The nausea crept up her throat from the pit of her stomach; the realization that yesterday was real.

It was hard to describe her pain. It was hard to write about it.

Her pain was more than a dictionary could contain. It was more than the 26 letters of our alphabet could describe.

It was the pain of a mother with a dead daughter.

Her pain was beyond language.

She didn’t even cry.

She didn’t cry as she headed over to his house.

She drove over, passing a few red lights but she didn’t care. She didn’t care what the traffic lights said, it didn’t matter if they said she couldn’t go. She would go.

She knew it was the pain and the anger taking control of her body. And she didn’t care.

Her fists pounded into the wooden door, it hurt. She didn’t care.

He opened it. And she slapped him.

“YOU KILLED MY DAUGHTER. YOU MURDERER!”

She grabbed his shirt and she punched him.

He let it happen. He wanted it to happen.

Slap me harder, he thought. Hit me, hurt me, I must repent, he thought.

“YOU- YOU KILLED HER!”

His parents rushed out of the house, separating the crazed woman from their son.

“HEY,” hollered Mr. Kingsley, grabbing her wrists.

The boy’s mother hurried over to her son, almost screaming when she saw his bruised face.

He said nothing.

“YOUR SON MURDERED MY DAUGHTER,” she cried, she screamed, she shouted, she whispered. She was in so much pain.

“MY SON DID NO SUCH THING!” Mr. Kingsley shouted, holding her wrists tighter.

“Y-you murderer,” the anger left her voice. All that was left was pain.

“You took my baby from me. She was the only thing I had. You killed her.”

Mr. Kingsley hesitated. His son, Will, was crying.

He shook his mother off and he approached the woman.

He fell to his knees, the grass dirtying his jeans.

“I am so sorry,” emotion over took his voice. He felt like he was suffocating.

“Sorry isn’t going to bring her back.”

Yes, he knew that already.

Mr. Kingsley let the woman go. This time turning to his son. “William, explain to me what happened right now.”

Mr. Kingsley, I’m sorry to say, your son murdered a girl. Your son bullied her. He made her hate herself. He made her throw up her dinner. He made her draw on her wrists. Your son (metaphorically) gave her the gun and she pulled the trigger.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Jackson,” he cried.

Sorry won’t take it back, Will. Sorry won’t fix things.

Helen Jackson isn’t coming back.