#tccg entry 1

[thebookishbutler]

The Crow Calls Guilty - Entry #1

It is believed that death is an inherently sad thing. And, initially, it’s easy to understand why. A death takes life, yet leaves so much behind. A life is gone, but the ruins are left for those alive to do with however they want. But why is that considered a bad thing? Why should a person’s death be sorrowful if they had lived a fulfilling life with a loving family and passed peacefully? Who would mourn the demise of a hero who saved thousands before their fateful end? If the right people and circumstances are present, why should a death be sad at all?

My name is Lia Pax, and my brother is a convicted mass murderer.

I think the thing I get asked most is if I saw it coming. The answer, in it’s boring entirety, is no. I didn’t expect it, I didn’t think he was capable, and I didn’t see it all in a dream. Not even the night terrors I had as a kid could come up with something as horrible as this.

It was a relatively small shooting, actually. It didn’t break any sick records, and it didn’t gain very much attention. The entire state of Washington was shocked and awakened, yes, but my friend on the East Coast only heard about the whole thing through me. I find that sad; The entire country seems to care more about a bigger victim count than about the Rosewood branch of Washington State University.

Another frequent question I’m asked is why. ‘Why did he have a gun?’, ‘Why didn’t he stop after the professor?’, ‘Why would he do such a thing?’. My dad is a veteran with PTSD, it was about misery, not one man’s death, and I don’t know. I don’t know what he thought killing the teacher that failed him (and subsequently banned him from being a student-athlete) would do. I don’t know what compels someone, anger or not, to kill. I just don’t know.

But I do know that this isn’t who he has always been. The man sitting in isolation in the County jail, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time, is not my brother. He’s not the person who gave me piggyback rides around the backyard, who taught me how to play guitar, who drove me around for hours when we waited for mom and dad to stop fighting. He’s not the kid that sold candy bars for his baseball team, or spent his childhood saving up for a car he would never own.

That man is not Seth Pax.

He is a monster.