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Panacea




	“How was your day, darling?” She asked apprehensively. By the look on 
Walter’s face she could tell that it had not gone well at work. Twenty-three 
years of marriage had taught her to distinguish such insignificant traits as 
the slight lift in his upper lip when he was happy, or the little creases 
around his eyes when he was troubled. Today, the tell-tale wrinkles in his 
forehead were as deep as furrows dug in a farmer’s field. She prepared for the
worse. Her first instinct when he entered the front door a few seconds ago was
akin to the fight or flight condition experienced by animals trapped in the 
wild. She fought back the urge to bolt out the backdoor. "It wouldn’t do any 
good," she reasoned. It would only make things worse. Walter was prone to fits
of rage which had, in the past, escalated to violence. 	The anger management 
classes that he attended weekly seemed, at first, to subdue him, but lately he
had found excuses for not attending. “Anyway,” he added, “the judge ordered me
to go for twelve months. That was finished last August. I don’t see why I 
should keep wasting my time with those losers.” She pleaded with him to no 
avail. She tried placing the blame on herself. Maybe somehow it was her fault 
that he acted this way. If only she could be a better wife, a better lover. 
Something. Anything. She had spent a plethora of sleepless nights trying to 
arrive at a solution. He, on the other hand, failed to recognize anything wrong
with his behavior, and flew into a rage whenever she brought up the subject. 
She was tired of living in such a predicament. He had excuses for every rational 
argument she pursued. “The judge was a racist!” He screamed when she pointed to 
the fact that he had gotten in trouble with the law the last time he beat her. 
She was sick and tired of living this way, and she was falling off the cliff 
into action. Something was about to take place to change this situation. She 
could feel it growing daily within her like a child growing in her womb. 
“Thank God,” she thought, “the only child I ever conceived was stillborn. 
No child should have to endure this misery”. Now she had only this entity 
which had sprung to life several weeks ago. It was nothing like a fetus. 
This growth felt more like a tumor gnawing away at her insides. It was gaining
control. Any day now, she felt, it would assume command and lead her to whatever
destructive end it desired.
	Walter wasn’t a drinking man. If he had been it would have made things 
easier for her to accept: being simpler to place the blame on alcohol. But Walter
had watched his father drink himself to death at an early age, and swore off 
alcohol when he had reached the age of majority. He refused to talk much about
his childhood. It was another subject that summoned the rage monster that dwelt 
within him. The rage monster was going to be visiting tonight. She sensed it. 
She could smell it on him like a bad cologne. There wasn’t a damn thing she 
could do about it. 
	“Is my dinner ready, yet?” He snarled. He slammed his thermos and lunch
box down on the flimsy Formica table sending several empty glasses crashing to 
the floor. She didn’t bother asking about work again. There wouldn’t be time 
enough for that. She retrieved the broom and dust pan from the closet to clean
up the broken glass. 
	“God damn it,” he swore, “why the fuck are those glasses out here?” 
His eyes were wider now. The rage was surfacing quickly. “I bust my ass all 
day so that you can sit around on your fat, lazy ass. Do you think I got money
to throw away?” He slowly approached her until he was a few inches from her 
trembling face. “Well?” He asked again. His movements were like a panther stalking
prey. His hands moved quickly grabbing her by the arms. She let a small shriek of 
pain escape her tightly pursed lips as his fingers dug into the meaty flesh of her 
upper arms. She could feel small trickles of blood running down the backs of her 
arms. Suddenly he shoved her backward, hard. She fell against the sink and cabinets. 
Her back ached from the impact, but she didn’t make any noise. She only lie cowering
in a heap. Covering her face with her trembling hands.
	“What did I do?” She squeaked. Her voice cracking from both the pain and the 
fright.
	“I don’t know why I ever bothered with such a lousy piece of ass,” he spat. 
He flung the cheap table against the far wall, turned, and left the room. “Bring my
fucking dinner out here.” She could hear him settling into the deep leather recliner. 
The television clicked on. The evening news broke the tense silence. A small breath 
of relief rose in her throat. “Maybe it’s over,” she thought. But the little cancer, 
tumor, demon, whatever it was that was gaining strength within her, whispered in her
mind “No, it isn’t.” She knew that the silent voice was right. Walter was only 
postponing the punishment until he was well fed and satisfied. Later he would demand 
sex, and she could not refuse. Even, God forbid, if she were on her monthly. 
Fortunately, that had ceased a few years ago. The doctor had called it menopause. 
She called it relief. 
	Dinner came and went without a word between them. She ate in the kitchen, 
and quickly washed the dishes. A dishwasher was something other people had. Long 
ago she had tried to accept her fate. She knew nothing else. This was life. She 
was forbidden to leave the house for anything but the most trivial errands: Walking
 to the grocery store, Laundromat, or Post Office. During the weekends Walter would 
rise early, usually before six o’clock, and work at small chores around the house. 
He seemed to be less inclined to his fits during his days off. Once she had suggested 
that he look for a new job. Perhaps it was his work that made him crazy. He had slapped
 her hard across the face and told her not to interfere. He “god damn provided well,” 
for her. “What was a new job going to do?” Walter had been at the factory for ten years
 and he’d be damned if he was going to start at the bottom of some “piss-ass job,” 
somewhere else. 
	There had been good times. Although they grew fewer and farther between. 
There were moments where she was lulled into a false sense of feeling that everything
was normal. She recalled vividly how he had brought her a dozen white carnations, her 
favorite, and taken her out to an expensive dinner at the French restaurant in town 
only two years ago. He dressed in his best Sunday clothes. She wore the special dress
that she kept hidden in the rear of the closet. The dress had only emerged twice 
before: Her wedding, and her father’s funeral. The dinner was delicious, and afterward 
they made passionate love in the front seat of the old Chevy; not arriving home until 
well after midnight. The night looked as if it would erase the memories of everything 
that had gone wrong in their marriage. If that were possible. For a fleeting moment it 
appeared as if he had succeeded in disconnecting the severe beating she received the 
evening before. It was necessary to flush memories like that. Periodic flushing was 
the only way to make life more bearable. On good days Walter could even be romantic. 
At other times he was like a wild animal using her body only for his carnal satisfaction. 
It was “her wifely duty,” he would hiss before thrashing on top of her until he released 
satisfaction, rolling off and quickly falling asleep.
	After dinner that night, she meekly took her place at the end of the couch. A 
final glimmer of hope that maybe, somehow, he would lose interest in her. Silence reigned 
for less than hour before he started. Obviously his food had digested; energizing and 
revitalizing his violence. The raging monster was rested and ready to prowl.
	“You like this show?” He asked sarcastically. It was a trap, and she knew it. 
If she answered affirmatively he would assail it with a tirade of cussing. If she 
answered in the negative he would launch into a frenzy accusing her of not knowing 
intelligent programming when she saw it. He would tell her that her genes lacked the 
refinement to understand a good show. Either way, it was only an excuse for him to 
summon the rage monster from deep within the inner sanctum it resided. She had been 
through this cycle too many times. She remained silent.
	“What, you don’t talk to me anymore?” The refusal to participate in the game 
only infuriated him. “It’s like a fucking morgue in here.” He leaned toward her, and 
she instinctively crouched deeper into the corner of the couch. The length of the 
couch stood guard between them. “Are you disrespecting me?” She remained silently 
staring at the television screen. The smell of rage permeated the room. It was thick 
like a musky, sweaty smell. “You goddamn answer me when I’m talking to you!” He flung 
the television remote control at her. It crashed against the wall only inches from her 
head. Shards of sharp black plastic exploded around her. A few stuck in the wall 
leaving a wild design of sharp punji sticks protruding in a sloppy circle.
	“No, Walter.” She started to cry. Tears burst from the edges of her worn 
eyes and rolled in great streams down her cheeks. “Please,” she pleaded, “not tonight. 
I can’t take it tonight.” She started sobbing hysterically putting her head down 
toward her lap and covering the sides of her face with her hands. “Not tonight,” 
came the muffled sound of her voice broken by sobs of anguish.
	“Come here,” he beckoned. His voice was different. It sounded almost pleasant. 
He sounded sorry. “Come give me a kiss.” It was soothing. She fell for the trap. As 
she rose the darkened stain left by her tears on the front of her plain house dress 
was visible above the swell of her breasts. She moved slowly, cautiously like a 
fearful doe approaching an outstretched hand of oats. “Come on, baby. I’m sorry for 
yelling at you.” She bent over to kiss him on the side of his cheek. Maybe he really 
was sorry. Maybe things were going to be different. He turned instantly before her 
lips could contact the coarse hair of his beard. The moment she looked into his eyes 
she could see that it was a mistake. The rage monster blazed from behind his soft 
brown eyes. He had a strange smile on his face. One she had never seen before. She 
tried to retreat a step backward, but it was a moment too late. His hand came up 
from the side of the recliner in a blazing flash. Her own hands were too slow to 
react. The pain of the blow across her face momentarily darkened her vision. Stars 
appeared in front of her eyes. She fell sideways across the length of the couch. 
Thankfully the couch had cushioned her fall, but it had not protected her from the 
powerful slap. The pain consumed the side of her face like a giant splash of sulfuric 
acid burning her skin. It hurt so much that she was unable to respond for a few 
moments. She blacked out,  but not long enough. The monster’s voice slapped her 
out of the solace of unconsciousness. 
	“Get your ass in the bedroom,” he commanded. It was an order not to be 
disobeyed. The authority allowed no room for questions, nor disloyalty. She knew 
what was to come next. “Oh God,” she prayed silently, “please let that be enough 
for tonight.” 
	“What the hell are you still laying there for?” Came the booming call for 
action. She shuffled silently to the rear bedroom. Her head hung low as a cow might 
enter the abattoir. She heard the distinct sound of his belt sliding noisily through 
the coarse Levi belt loops. It was a thick leather strap almost as wide as a man’s 
hand. “Please let him just be taking off his pants,” she pleaded silently with a 
god that seemed to be deaf to her plight. “Not the belt. Not the belt. No damn it,” 
she continued as she lie down on the cold bedspread her teary gaze lost in the ceiling 
tiles, “not that god damn belt!” 
	“Lucy, I’m home,” he mimicked with a Cuban accent. His eyes were wide, and 
crazy looking even in the half-darkness of the bedroom. His belt hung limply at his 
side. His hand held the belt upside down. The buckle almost touching the top of his 
work boot.
	A sudden energy rose from deep within the recesses of her inner mind. It 
seized control. First controlling her voice. “Mother fucker!” it screamed. “You lay a 
hand on me and I’ll KILL you. You bastard!” She listened to the sounds coming from 
her mouth. It seemed like a stranger was talking through her. She never swore at 
Walter before. A surprised look came over his face. He stepped back almost 
instinctively. It was a look of fear. She watched the scene unfolding as if she 
were a patron in a movie theater watching a drama on the big screen. The fear left 
Walter’s face as quickly as it had surfaced. He swung the belt in slow menacing 
circles as he approached the bed. 
	“So, you want to play tough, huh? Well you’re in for a treat tonight, sugar.” 
He cackled half in laughter, half in uncontrolled rage. Sugar was what he called her 
when they had sex, or like tonight, when he thought it time for “disciplining” her. 

II


Officer Grabowsky had been on the city police force for twenty-four years. Retirement 
was only, as he mentioned casually to his partner five minutes ago, “eleven months, 
twelve days, fourteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes away. Grabowsky, or Walrus, as 
he was affably nicknamed by his peers, enjoyed police work. Walrus was getting older. 
His tired, old bones were ready for more relaxing pastimes: Hunting, fishing, reading, 
and midday naps. Police work could be very demanding. Stressful at times. Walrus 
had seen his share of excitement, and it was time for the younger patrolmen to takeover 
the reigns. 
	Miguel had been on the force for only seven years. His entire stretch served 
under the watchful eyes of the ubiquitous Walrus. Usually Miguel called his partner 
Wally for short. Wally also had a name for Miguel: Taco. An obvious reference to 
Miguel’s Hispanic origin. The racist epithet had bothered Miguel at first, but he 
held his tongue and learned as much as he could from his portly trainer. Walrus had 
years of experience to share with his rookie partner. Miguel was a good student and 
a quick study of the fine art of protecting the good citizens. Wally glanced over at 
his young, muscular partner and smiled surreptitiously. He was proud of his protégé. 
The Captain had called him into the office, three months after the two became partners, 
to congratulate Wally on the excellent job he had done with Miguel. 
	The squawking voice over the police radio broke the silent moment of 
introspection between them. “Car 71, domestic disturbance. Respond to 301 Chestnut 
Ave. Neighbor reports screams in the house.” 
	“Shit, so much for coffee,” Miguel snickered. Wally would have been heading 
toward Patsy’s Coffee Shop in the next few minutes. It was ten minutes to eight. 
Wally had his routines deeply entrenched. 
	“Just grab the radio, Taco.” Wally snapped. A tincture of aggravation dripped 
from his lips. Wally swung the car around in a tight u-turn. 
	“Ten-four, dispatch. Car 71 responding code two. 321 Chestnut Ave.” Miguel spoke 
calmly into the radio handset.
	“That’s 301 Chestnut Ave.,” Wally corrected.
	“Roger Car 71. Be advised the address is 301 Chestnut Ave.” The dispatcher 
sounded like she had seen the better side of fifty, probably pushing retirement herself.
	“Nice going, Taco,” Wally chuckled. “I bet Larry and Paul are laughing their 
asses off at us,” he continued. Officers Larry Michaels and Paul Jones were the only 
other police car on patrol. Although went it came time to back each other up on calls 
they were complete professionals, Larry and Paul liked to pull their share of practical 
jokes on Wally and Taco. “Seven years on the job and you’re still a fuck-up.” Wally 
wasn’t mad, it was a simple mistake, but he knew some smart-ass remark would erupt 
from the other car. He hadn’t long to wait.
	“Want some help finding it, ladies?” Came the laughing male voice on the car-to-car 
frequency. Every police car had two channels. The first channel allowed them to talk to 
dispatch. The second was a car-to-car channel only heard by the other officers. 
	“I think will be fine, smart-ass,” Miguel shot back. “Why don’t you guys pull 
your pants up, and get out on your beat.” 
	Wally turned his head toward his partner. “Watch it, Taco. The Sarge is supposed 
to be patrolling tonight. Just let’em have their little laugh.” He turned his attention 
back to the road just in time to spot an elderly woman pulling a bag of groceries slowly 
across the darkened street. “Shit!” he exclaimed slamming on the brakes with the full 
force of his two-hundred forty pounds. “You see that old lady?” He asked nervously as 
the car came to an abrupt halt inches from the two-wheeled shopping basket.
	“Man, you gotta keep your eyes on the road.” Miguel fired back. It was his turn 
to persecute. “Maybe your night vision ain’t what it used to be.”
	They sped off toward the domestic disturbance call. “Isn’t that the same house 
we went to about a year ago?” Miguel asked his sweating partner. Wally’s heart was still 
beating wildly in his heart from the near miss. He visualized the scene unfolding in an 
entirely different ending. “Officer Grabowsky,” the Captain’s voice solemn. The stoic 
drawl continuing, “I’m sorry to inform you that the department has investigated the 
accidental killing of the elderly pedestrian and found you negligent.” The Captain’s 
eyes looking up from his desk to meet his. “In consideration of your long service with
the force and you’re unblemished record I recommended to Internal Affairs an early 
retirement option, but there are other considerations I’m afraid.” The Captain now unable 
to hide the grief of what was about to come. Wally flinching at the look on his commander’s 
face. Hell, they had gone to the academy together. Only Bill, the Captain, had the brains, 
and the political sycophantic ass-kissing attitude that would propel him through the ranks 
while Jolly Wally remained one of the foot soldiers pounding the streets. “Jim, look I’m sorry.  
There was nothing I could do. The family’s suing the city, and the city attorney thinks there 
is goods chance the settlement could reach several million. The city manager wants your ass.” 
Bill leans back into his chair, but can’t maintain eye contact. “There’s nothing I can do,” 
he repeats quietly. He almost looks as if he is going to cry. “Jesus, Bill give it to me straight. 
It can’t be that bad.” Although they were classmates, they were never really friends. Wally always 
felt that his commander was nothing more than a wimp. A spineless bastard. Bill had run for the 
cover of the back office as quickly as he could qualify for the Sergeant Exam. Wally had never 
even signed up for the exam. 
	“Jim, I’m afraid the powers to be have to decided to fire you.” 
	“What powers to be?” Wally asked. He could not contain the anger in his voice. 
The Captain shrunk a little in his chair.
	“That’s not all. They’ve also decided that due to your negligence you won’t receive 
any of your pension.” The Captain shrunk back even farther, and with good reason.
	“What?!” Wally screamed. “They’re taking my fucking pension? Twenty-four years of nearly 
killing myself, risking my ass for them, and they’re going to yank my pension?” He was over the 
desk in a flash. His movements uncharacteristically fast for a man of his corpulence. Before the 
Captain could blink Wally had his hands tightly wrapped around the scrawny commander’s pencil neck. 
The Captain started turning blue and apparently was trying to say something. Nothing escaped from 
his mouth except a little gasp for air. Wally squeezed tighter, and tighter....
	“Hey, man you’re driving right by the house.” Miguel said. The sound of his voice snapped 
Wally out of his nightmare.
	“Sorry, Taco.” Wally Stopped the car and backed up two houses until they were in front of 
301 Chestnut Ave. There were two lights on in the small dingy house. Several neighbors were 
already standing outside on their porches. One of the neighbor men ran up to the patrol car 
before they could get out. 
	“Car 71 code six at 301 Chestnut.” Miguel barked into the handset. The tension was 
thick here and Miguel’s adrenaline was already pumping. 
	“Roger, Car 71. Code six at 301 Chestnut.” The dispatcher responded. “Damn,” Miguel 
thought to himself, “those dispatchers have ice in their veins.” 
	“You boys need some back-up?” it was Larry from the other patrol car. He sensed the stress 
in Miguel’s radio transmission. “We’re only five minutes away.” 
	Wally grabbed the handset. “Nah, we’ve dealt with this guy before. I’ll give you a call on 
the walkie if things get out of hand.” Wally knew how to keep calm. To think with his head. Miguel 
still lost his cool occasionally .
	“I think somebody’s dying in there,” the wide-eyed man wearing the flannel bathrobe shouted 
at them through the closed car window. “I think he’s really killing her this time.” The man appeared 
to Wally to be about forty years old. Probably not to well off judging by the tattered bathrobe. His 
wife came running up to the car window as Miguel opened the door to get out. 	
	“Grab the shotgun,” Wally ordered. “Just in case. The screaming sound of a woman from within 
the house became audible as soon as the door was opened. A man yelling and cursing quickly blended 
into the cacophony erupting in the normally sleepy neighborhood. Several dogs could be heard howling 
in the distance as if they empathized with the woman’s mistreatment. 
	“Hurry. There’s something awful happening in there officer,” the lady that had just joined 
Mr. Bathrobe shouted as the two officers ran for the door.
	As they mounted the dark porch the thick smell of lingering pork chops wafted through the 
sill of the closed front door. Wally pounded on the heavy wooden door with his baton. The sharp 
cracks of sound were drowned out by the high-pitched screaming from the woman followed by the man 
shouting “You fucking bitch! Take that you cunt!” This followed by the slap of leather on bare flesh.
	“Police! Open the door right now!” Miguel shouted as Wally ran around the side of the house 
to investigate. 
	“Kick it in, Miguel.” Wally yelled from the side of the house. Miguel lowered the shotgun 
and kicked the door as hard as he could. The whole house seemed to shudder but the door stood fast. 
He aimed his foot near the door knob and kicked again. The door jamb split exposing a thin slice of 
raw wood, but the door remained closed. He thought about shooting the knob off, but the risk of 
injury prevented him. Someone could be just inside the door. On his third try the door could withstand 
no more punishment and relented. It went crashing inward. The glass from a picture against the near 
wall shattered from the impact of the inward swinging door. Miguel quickly jumped to the side taking 
cover to prevent an armed suspect from having a clear shot at him. He snuck a quick peek around the 
door frame and saw it was clear. Wally came running from around the side of the house. 
	“That psycho’s beating the shit out of his wife with a belt in the bedroom,” he gasped to Miguel 
out of breath from the run. His adrenaline was pumping and his heart beating wildly. They entered the 
house cautiously. Clearing each corner, each room, as they neared the bedroom. The woman was screaming 
at the man. 
	“Stop it you mother fucker.” She sounded delirious. Almost as if she wasn’t feeling the pain of 
the powerful blows. They heard the swish of the belt swinging through the air and slapping loudly against 
unprotected flesh. “I’ll KILL you, you BASTARD! She screamed again. 
	When Wally and Miguel entered the doorway to the darkened room they could clearly make out the 
terrifying scene. A scene so gruesome that months of intensive therapy would have been unable to erase. 
Unable to even diminish by one iota.
	The belt of Walter’s buckle had inflicted so much damage to his wife that there was almost nothing 
to see except swollen bloody flesh where her face had been. Her nude body was covered with black bruises 
in parts and bloody patches of torn skin in others. One eye was dangling precariously from the socket, 
and her long hair was matted with blood. A large patch of hair had been torn away from the side of her 
head, and it was hard to tell whether the ear just below it had been ripped away or was hiding in the 
deluge of blood flowing freely from the exposed scalp. 
	Wally and Miguel were so shocked by the massacre they stood  witnessing they just froze dumbfounded 
for a moment. “Jesus,” Miguel muttered under his breath “how can she still be conscious?” He gagged on the 
vomit that was attempting to force its way from stomach to floor.
	“Drop the belt asshole!” Wally screamed regaining his senses. He aimed the service pistol, a 
Glock .40 caliber, at the back of Walter’s head. 
	“You mother fucker!” The bloody mess screamed at Walter. “I’ll KILL you.” She was conscious. 
In twenty-four years Jolly Wally had never seen anything like this. Even the punks jacked up on PCP 
wouldn’t have had this much life left in them. Miguel raised the shotgun to Walter’s head as Walter 
slowly turned to face them. The belt hung limply at his side. As Walter’s eyes met the two officer’s, 
Miguel felt a tingle of fear tighten his scrotum. This guy was fucking gone. He had seem some crazy 
people, but this dude was fucking flipped out. Walter’s eyes were glowing, almost burning, red. His face 
had an evil grin on it. A scary smile spread almost from one ear to the other. The room reeked of fresh 
blood and other bodily fluids. A wisp of sex emanated from the bed. Not a wholesome lovemaking smell, 
but a smell like two dogs fucking. It made Wally’s stomach turn. 
	As Walter turned he flipped the belt upward in an arching motion catching the barrel of Miguel’s 
shotgun. The belt wrapped several times, and Walter yanked it with superhuman strength. The shotgun went 
tumbling out of Miguel’s hands landing with a thud at his feet. Wally fired instinctively, but the round 
whizzed by Walter’s ear and entered the wall above the bed. Walter lunged for the pistol before Wally 
could squeeze off another round. He swatted the gun from Wally’s hand as easily as an adult slaps a toy 
from the hands of a small child. Miguel sprung like a cat leaping for a mouse and grabbed Walter around 
the torso. A whooshing of air escaped from Walter’s lungs. Miguel struggled to take him down, but Walter 
spun around and threw Miguel off of his back sending Miguel flying out the doorway. Wally scrambled to his 
knees trying frantically to retrieve the pistol from underneath the bed. Walter kicked his head hard and 
shoved Wally to the floor. Wally shrieked. Miguel, shaken and dazed, picked himself up from the hallway floor. 
He froze in terror as Walter leveled the shotgun at Wally’s head. The shotgun blast exploded in the tiny room. 
Everyone’s ears were still ringing as Walter slowly rotated around facing Miguel with the shotgun. He pumped 
another shell into the chamber expelling the spent cartridge onto the carpet. A wisp of smoke trailed the 
cartridge like a smoky tail. Miguel screamed in fear. He remained frozen; mesmerized by the look of wild 
insanity in Walter’s eyes. A small smile crept across Walter’s face. Suddenly a sharp report sounded from 
behind Walter and his eyes looked first confused then seemed to go blank. Walter fell forward landing inches 
from Miguel’s trembling legs. As Walter fell, the scene behind him appeared. The wife was squatting in front 
of the bed. The smoking barrel clutched in both shaking hands still pointed forward. Her devastated body still 
wet with dripping blood from every extremity. Her face blank; unemotional. 

		
III


	The force had assumed complete control of her. It urged her on. “Grab the gun.” It had commanded her. 
She felt her body moving, but her muscles seemed to be responding to an alien command center. It was as if her 
consciousness, her mind, had retreated to a distant corner of her brain. Now things were happening that she 
could only watch. Detached from the pain. Detached from any sensations. Removed from reality as the alien 
within steered her body. The report had not frightened her. She watched from a safe place in her mind as her 
husband crumpled to the floor. There were neither fear nor thoughts as her fingers tensed and then squeezed 
tightly firing another shot. This time the cop crumpled, grabbing at his abdomen. He fell to his knees. His 
eyes pleaded with her. “Why?” they seemed to be questioning. She knew this was not right. A tiny fragment of 
sanity cried out for her to stop, but she was powerless. She watched as the life seeped from the cop’s eyes 
with the gush of blood spreading across the hardwood hallway floor. 
	Officers Michaels and Jones responded code three to the second call. A shots fired report from the 
domestic dispute address. They were on the scene in three minutes. As they ran from their car they heard the 
last shot that had permanently separated Miguel from his pretty Mexican wife and two young boys. They ran to 
the porch assuming defensive positions on either side of the open doorway. The neighbors had retreated to the 
safety of their own homes long ago; running wildly across green lawns after the shotgun ripped through the still 
night. 
	“Wally. Miguel. You guys all right?” Larry Michaels yelled into the house. His answer was the dying moans 
of Miguel writhing on the hallway floor. They peered in and saw Miguel’s muscular figure motionless on the ground. 
        “They’ve been shot!” Larry screamed at his partner. “Call for back-up.” Both cops were terrified. A bloody figure 
emerged from the semi-darkness of the adjoining room. It was walking slowly. Painfully moving down the hall toward 
them. It took Larry a few seconds to realize it was a woman. The breasts were covered in dark, caked blood. There 
seemed to be blood oozing from everywhere. “Are you OK, lady?” Larry offered still panicking from the scene. The 
figure moved closer to them. That was when Paul noticed the gun hanging at the end of her limp arm.
	“She’s got a gun!” Paul shouted to his partner. They raised their pistols aiming for the woman’s head. 
        “Drop the gun, lady.” Paul ordered. His voice cracked and warbled. “Now!” Larry added. The bloody figure continued 
moving at the same sluggish pace. She was expressionless and now only a few feet from the front door. 
        “Drop it or we’ll shoot.” Paul tried desperately to disarm the situation. She slowly raised her arm bringing 
the revolver to eye level. 
	Paul and Larry emptied their entire thirteen round clips. The shots rang out in the house like a string of 
firecrackers at a Chinese parade.  Some shots hit the bloody figure. Other shots burrowed into the walls or tore 
chunks from the sparse furniture. It was their academy training coming into action. Instinctively they fired until 
the noise ceased. The woman stumbled forward with each shot finally stopping. She looked into their frightened eyes 
and smiled as she dropped to the floor. “You’re free,” the alien voice whispered to her mind. “I’m free,” she 
whispered as the lights around her grew dimmer.
	“What did she say?” Paul asked his partner. They both stood shaking outside the doorway.
	“It sounded like ‘it’s me’”, he answered.

The End GFM