But that’s the fantasy of the scared child locked inside who once believed in God and other fairy tales he was told. But the bitter and scarred adult – unscrewing the cap of this dusty bottle of whiskey that lay buried at the bottom of The 12 Steps and using its burn to cauterize an uncauterizable wound – accepts (ok, is drinking his way to the acceptance) that: He got away with it. He lived a long, free life. He was never questioned nor charged. He never had an attack of conscience and confessed. He didn’t suffer an expensive, prolonged, and agonizing death. Those who knew and said and did nothing have retired to warmer climes and beach houses. And we victims: We get to drive by the Pinwheels of Irony outside the Halls of Shame every April. We get to start our days with unexpected text reminders of a gift that keeps on giving. We get to keep on eating [sh#]. Justice in this world is as laughable as judgment in the next.
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