If I died tonight, murdered in the false security of my own home, what would be your final memory of me? The phone calls you ignored? The text messages left unanswered? Will you remember all the times you thought me hysterical, accused me of nagging, overreacting? You could have been my savior from twenty miles away. Instead you are the accomplice, the accessory, worse than the killer himself. And the guilt will ride you like a camel's hump as you lie in bed and stare at my picture until your eyes become heavy and it seeps into your dreams, that one haunting question: What if I had only done something?
© 2022 Nortina Simmons