It was a crime of compassion, he would later insist, a moment’s peace forced onto her in the twilight minutes of her life.
She was alone. Forgotten as the world moved on around her, an urban castaway – the lives of the elderly are lived out on scattered archipelagos.
No woman is an island, until age weaves its ragged magic across lengthening telomeres, until it rides, rampaging through what remains of her memories.
The same bitter song was sung, the same bitter taste in her mouth. She gave you ebullience.
You give her death. A slow, sinister torture – her mind died, long ago.
Her mind died, as Alzheimer’s robbed her of her past and her children abandoned her to the future.
It was a crime of compassion, the pillow soft in his hands.
A crime of compassion, but a crime no less, as the final human flutter in her chest was extinguished.
He would do it again, the court heard.
They had heard enough – a confession of empathy, of murder.
It was a crime of compassion, an epiphany of peace, of beauty.
The punishment for murder is death.
Just a quick 200 odd words this morning, written for this week’s Trifecta prompt: sinister (it’s been too long since I’ve made their linky in time) as well as for one of the BeKindReWrite prompts: Crime of Compassion. Comments and criticism welcome!