deserves nothing better.