I Lost My Wife To A Drunk Driver And I Thought I’d Never Be Able To See Her Again

The burglar broke in around one in the morning. He was an amateur, unable to jimmy the lock. He thought he could break the downstairs window and we wouldn’t hear. Fucking idiot. Of course I jumped to my feet, Jessica following close behind as I rushed down the stairs. I’d grabbed a baseball bat I keep in my room, but of course, the moron had a gun.

I was protecting Jessica as best I could, shielding her and trying to hold down my panic. If I died now, I’d be separated from her again. My heart was thumping wildly.

The guy’s face – seriously, not even a ski mask? – changed abruptly as he stared at Jessica. It was a look of sheer terror. I’ve never seen someone that scared.

“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck, what the fuck, you sick bastard, what the fuck is wrong with her?!

That was probably one of the most confusing moments of my life, second only to my dead wife cooking dinner for me.

He practically jumped out the window as I turned back to face Jessica.

You know, when Jessica died, I didn’t really have a chance to look at her. She was gone before I could see what the car accident had done to her. And, of course, there was no open casket visitation.

Now, however, I had the opportunity to see clearly for myself. I could see the bruising descending diagonally from her left shoulder down, matching the seatbelt that she’d been thrown against at 70 miles an hour. Her face was smashed in, chunks of glass jutting out, from where the windshield had been crushed into her head. There was a piece of glass stuck in her right eye, a mess of puss and blood painting her face. Her right arm was twisted at all the wrong angles. You could tell she’d tried to get it in front of her face in time to lessen the blow. The rest of her was black and blue and a mess of blood.

“Should we call the cops?”

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