‘May he rot in hell’
Justice (noun)
/ˈdʒʌstɪs/
- The quality of being fair and reasonable; the principle of moral rightness and equity.
“The principle of justice demands that all people are treated equally.”
They all call it justice. The grieving families of victims, their voices cracking with pain, stand before the cameras, clutching faded photographs and whispering through tears, “We just want justice.” The fervent supporters of the death penalty, draped in flags and righteousness, thunder the same word like a sacred chant “justice”. Justice for the lives lost. Justice for the pain endured. Justice, they say, as if it were a balm for the gaping wounds left behind. But is it justice they seek?
In reality, the death penalty is anything but just. Anthony Wainwright’s scheduled for execution on June 10, 2025 in Florida is a glaring example. The messages flood in, dripping with hatred and righteous fury: “May he rot in hell.” “He got what he deserved.” “Justice, finally, it shouldn’t have taken that long.” Each word is a celebration, not of justice, but of vengeance. They are not seeking justice, they are seeking blood. They are not healing, they are feeding a hunger. Because in this world they call “just,” the agony of one family is answered by the suffering of another, and a man’s final breath is met with cheers. Justice? No. This is a spectacle. A ritual of cruelty masquerading as righteousness.
At what point, when a victim is murdered, do you hear the perpetrator’s family stand before the cameras, teeth bared in grotesque smiles, chanting, “She got what she deserved!”? At what point do you, the righteous public, gather outside a grieving home, waving signs, mocking the dead, cheering for their suffering? When do the media swarm to capture the final moments of a dying victim, not with somber faces and hushed tones, but with the electric thrill of a circus? When do you watch in rapturous glee, counting down the seconds to another human being’s last breath, while announcers declare it “justice”? Never. Because you call that cruelty. You call that barbarism. You call that inhuman. You demand empathy for the grieving, speak of dignity in death, and dress yourselves in the comforting lie that you are better. You say you are a society of compassion, of healing, of moral righteousness.
But when the state kills in your name, all of that collapses into a sick, twisted theater. Empathy becomes a weapon, wielded only for the “deserving.” Dignity is reserved for the “innocent,” as if suffering itself can be categorized, weighed, and measured by the purity of the victim. And justice? Justice is not a blind goddess, she is a vengeful wraith, her scales dripping with blood, her sword held high, as you scream for more.
But let’s talk about what you refuse to see, the suffering of the family on the other side of your bloodlust. A suffering that is a thousand times heavier. Because while the victim’s family mourns once, they mourn every single day. They are drained by the financial hell of endless appeals, the crushing cost of phone calls priced like gold, the bitter pilgrimage of travel just to touch glass instead of flesh. They sacrifice Sundays to cold, sterile visitation rooms, pretending that six hours in hell is a substitute for a lifetime. They choke back sobs in the dead of night, swallowed by helplessness, counting the days until a date etched in terror.
And they live under the countdown, the execution date a blade suspended by a thread. They endure the agony of last-minute denials, the phone ringing like a death knell, the voice on the other end saying, “It’s over.” They stand crushed beneath the machinery of a state that grinds a human life into a spectacle. And as if that torture were not enough, They are judged, by you. Hateful glares. Mutters of “They deserve it.” As if loving someone who did wrong makes us monsters. As if our blood should boil with shame.
You call this justice? Then you are liars. Frauds. If suffering is your measure, then know this, their suffering is a mountain, and yours is a pebble. The victim’s family will never know what it is to sit by a phone, praying for mercy, fearing the moment when hope dies. They will never be called monsters for their love. They will never be hated for their grief.
So call me a monster for saying this. Hate me. Curse me. It won’t change the truth. The families are all victims, yes, all of them. Both the ones who lost someone to violence and the ones who stand on the other side of the glass, waiting for the needle to pierce a vein. But there is a difference, one family is wrapped in sympathy, while the other is cloaked in shame. One family is allowed to grieve, while the other is branded complicit.
Today, just like the family of Carmen Gayheart, the family of Anthony Wainwright has the right to grieve. They have the right to mourn, to rage, to be consumed with anger at what is happening, because neither of these families is responsible. And the hatred Anthony and his family receive? It is anything but justice. It is raw, unfiltered hatred, a gratuitous cruelty, not a necessity. And if you cannot lay down your thirst for vengeance, then at the very least, show respect to a family about to suffer the same loss you have endured. Because nothing, not even grief, will ever make this right.
