Flawless Grieving by Em Coombes

I sat opposite him. The driver responsible for the death of my soulmate, my husband. He looked barely more than a teenager, the acne scars that blight most adolescents still visible. Having pleaded guilty, any defence against the undisputable evidence was futile; the court had provided this intervention before sentencing. ‘Restorative justice’ was their official term. Closure. Any risk had been deemed negligible; the remorseful offender seeking redemption, and I, the grieving widow, desperate to understand. I could recite the full content of the legal report. How I found strength in memories of my husband to function on a daily basis. Truth. My close support network. Also true. How everyone had remarked, as if applauding a child who had achieved higher than expected, how remarkably I was managing…

The room felt stifling. I listened patiently, in no rush to return to a house now a space without the magnetic presence of my husband. Speaking eloquently, taking deliberate care over each word, his body language communicated less control. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, I noticed the sweat on his brow, how he repeatedly wrung his hands together. A contrast to myself, who remained poised, back straight, knees and ankles together, hands resting neatly in my lap. Motionless.

I heard his devastation at his own actions. How he still cherished a distant hope of a future for himself, to eventually follow a career supporting youngsters at risk of falling on the wrong side of the law. I sat attentively, unflinching. And then came the crux….that he’d not registered that the traffic lights at the pedestrian crossing had turned to red….
“If I could do anything to turn the clocks back…” Except we both knew he couldn’t.

Silently composing myself, it was my turn to talk. He answered my polite, unintrusive questions that I’d prepared regarding himself and his family. I witnessed him visibly begin to relax, his fidgeting reducing to barely anything as my line of enquiry didn’t extend beyond mundane conversation. No searching interrogation or emotional outburst. No tears or anger. I could almost feel his sense of relief. As he answered my final question, I became aware of our facilitator gathering her papers together; another restorative session peacefully completed. We all stood up. I was led out of the room, grateful to breathe in the fresh outdoor air. After walking slowly to my car, I commenced the ritual I’d followed since the day my husband died, listening to the last message he had left on my phone. Hearing his voice was overwhelming, an inconsequential comment about how he was visiting the local supermarket for wine to accompany our evening meal. These words, now his last, have taken on a whole new unforeseen significance. I waited until I saw my husband’s killer leave the building to walk across the car park. It was only then that I switched on the engine, put my foot on the accelerator and drove straight towards him…. JUSTICE.

Em is a literary fiction writer and author of The Pier, published by Tim Saunders Publishing. Her unique thought-provoking style delves into the depths of human emotion and vulnerability. Prior to penning a full-length novel Em has had short stories published in anthologies. Shortlisted for Writing On The Wall Pulp Idol 2020 and longlisted for the flash fiction Paul Cave Prize for Literature 2023, Em has a Diploma in Creative Writing with distinction from the British Academy of Creative Writing.

The Pier by Em Coombes is available via Amazon

Photo by Jepoy Fabian at Pexels

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