On Monday morning, one of my friends died of cancer. I spent the day crying and wondering what kind of a messed up universe allows people in their mid-twenties to die.
Then Monday night happened.
It’s been a couple of days now since I watched the news coming in on Monday night. I was about ready for bed when reports of an explosion at Manchester Arena at an Ariana Grande concert were suddenly coming up in the news. Manchester is about an hour’s drive, and it’s the main concert venue for the north of England. I’ve been there to concerts many times for my bands bucket list, as it’s almost always the second tour date (beside London) in England.
I slept fitfully through the night. When I awoke on Tuesday, my heart was in my throat. I was scouring the news reports and praying that the people I knew who had gone to the concert were going to be okay.
As the week has rolled on, more deaths have been confirmed. We’re now up to 22. I knew three of those people.
My heart breaks for all the children who have been hurt, the parents whose children haven’t come home, all the parents whose children are in hospital, who don’t know yet if their children are going to make it, and for all the children whose parents have died, who are going home to an empty house. I am devastated, for all the people who can’t find their loved ones, for all the friends and aunts and uncles lost and left behind.
I have my final exam for university tomorrow. It seems so ridiculous, to be even trying to prepare for something as normal as a test when this has happened.
I can’t even. Anything.