Just when we doubted HIS goodness, Madeline, three days after her murder, posted on Facebook.
“I AM in a better place.”
I had questions. I’m her older brother, I’m supposed to have questions.
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We assaulted his Facebook page in response to her accusation, demanding that he turn himself in. “I WILL NOT TURN MYSELF IN,” he posted on his wall, defiant, just hours later. We retaliated by defriending him, all of us, simultaneously. He responded to our retaliation by killing himself. Turned the engine on and closed up his garage, the slow death of a coward. We wondered if he could get back on Facebook from where he’d likely gone. We waited for his friend request for weeks, months. He didn’t friend us, which confirmed to us that though Facebook had reached Madeline, it wasn’t accessible in hell. And there was justice in that.
My second question to Madeline was: “How did you get on Facebook from the other side?”
People responded with exclamation points, smiley faces.
But Madeline finally came back: “Sorry for not posting! Time doesn’t work the same here! It’s so weird, LOL!”
