Ironically, this morning I was reading this GQ article on the Norway shootings.
Ever since my daughter was born, I am far more sensitive to the depictions of the deaths of children. Before in fiction it was all "RAWR! They killed his family! They killed his dog! Revenge! RAWR!" But now I don't even know how someone like that can even get themselves in the position to do anything after the death of their child. The article was mostly from the viewpoint of the kids on the island, but I was able to read it with little problem. Until the end. One of the policemen assigned nearby told about the end of the day.
When the sun went down, Håkon was in a boat not far from shore. Divers were in the lake, searching the depths for bodies that might have been drowned, and Håkon was providing security. It was very quiet. Håkon could hear waves licking at the sides of the boat, and then, from the island, he could hear something else: a chorus of chirping and buzzing and snippets of pop songs. In the darkness, he saw tiny lights flickering on, then off, then on again, like fireflies. There were hundreds of them, scattered along the Lovers' Trail and on the lawn below the cafeteria and in the tent field and where the bodies lay. Mobile phones lighting and ringing and nobody answering.
"There was nothing you could do," Håkon said. "You just had to wait until they ran out of electricity."
I almost started crying right there. I was a bit embarrassed that the image would haunt me like that.