William Bradford Bishop: This Is What Hell Is Like
The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
~ John Milton, Paradise Lost
Dear Brad,
Pardon me for not wishing you a happy 80th birthday. Frankly, you don't deserve it. But that's another matter. Barring any new twists in your case, this likely will be my last message to you, or about you. Why? Because if you aren't already dead, you soon enough will be. Mortality knocks. Tap. Tap. Tap. I don't recall your religious beliefs, if any, but if you do believe in an afterlife, think about the celestial reunion with your murdered family members. Thanksgiving with the in-laws pales by comparison.
What will they say when meeting face-to-face with you at the Pearly Gates? "Hi, Dad?" "Glad to see you again darling?" "Oh, son. I missed you so?" Ahh. I think not. Their faces will reflect haunting remonstrance to your horrendous crime. Their silence will both reject you and beseech you for answers. "Why did you rob us of our lives and selfishly carry on with your own?" "You used to tell us you loved us. But it was false, wasn't it? We had love in our hearts for you when you crushed our lives while asleep in our beds, while relaxing with a good read, while entering the house after walking Leo, our dog. What was in your own heart? Hellfire and rage. Why? Why? Why?"
Upon reaching 80, you're playing with the house's money. To paraphrase Houseman, "Now fourscore years it's been, twenty will not come again." As we approach the precipice of death, most of us reflect back on our lives. We ask ourselves questions like, "Did I use my time wisely?" "Was my life meaningful?" "What did others think of me?" "Will my loved ones cherish my memory?" What about you, Brad? After killing your mother, wife and three sons, did you use your time wisely? Doing what? Hiding in the shadows, constantly on edge, fearful of being caught. Were you able to retrieve any meaningfulness as a fugitive on the run? As for what others think of you, well, I can assure you that it's been universal revulsion. Finally, having no more loved ones, there's obviously no one left alive to carry any memory of you.
Now here's my definition of hell: not only having your children predecease you, but actually ushering them into their graves. My definition of hell is contemplating how their lives would have progressed had their father not bludgeoned them to death. William would be 54 today. Sportive like yourself, one can imagine a self-directed, fit middle-aged family man. Brenton would have turned 50 this year. He was playful and had a lively sense of humor. He would likely have been popular and a cut-up at social gatherings. Geoffrey would be 45. A rambunctious kindergartner when you ended his life, he no doubt would have been a productive citizen as well. All three boys inherited their parents' smarts. One can assume they would have ended up as successful educated professionals.
And think of the grandchildren they would have brought you. That late-life event embraced by most parents but which you denied yourself. When you lie in bed at night, does your mind not dwell on your truncated bloodline? That essential progression of human life that you dumped into a shallow trench in a North Carolina woods and lit afire. Do you have nightmares? Have you ever contemplated putting a bullet into your own head to end the pain? If not, give it consideration. But do leave us a note before pulling the trigger.
Annette, 37 when you bashed her head in as she was catching up on reading, would now be 77. Your high school sweetheart was the ideal woman: smart, personable, artistic and beautiful. While your love for her was consumed in a vortex of murderous rage, hers for you never wavered. Do memories of the tender moments occasionally overwhelm you as your aged body fails you, as your own handsomeness has eroded, ravaged by time? As your attractiveness to women has faded over the years? In your lonesome existence as a hunted man, have you even dared to seek relationships of any kind?
And, finally, your mother, Lobelia. Does your mind ever dwell on how she nurtured you growing up, how she doted on her grandchildren? How does matricide fit with your conscience? Do you have one?
Yes, it appears you have slipped the noose of justice. Literally got away with murder. That may be so. But if a higher moral justice awaits us all in the end, you are in big, big trouble, my friend.
William Shakespeare said, “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” I cannot imagine your life over the past four decades having been anything other than empty. And the devils indeed are here soon to escort you to your deserved destination. Think of them as U.S. Marshals of the hereafter. But before they take you, talk to us. Reveal yourself as an act of atonement, as a final sign that deep in your heart you held a reserve of caring for those who loved you.
See also:
William Bradford Bishop Murder Case: After Forty Years, Is It Time to Move On?
An Open Letter to William Bradford Bishop, Jr.