I am sick to my stomach today. Sick over what happened in Boston this
afternoon during the marathon. There are
no words to express my outrage at what transpired in my city on this proudest
of holidays here in our state, Patriot's Day.
All I have at this point is speculation and some eyewitness
testimony. People I know were there when
it happened, one of whom called me on her way home from the city. She will never be the same. None of us will ever be the same. My eldest child works blocks from where the
bombings happened, and I worried about him getting home to Charlestown from his
office. I was relieved he was working
because it meant he wasn't watching the end of the race. But to get home … Underground wasn't safe;
sidewalks weren't safe. Nowhere seemed
safe in the city. Nowhere.
One of my son's friends kept his ear attached to the Boston
Police Department scanner. More devices
located, bomb-sniffing dogs requested, person of interest being held at Mass
General Hospital, a fire or possible bomb at the JFK Library (then it wasn't a
bomb, then it was, then it wasn't, then it was…). Too much information; not enough information;
false information, and --
True information.
How dare you. How
dare you come to my city and wreak your psychotic war. I hope you are not a home-grown
terrorist. I am sick of Americans
turning on Americans. It's bad enough
our government is full of terrorists like you who would lie and steal and take
out their special interest political rage on its country's citizens, but at
least they show their faces. At least we
know who they are.
I hope when they find you that you go through a special kind
of torture before you make it to the station, if you make it to the station.
We can all pretend that you were
"injured in the explosions" when asked what happened to your face or
your eyes or your limbs or your neck.
Sick fucking bastard.
Sick, sick motherfucking bastard.
