Sabitlenmiş Tweet
Hey Lex... What's it like to be a cop and work homicide? Well...
"Imagine a job that, when people pass away, you must sometimes break into their homes and look through their things to get a picture of how they died, before you help carry their body out across the threshold one final time.
A dwelling strange to you, where these people lived their lives; where they loved, laughed, cried. Their sanctuary, a place where they raised children, sang at birthday parties, strung lights on Christmas trees, tossed balls to their pets. A place where every nook and cranny was familiar to them. But not to you, an intruder. You can almost hear the echoes of their lives as you make your way through the halls, past rooms and up staircases.
The middle-aged construction worker whose wife left him after he was put on permanent disability. His Oxycontin in the bathroom and a kitchen table filled with apple brandy bottles lined up like ghost soldiers, as if they were counting the days down until the last, in a home whose very walls were saturated with the scent of sickly sweet apple liqueur and regret. You pass photos of school aged children, smiling at you from frames on the hallway walls. His children? His neighbors called when his lawn became overgrown.
The young mother, dead of a single gunshot wound to her head. Her crying toddler covered in her blood as he embraced his mama for the last time. The man who killed her, dead of a self inflicted gunshot wound in the next room. Neighbors called when they heard gunfire.
The 95 year old man who died in his hot garage two weeks prior, but he had become so angry and isolated that there was no one to be concerned when his routine was disrupted. The newspaper delivery guy called when he realized the newspapers were just sitting in the driveway, untouched.
The 11 year old sister of a gangbanger who was struck down in a hail of bullets intended for her brother. The home now eerily quiet as the family silently prays for a miracle that you know will not come.
The 87 year old woman whose home was pristine. She died in her sleep while in her easy chair, watching television, next to a photo of her late husband. The volume still turned up as a wildlife show played on the TV. Her daughter called 911 when she didn't answer her phone for their daily chat.
The teen whose body was found in bed next to empty bottles of her newly prescribed medications. Her devastated parents in the next room, pouring out their anguish.
The tiny infant, lying lifeless in the queen size bed after her exhausted mother accidentally rolled on to her in her sleep. Her tortured mother's cries filling the home with clouds of despair and grief.
Now imagine going home to your family with the weight and profound understanding of the fragile human condition bearing down on your soul.
Imagine trying not to burden them with the dread you must shoulder silently, knowing that if you open the manhole to that sewer of torment, every demon you have locked there will come rushing out.
Occasionally, in a seemingly casual tone, you remark "some people die better than others", as your eyes focus on the horizon.
Imagine going to the store, to the barber, living your life, knowing that everyone you meet could be the next body you carry from their home for the last time.
Imagine reading the news and discovering that politicians and the media are, once again, calling you the bad guy."
To answer your question... It has it's downsides sometimes. 🙃
English
