To make sense of it all

His name was Wayne. He had lost his wife about a decade before in a tragic car accident. It was not her fault, but that of a drunken man who is now rotting in a cell. Every year on the anniversary of the incident, Wayne wrote the man a letter. He didn't quite know why. Perhaps it was a way to hold on the the last thread of her that remained. Maybe he wanted to ensure the man wouldn't forget what he has done, and to whom. The man will never forget the innocent life he took, but Wayne wanted to make sure. He wanted the man overcome with guilt everyday for the rest of his life. The man would feel it anyway, but Wayne's yearly letters served as a stark reminder. 

The letters vary in intention, content and clarity. One year he sent a letter explain how he met Sloane, in excruciating detail. How he had seen her car on the side of the road with a flat tire. What sort of car it was, what year, even how many miles it had had at the time. How it was nearing dark and he felt hesitant to stop, hoping not to impose upon her. The first time they spoke as he assured her he would help her change her tire and be on his way. The fact that she didn't have a spare, and he had to take her to the nearest town. The silence they shared on that drive, not a single word spoken. He explained that that's when he knew. He had spent his whole life searching for someone with whom silence was not empty, but full. 

Another year he wrote with pure anger and sadness, cursing the man out in every way he knew how. Telling him exactly what he had taken from him. Wishing him pain and suffering and unwanted sexual imposition from his fellow inmates. He told the man that though he is the one in prison, his own suffering was more extreme. His minutes passed slower. His world was a darker, colder cell than the man could ever be in. 

The most recent letter, however, was different. A letter of reconciliation and forgiveness . In short, an apology for the guilt he had tried to force on the man with his previous letters. He did not include this specifically, but he found that the misery he wanted to put on the man only came back to himself with a vengeance. That every time he sent a spiteful letter, it kept him up for weeks on end. He knew better than to keep sending them, but every year, as the anniversary of her death crept closer, so did the contempt and emptiness that encompassed him since she had died. 

He frequently called the man a murderer when he wrote him. He wanted that word to burn into him. That he was not just a man who had killed, but a murdered. What an awful thing to be. A murderer. One who has murdered. 

He thought back to an old Clint Eastwood movie from the 90's. It was about a gunslinger past his prime, out for one more "noble" bounty accompanied by a young man who claimed to be well versed in the trade. Through their travels to find the men they were after, the young cowboy, in an effort to prove himself and justify that he belonged, frequently bragged about his own adventures. He talked about all the bounties he had completed, and most importantly how many men he had killed. Later in the movie they found the criminals and took them down. The young man shot and killed one of the men point blank, shooting him three times in the chest. A few scenes later as they made their way back, the young cowboy could barely keep himself together. He was swigging whiskey from the bottle, and broke down in tears. He confessed that he had never in fact killed a man before, that was his first one. He was overcome with guilt even though the man had it coming. He breaks down in tears and begs Clint Eastwoods character to ease his mind. "It's a hell of a thing, ain't it, killin' a man. You take everything he's got... and everything he's ever gonna have..." 

Wayne decided that the last letter he sent the man would be the last letter he sends him. He would never write him again. But even in that decision he wanted to hurt him. He he had never heard back from the man, but thought that maybe the man found comfort in hearing from him. In some strange way the man liked getting his letters, that it had legitimized the time he was spending behind bars.

The Following year, as the date of her death approached, the same feeling as always crept in. He missed her, thought of what she may be doing now if she were still alive with him. He wondered what new hobby she would have picked up, as she was inclined to pick a new one up frequently. He wondered how her hair may have began to gray, or how her nagging back injury may have accelerated. Maybe by now she would have quit smoking like she always said she would.

 He sat and reminisced of all the wonderful time he was fortunate enough to share with her. He even thought horrible thoughts that come after such a tragedy. Thoughts he didn't really believe, but that grief produced as a way to make himself feel better. Maybe it's good she died when she did so we never grew to resent each other, he thought. Her back pain would have become a horrible burden to the both of us, maybe this was for the best. She had a family history of dementia, that would have been a slow painful death, perhaps a quick painless one was a blessing in disguise. These thoughts disgusted him, but they did pop into his mind. 

 The anniversary of her death came, and for the first time, he did not write the man. He went about his days for the next week. Two weeks, Three. He checked the mail everyday in hopes of a letter from the man. He had never wanted anything more than a letter asking why he didn't write him on the anniversary that year. A letter never came. 

It was all in vain he realized. The man felt no guilt and her death was for nothing.