Karma

We often underestimate the power that simple words can hold. We throw them around carelessly, taking little stock in how much damage they can cause. The massive effect they can have when we truly believe in what we are saying. But all the same, we are taught from a young age that words are merely noise that we can choose to ignore and POOF- they disappear. No harm, no foul. The old adage, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” was something I heard repeatedly throughout childhood. It was a simple lesson, you string silly words together to form silly sentences and ultimately it’s you who gets to choose what they mean and the effect that they have. And that’s exactly what I believed.

That is, until the first box arrived.

I guess you could say I had a hard time accepting the death of my best friend. She was just twenty-four years old when she was tragically taken from us by a drunk who walked away from the wreckage with just a scratch.A beautiful soul extinguished in mere seconds by a man who had spent most of his pathetic life relying on the bottle. An infuriating waste that, to this day, remains absolutely incomprehensible. But the real slap in the face came when he was finally charged. Michael Allen Pope was given eight years for vehicular manslaughter. Eight measly years in a minimum security prison for taking a life that had one-hundred times the potential than he could ever dream of. Disgusting.

I took his sentencing personally, writing letters to anyone of importance or power and creating petitions pleading with the state, and even the President, to retry him. I spent hours researching what could be done, sleeping only when exhaustion overtook me then getting right back to it after a few hours of restless sleep. Finally, several months after the sentencing, it randomly hit me. I realized I was only delaying the inevitable and distracting myself from the hard truth. No matter how vigilantly I worked for this justice, it wouldn’t bring Evie back. Nothing I did could save her or change the outcome of this tragedy. Once I came to this conclusion, I could breathe. I allowed myself to rest, feel my loss and mourn my best friend. And slowly, that deeply rooted anger turned into a deeply rooted sadness which in return, settled into hesitant acceptance. But even still, a small fire burned deep within me.

Every single night before going to sleep, I said a prayer of peace for Evie’s soul. I followed this with a plea for justice, to no one in particular. A plea that Michael Pope would receive his karma ten times over and live every day of his life in misery until he met a horrific end. Another plea that the judge who sentenced him would feel the pain of loss and the disgust of knowing that the murderer of our Evie would walk free in just 8 years. And lastly, a final plea that anyone who helped that sorry excuse for a man avoid justice would pay for it. This little routine, while somewhat dark, helped me cope. It satisfied my anger and gave me an odd sense of control which allowed me some semblance of comfort. And what could it hurt, really? After all, they were just words..right?

If only I had known.

It was a beautiful spring evening, roughly a year after the final sentencing, when the first box arrived. I was soaking up the last of the sun's warmth on the back patio when the shrill sound of the doorbell jolted me back into reality. I begrudgingly eased myself up and made my way to the front door, opening it just wide enough to see who was there. To my surprise, rather than a person, a large box tied neatly with a red ribbon sat in the very center of my welcome mat. Confused, I swung the door open and tip-toed quickly to the edge of the porch to see if I could catch the mysterious gifter as they made their getaway. Not a soul. I spun around and stared at the box for a moment before bending down to inspect it closer. I gently moved the ribbon out of the way, revealing my name neatly printed on the top of the box. My birthday was months away and Christmas not for several months after that. I racked my brain for another explanation but came up with nothing.

Though not at all nefarious in appearance, something about the box was just…off. One would think a gift appearing on your doorstep would bring joy and excitement to an otherwise ordinary day, but all that I was able to muster was a strong sense of weariness. “Well,” I said with a sigh “Happy VERY early Birthday to me, I guess”. I hesitantly bent down and grabbed the box by its sides expecting it to have some weight but, to my surprise, it lifted with ease. I brought it inside and placed it on the kitchen table. After another moment of pause, I gently pulled the end of the ribbon and watched as it unraveled and fell to the ground. I slowly lifted the lid only to reveal…. mounds of tissue paper. “Good grief” I muttered, annoyed with all the hassle. I dug my way to the bottom, finally pulling out a smaller package wrapped in paper and tied with twine.I sighed with frustration as I carefully untied the twine and began to unwrap the package.

It was a jumpsuit. Or what used to be a jumpsuit, navy blue in color. It was riddled with holes that were scattered among the chest and back and covered with dark stains. Motor oil, maybe? It did kind of resemble a mechanics jumpsuit, I remember thinking. But why would someone send me a tattered jumpsuit? I turned it around to inspect further when I finally noticed the name printed across the shoulders.

“M. Pope”

The realization of what exactly I held in my hands hit me and I let out a gasp as I thrusted it away from me as hard as I could. My head spun as I stood and stared at the tattered jumpsuit crumpled on my kitchen floor, having to steady myself on a nearby chair to keep from collapsing. Without thinking, I reached for the gift box and furiously pulled the remaining tissue paper out, letting it litter the floor as I tried desperately to reach the bottom. Once empty, a single tiny envelope was revealed, my name written in bold red ink across the front. I reached into the box and grabbed it, my hands shaking violently. Taking a deep breath, I opened the envelope and pulled out a note card that had one simple word printed in all caps:

“KARMA”

My blood ran cold as the puzzle pieces slowly began to come together. Someone had sent me Michael Pope’s prison jumpsuit, which was covered in…holes? No wait, those weren’t just holes. More like slits. Slits similar to what, I assume, a knife would make. Which would make the stains …”Oh my God!” I whispered, my hands flying up to my mouth. There’s no way. Just then, I heard my phone ringing from the patio. Still trying to gather my bearings, I walked as quickly as I could to retrieve it, picking up just before the last ring.

“Hello?” I whispered into the speaker, hands still shaking.

“Candice? It’s Adam Cox, from Port Ryan Police Department. I was the family advocate for Evie Bernard’s trial.”

My stomach dropped at the sound of Evie’s name.

“Yes?” I said, encouraging him to continue even though I had a feeling I already knew what he had to say.

“I’m calling to inform you that Michael Allen Pope was attacked and killed by an unknown assailant on his way back from his cleaning crew shift late yesterday evening. I don’t usually make it a habit to inform people outside of the immediate family in these situations, but Mrs. Bernard said you would want to know.”

The phone fell from my hand, smashing against the pavement, as I stood in utter shock from the news. Though I already had an idea of his murder based on the bloody jumpsuit laying on my kitchen floor, the simple confirmation of it brought on a whole other wave of disbelief. Who had left his jumpsuit on my doorstep? What would happen if authorities found it in my possession? Was this a set up? Why me? Nothing about this made sense and I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had enveloped me since that damned package arrived on my doorstep.

After an indiscernible amount of time pacing the patio and asking myself questions that seemingly had no answer, I finally made my way upstairs and drew a hot bath in an attempt to calm my nerves. What was I supposed to do? You can’t just call someone and tell them that a mysterious box appeared on your doorstep, that just happened to contain the clothing of a recently murdered man (whom you openly hate) without earning yourself a one way ticket to prison. I figured it was best to keep it to myself, at least until I had more answers.

I soaked until the water went cold, still feeling that same sense of terrible dread that had taken hold of me earlier. Rather than face a sleepless night of more pacing and answerless questions, I fished out the sleeping pills I had been prescribed, but never took, from the back of my medicine cabinent and swallowed two. I laid down, my eyes already feeling heavy, when instinct took over and I began my nightly routine:

“I pray that Evie’s sweet soul rests in peace, spreading her light and love to the other side. May she watch over me until it’s time for us to be together once again.”

“May karma find Michael Pope, may his living days be filled with misery and his end be……”

Before I could finish, it hit me.

Did I cause this? How could someone have heard something that I uttered privately within the confines of my own home, my own bed?

“KARMA” the note had read.

It is something I asked for and while this would appear to be a case of just that, it didn’t make sense how anyone would know. I had never told anyone of my nightly routine or uttered it in front of another soul. How could someone know and what benefit would it serve them to actually carry it out? They were just words. My mind raced with possibilities, but not a single one seemed to fit.

Sleep took me before I could think any further, the dread finally lifting slightly as I drifted into a dreamless slumber.

I woke with a start the following morning and was instantly thrown back into the reality of my situation. Out of sheer habit and an attempt to delay the inevitable, I reached for my phone only to remember I had shattered it on the concrete the day prior. “Great, one more thing to handle” I thought as I laid my head back on my pillow and let out a deep sigh. Slowly, I eased myself up to begin my day.

I had just turned on the tv for some background noise while getting dressed when a breaking news announcement came onto the screen and caught my attention.

“This just in, reports of a horrific accident outside Port Ryan’s court house this morning. Officials said the accident occurred early this morning when a drunk driver ran a red light, t-boning a southbound vehicle on Meharry Rd, instantly killing the passenger. The victim has been identified as District Judge Brandon Wilson’s seventeen year old daughter, Haley Wilson, who was on the way to work with her father as a part of her senior project. Judge Wilson is said to be in stable condition at St. Mary’s and is expected to make a full recovery. The driver of the other vehicle was uninjured and was taken into police custody. More information to follow on Action News LIVE at 9am.”

My mouth fell open. It couldn’t be. Judge Wilson was the presiding Judge on Michael Pope’s trial. The man who pursued nothing but the minimum sentence. The man whom I prayed justice would find. The man, would now, personally feel what it’s like to lose someone you love at the careless hands of another.

But how? They were just words.

I was suddenly pulled from my thoughts by the sound of the doorbell. My body instantly tensed.

I turned and began to walk slowly to the front door. But, this time, I didn’t need to open it to know what was there.