went down, back first, on the dusty trail. I saw her head bounce off the dirt and snap forward. Her burgundy cap flew off and blood of the same color was all over the front of her white sweatshirt. Yanking my head back around I screamed into the woods, “Nooooo, you mother fuckerrr!!! Come get me! Come get me now you fucking animal!”
Then I spun around, took two steps back, and fell knees to the ground alongside Elaina. As I held her in my arms, her cheek next to mine, I heard rustling leaves and snapping branches. I didn’t know if the shooter was heading towards me or taking off in the opposite direction. I hoped he was coming for me. Holding her by the back of her head, feeling the dirt in her short hair, my wife took her last shallow breaths.
“Elaina, Elaina, nooo, please God nooo,” I pleaded.
But in a matter of seconds, the inevitable moment arrived. Just before it did, Elaina spoke her last words. No, she whispered them, just four words. So weak were they that, had we not still been cheek to cheek, I would never have heard them. As she left to meet her maker, she said, “Tom … please … be careful.” Warm tears then coursed my cheeks and dripped onto Elaina’s. As I wept her body shuddered and quivered with mine.
Then, not a moment too soon, I spoke softly in her ear. “Don’t worry, honey, you won’t be alone for long. I promise, I’ll come to get you.”
I don’t know how long I laid there holding my Elaina, but I stayed with her on that mountain trail long after her body went cold. I can’t come close to explaining the feeling of desolation and mental agony that overcame me. The thoughts that crowded my consciousness were filled with hate and revenge, uncommon love and monumental loss.
For the longest time, I thought I’d never get up. But eventually, I did. About the time the sun was directly above us, I rose to my knees and gently rested Elaina’s head on the red Carolina soil. I picked up her cap and trudged up the incline toward the camper. With old tears and new tears clouding my vision and my equilibrium out of kilter, I kept slipping, falling, and sliding face first in the dirt. I don’t know if it happened three times or four, but I do know that each time I went down, I stayed there a while. Each time, I pounded my fists into the ground with what little strength I had left. I also cried—I wailed like a horrified man being led to the gallows.
When I finally reached the camper, I called the authorities on Elaina’s cell phone. Unfamiliar with the phone, shaking like I was, it took several efforts to dial 911 on the tiny keys. A short time later, the National Park Rangers arrived. The police and ambulance were not far behind.
The law officers told me right off that Elaina’s death had all the ingredients of a typical, careless hunting accident. After investigating the scene for two days, they said they hadn’t found a single meaningful clue, not even the spent shell. Of course, when the autopsy was performed they did find the bullet in my sweetheart’s chest. I don’t remember what caliber it was, but they said it was the one most widely used by deer hunters. They also said whoever pulled that trigger must have mistaken Elaina’s white sweatshirt for the tail of a deer.
The ironic part of this horrendous tragedy is that, if the mindless fucking cretin who ended my wife’s life was a hunter , he was also a poacher. Deer season in Western North Carolina hadn’t begun yet. It was still three weeks away. On top of that, the area around the Blue Ridge Parkway is a wildlife preserve, and hunting of any kind, at any time, is illegal. Although I’m fairly certain the investigators were correct in declaring Elaina’s death a hunting accident, I will carry to my grave a small gnawing doubt.
Since I was in no condition to drive, one of the police officers drove me and the RV back to the campground in Asheville. I stayed inside that camper for six straight days, most of the
Then I spun around, took two steps back, and fell knees to the ground alongside Elaina. As I held her in my arms, her cheek next to mine, I heard rustling leaves and snapping branches. I didn’t know if the shooter was heading towards me or taking off in the opposite direction. I hoped he was coming for me. Holding her by the back of her head, feeling the dirt in her short hair, my wife took her last shallow breaths.
“Elaina, Elaina, nooo, please God nooo,” I pleaded.
But in a matter of seconds, the inevitable moment arrived. Just before it did, Elaina spoke her last words. No, she whispered them, just four words. So weak were they that, had we not still been cheek to cheek, I would never have heard them. As she left to meet her maker, she said, “Tom … please … be careful.” Warm tears then coursed my cheeks and dripped onto Elaina’s. As I wept her body shuddered and quivered with mine.
Then, not a moment too soon, I spoke softly in her ear. “Don’t worry, honey, you won’t be alone for long. I promise, I’ll come to get you.”
I don’t know how long I laid there holding my Elaina, but I stayed with her on that mountain trail long after her body went cold. I can’t come close to explaining the feeling of desolation and mental agony that overcame me. The thoughts that crowded my consciousness were filled with hate and revenge, uncommon love and monumental loss.
For the longest time, I thought I’d never get up. But eventually, I did. About the time the sun was directly above us, I rose to my knees and gently rested Elaina’s head on the red Carolina soil. I picked up her cap and trudged up the incline toward the camper. With old tears and new tears clouding my vision and my equilibrium out of kilter, I kept slipping, falling, and sliding face first in the dirt. I don’t know if it happened three times or four, but I do know that each time I went down, I stayed there a while. Each time, I pounded my fists into the ground with what little strength I had left. I also cried—I wailed like a horrified man being led to the gallows.
When I finally reached the camper, I called the authorities on Elaina’s cell phone. Unfamiliar with the phone, shaking like I was, it took several efforts to dial 911 on the tiny keys. A short time later, the National Park Rangers arrived. The police and ambulance were not far behind.
The law officers told me right off that Elaina’s death had all the ingredients of a typical, careless hunting accident. After investigating the scene for two days, they said they hadn’t found a single meaningful clue, not even the spent shell. Of course, when the autopsy was performed they did find the bullet in my sweetheart’s chest. I don’t remember what caliber it was, but they said it was the one most widely used by deer hunters. They also said whoever pulled that trigger must have mistaken Elaina’s white sweatshirt for the tail of a deer.
The ironic part of this horrendous tragedy is that, if the mindless fucking cretin who ended my wife’s life was a hunter , he was also a poacher. Deer season in Western North Carolina hadn’t begun yet. It was still three weeks away. On top of that, the area around the Blue Ridge Parkway is a wildlife preserve, and hunting of any kind, at any time, is illegal. Although I’m fairly certain the investigators were correct in declaring Elaina’s death a hunting accident, I will carry to my grave a small gnawing doubt.
Since I was in no condition to drive, one of the police officers drove me and the RV back to the campground in Asheville. I stayed inside that camper for six straight days, most of the
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