I decided to have one last look at my Twitter feed before I went to bed and there it was; a link to the last blog post written by Jessica Redfield, one of the victims of the Aurora Colorado theatre shooting.
It was an impactful read. Apparently, a little over two weeks ago, she walked out of a crowded food court literally minutes before a gunman opened fire there. The experience affected her and she put those feelings down eloquently in her blog.
I read her post, and then I read the one she'd posted before that, nearly a year ago. And I got the sense that she was a passionate, articulate, optimistic, insightful and intelligent human being. The kind of girl whose company I imagine I would have enjoyed, had I chanced to meet her someday, someplace.
I read the 'About' page of her blog, voyeuristically perhaps, looking for some idea of who she was, how she saw herself.
Her bio had a link to her Twitter page. I clicked on it.
And before I knew it I was reading a conversation she had had with a friend (or acquaintance) who was not with her at the time.
I sat and stared at this conversation of no more than half a dozen posts for long and silent minutes.
I looked at the last entry she made, 20 minutes before movie was scheduled to start, and wondered if it was the last thing she said to anyone that wasn't in the cinema with her.
I read and re-read the conversation, forcing my mind to reconcile the fact that the happy young woman making these posts had no idea she'd be dead within hours.
I looked at the timestamp on the last post and I made myself remember where I was, and what I was doing, at the time.
I looked at the profile picture at the top of the page and I stared at it, telling myself over and over again that this pretty, hopeful and happy girl died just before I sat down for my evening meal.
I force-fed myself the knowledge that she was gone and that her voice, real or online, would never be heard again. That less than an hour before she died she was excitedly tweeting about a movie the end of which she would never see.
I've had more than half a dozen glasses of wine tonight and I've never felt more sober.
My heart goes out to the loved ones of those who lost their lives in Aurora. I wish that those lost tonight could be the last to die so meaninglessly. But I know they won't be.
It was an impactful read. Apparently, a little over two weeks ago, she walked out of a crowded food court literally minutes before a gunman opened fire there. The experience affected her and she put those feelings down eloquently in her blog.
I read her post, and then I read the one she'd posted before that, nearly a year ago. And I got the sense that she was a passionate, articulate, optimistic, insightful and intelligent human being. The kind of girl whose company I imagine I would have enjoyed, had I chanced to meet her someday, someplace.
I read the 'About' page of her blog, voyeuristically perhaps, looking for some idea of who she was, how she saw herself.
Her bio had a link to her Twitter page. I clicked on it.
And before I knew it I was reading a conversation she had had with a friend (or acquaintance) who was not with her at the time.
I sat and stared at this conversation of no more than half a dozen posts for long and silent minutes.
I looked at the last entry she made, 20 minutes before movie was scheduled to start, and wondered if it was the last thing she said to anyone that wasn't in the cinema with her.
I read and re-read the conversation, forcing my mind to reconcile the fact that the happy young woman making these posts had no idea she'd be dead within hours.
I looked at the timestamp on the last post and I made myself remember where I was, and what I was doing, at the time.
I looked at the profile picture at the top of the page and I stared at it, telling myself over and over again that this pretty, hopeful and happy girl died just before I sat down for my evening meal.
I force-fed myself the knowledge that she was gone and that her voice, real or online, would never be heard again. That less than an hour before she died she was excitedly tweeting about a movie the end of which she would never see.
I've had more than half a dozen glasses of wine tonight and I've never felt more sober.
My heart goes out to the loved ones of those who lost their lives in Aurora. I wish that those lost tonight could be the last to die so meaninglessly. But I know they won't be.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
megglatron:
It's a very 'snap' thought. The realization that this happens, this could happen to you or a loved one. It brings everything into a very real perspective. One that most don't think of, that most don't want to think of as it raises a very real fear inside of us. It makes us wonder how any of us could go out and face each day instead of cowering in a corner waiting for the inevitable.
megglatron:
I choose to go out and face everyday because you don't know when it will be yours, or someone you loves' last day. What will be out there one day and gone the next.