The evening news just blared the latest. The names are different but the story is the same. Commentators said he did this; commentators listed victims, kept under the cloak of anonymity of childhood.
The woman listened to this new story and her heart crumbled, again. She knew of the accused. She knew the accused parents. She felt what they must be feeling, for it is what she once felt.
Her barely concealed wound has just been reopened, the scab brutally ripped off. The wound is her badge of honor for the wound has never healed. The pain she expresses through anger. She is angry at the media for the condemnation of a man who might be innocent. The law says that a person charged is innocent until proven guilty and it is unfair that the media portrays the accused perpetrator, ruining his reputation long before a trial has proven him guilty. But the anger that strangles her has nothing to do with today’s news; it comes from old news. Her wound has never healed.
In her anger, she feels attacked even though words were not directed at her or towards her situation. In her anger, she feels no peace and knows no rest even though the events of today are far removed from her. In her anger, she lashes out even though the battle is not hers to fight.
Today’s news sounds just like old news, for the old news of a different today stopped the progression of time. That different today she revives every day, keeping the events and the anger thereof sufficient for her will to survive each moment in the present time.