Diary Of A Pack Whore

Entry 9: When The Mourning Is Over

Miles couldn't believe what he read. First their was the shock of Emma. How could a husband murder his wife? A father cruelly destroy his own unborn child? It almost seemed as if it were a work of fiction instead of something that would happen in real life. Things like this just didn't happen as an everyday occurrence. If husbands just went around beating and killing their wives and children their would be talk. Task forces would be formed. Protest marched. Groups assembled to educate the masses about such atrocities. Steps would be taken to squash out the possibility of these violent acts just as with other blemishes of society. Surely such a problem would have more publicity then erectile dysfunction and anti aging miracles?

As for Rhea's accusations. It wasn't true. It just couldn't be. An elder was meant to protect and guide the young. No one could break from their wolf so far as to be able hurt the most helpless members of a pack. She was just a lying whore who wanted the pack to pay for her own mistakes that had messed up her life. Even her mother didn't believe her. Without proof Miles would never believe such a thing. Especially of such a respected elder.

***1 in 15 children are exposed to domestic violence annually of these 90% are present during the attack

Girls  who witness domestic violence are more vulnerable to abuse as teens and adults.

Boys who witness domestic violence are far more likely to become abusers of their partners and/or children as adults, thus continuing the cycle of violence in the next generation.***

Entry 9: When The Mourning Is Over

Life moves forward even when we feel frozen in a moment. It was almost three weeks before Emma's body was released. In that time we mourned as we tried to make sense of something that was so senseless. I had moved my meager belongings into my small apartment that night as Verity and I comforted each other. Frank had come bringing me groceries and making us dinner. He had then held us tight in his arms through the night. At dawn the three of us woke on the couch still wrapped in the comfort of each other. Even with stiff joints and an itchy tear stained face, the comfort I found in just being with these two wonderful people helped to lighten the endless layers of grief weighing down my heart.

That morning and each morning after I got up and went to work. The world did not stop for heartbreak. Food had to be bought, bills paid, and my baby would come when she was ready wether I was prepared or not. So I pasted a brittle smile on my face and would try to chat normally with my customers as I had done before. But it wasn't the same and even our regulars could sense it and began to worry for both Verity and I. It was almost as if a dark cloud had settled over the little diner.

I don't remember much about those weeks as we waited. They were all just a blur of grief and sadness, each day running into the next. Each time I would begin to pull myself out of my depressive fog something would just push me back down into its grasp. On the day that Emma was released to us Mia came, and together we planned her wake. Frank cooked for days while Verity seemed to get lost in her head. My sunny angel who always had a smile was caught up in a miasma of grief and hate and as we got closer to the wake it deepened. Mia was a stoic rock to my hormonal emotional overload. Her eyes were vacant of all emotion as we chose music and flowers to help celebrate Emma's too short life. I didn't know which worried me more, but I knew that each woman would soon crumble under the strain of their thoughts, and when that happened I could only hope we could piece them back together.

The morning of the wake dawned. The sun shone over the freshly fallen snow. It's purity a testament to Emma's soul as we would soon send it on its way to the heavens. The wake itself was filled with the women that Emma's life had touched. She had very little family so it was left to us to remember her for her daughter. Caroline was a ghost standing next to the social worker who was now in charge of her. No words passed her lips. She had been silent since that night.