Death happens when the spirit departs the body, for whatever reason. Some people die. Some people are killed.
I have a friend who died a few years ago. I grew up with her, and although we weren’t the closest after high school, it was one of those friendships that always managed to just pick up where we dropped it, even if it had been months or years between phone calls or visits. She was bouncy and smiley all the time. She used to come over and watch movies, and the movies she would bring were always so typical of her that we still call some movies “Laura movies” because they are the kind she would have watched: complex plots, generally set in the real world, characters who behave in atypical, unexpected ways, leaving us with puzzled expressions at the end wondered just what happened. I remember the way she walked, swaying just a little from side to side so that her long blonde ponytail went back and forth wildly. Laura developed an autoimmune disease that left her in constant pain, and she just got worn out by it. Her mother found her dead in her bed one morning after a couple of really bad days of pain with no relief.
Laura died. I can say that. She died. My friend died.
I have another friend who is dead. She didn’t die though. She was murdered in cold blood by a man who should have been her knight and protector, who should have defended her with his last breath. She was killed.
I can’t say it. I can’t say, “When Chris died.” I can say “She is dead,” because that is a statement of fact. Her death has occurred. But she didn’t just die. She was killed. I can’t say it any other way. She was taken. She was gunned down, probably defending her son (who was probably defending her). She was murdered.
She didn’t just die.
‘She didn’t just die.’
No. She didn’t.
I’m so sorry.
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