A Hostage Situation

Around 8 last night, all I was worried about was finding a better day moisturizer with SPF that doesn't reek of sunscreen.  

Then I got home and saw the unfolding drama on TV.

I honestly had no idea. 

Maybe the office is completely sheltered, but I didn't even hear anyone mention the on-going hostage situation. No updates on Twitter either.

To say I was shocked when I finally saw it on TV is the understatement of the year. The reporter kept saying everyone inside the bus was dead, and I slumped on a nearby chair, completely numb.

I think the feeling is best described as ice cold, like someone had poured a bucket of ice water on me.  Had the breath knocked out of me, I think.

Fifteen people on the bus.

Not hostages.

People.

People who, hours ago, were on their way home after what was a presumably enjoyable trip.  

People who, hours ago, had nothing on their minds but the sights they'd seen, the souvenirs they bought, the families waiting for them with beaming smiles at the airport.

I kept thinking about the stuff they'd left strewn about on the bus.  Cameras filled with happy photos, souvenirs, gifts for their loved ones at home -- now completely and utterly pointless. 

Fifteen people.

Not all of them dead, it turns out, but eight dead bodies out of fifteen hostages isn't really much of a consolation.

So forgive me if I can't tolerate the sympathetic people clucking about what a "good guy" the hostage-taker was.  Not today.  Maybe not ever.  

I have no sympathy for murderers.

There is no reason, no logic, no justification, no fucking anything for a man who decides to kill in order to proclaim his innocence.

Fifteen people. Eight dead. One murderer.

An entire nation left to pick up the pieces.