MY SON, MY SON

I always have to defend my son. Or defend myself. Jigsaw locked us up together in a cage and forced us to choose life or death for the man that took my husband Harold Abbott. You never dream of these moments, of having the chance to destroy or to save. I remember the moment like slow motion. I held the lever. He begged for his life. I wanted him dead. I saw Harold when he was sick -- and then I saw him when he was healthy, happy, when I first met him 22 years ago. And when I saw him, really saw him, I could not kill, not like that, not for revenge. Not without saving anyone. I did not take the responsibility of that man's death. Not on my hands. But I could not stop my son. I cannot make him not see what he saw, when the syringe filled that man with acid which destroyed his body.

Since we walked from that rusty cage back into our lives I have been challenged on all sides to defend my son. My boy is not a killer. He is a young man who had his father stolen, and who was ripped from the safety of our home into the labyrinths of a madman. There was no lesson. No transcendence. Just blood and grieving.

I thank Bobby for his energy and his efforts in helping to comfort and educate the survivors. He himself came through great trauma and his strength has been to turn that trauma into something positive. But I will not celebrate a madman who forces innocent people to become murderers.

-Tara