Letter. Unsent.
August 2019
To whomever did this to my bright, beautiful daughter:
This morning I went to see my dead baby.
I watched as they wheeled in the gurney. My baby was covered with a white sheet. The man in the suit and tie asked if I was ready. I said yes. But I wasn’t ready. I will never be ready.
When they pulled back the sheet, I saw her face. It didn’t look like she was sleeping. It didn’t look like her at all. I could only see one side of her face clearly.
The other half was wrong. It didn’t make sense what I was looking at. Then they told me that, sorry, some animals had got to my baby and took part of her face. Her beautiful, sweet face.
This is what you have done.
I tried to go to her. They wouldn’t let me. I fought, but they held me back. I could only look at her through the glass.
I wanted to stroke her hair back from her forehead like I used to do when she was a little girl and was scared or had a fever. But they said I couldn’t touch my own child.
What did you do to her? I need to know: Did she suffer? I need to know if it was quick or if you made her suffer. I need to know because it will determine how I make you pay.
Because you are going to pay. Wherever you are hiding, I will find you. And I will make you pay. I will not leave this earth before this happens.
They only let me see her for a few seconds, but that bruise on her cheek is engraved on my memory. That tiny scratch on her forehead.
That gaping hole where her dimple used to be … I will remember every mark you left on her until the day I die. YOU did this.
This is what YOU have done.
This is why I’m coming for you.