The Children in Room 3

They are no longer human.
They are now things
Called “Remains.”

An hour earlier
They were children.
They laughed and joked
Talking of who would be at the dance.
They were in the moment
Fully alive
Happy
Filled with expectation.

Now they are zipped in body bags
In Room 3.
They are things.

In Room 2
A human sits on an examination table
Where a silent doctor stitches his forehead.
The human drunkenly complains
Of the sting in the procedure
Complains of the harsh light
Complains he cannot leave
Complains he cannot get a drink.

In minutes frantic parents will arrive
And be escorted
Into Room 1
Where I will tell them
A drunk driver murdered their children.
They will ask questions parents always ask.
Am I sure it’s their child?
Where are they now?
Am I sure?
Am I sure?

In Room 2 the human howls at the stitches.

Yes
I am sure their children died instantly upon impact.
I am sure their bodies were charred in the resulting fire.
I am sure because I forced myself to view their remains
Though I will not tell them that
For fear they will want to see, too.
They must not see that.
No parent must see that.
I know.
I am a parent.

The human in Room 2
Should have been the one to die.
But he did not.
He will have a future.

The children in Room 3
Only have a past.