tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24446784516465752902024-03-20T04:31:44.858-04:00Dead BeatsLegally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-63029709771894305032012-11-15T12:44:00.001-05:002012-11-15T12:58:10.296-05:00Chapter 11 - Bad Connection<style type="text/css">
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Hello, </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> A while back I had decided against posting another chapter to this blog, but here I am...posting another chapter. <span style="font-size: large;">My neglecting to pu<span style="font-size: large;">blish </span>m</span>ostly due to the whole, "don't give the cow away for free" theory. That is prior to my pub<span style="font-size: large;">lish date. </span>yada yada yada...</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> ::sigh:: </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">My reasons are good reasons, I assure you. Or so I think they are good. For starters, I have revisited several of the chapters I have posted thus far. So you should expect the final product to be, well different. The result still entertaining; or so I hope. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It has been four chapters ago since I posted. Since then there have been two murders and now there is one in progress. I was toying with the notion of posting one of my earlier chapters, detailing one of the murders. Well, I decided against this due to the fact that some of those chapters exceed twenty pages, and I don't expect blog readers to have an attention span which extends beyond the length of a mouse fart. I mean well. I really do. <span style="font-size: large;">On the flip side of the "cow theory", who wants to read a long stor<span style="font-size: large;">y only to be left wondering<span style="font-size: large;">, "what comes next"? No one, that's who. So I don't torture you and give you a mere sam<span style="font-size: large;">pling of what<span style="font-size: large;">'s to come. If I have tortured you nonetheless... I apologize. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Never mind. I'm not sorry one bit. Silly silly r<span style="font-size: large;">ea<span style="font-size: large;">de<span style="font-size: large;">r. </span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Also, my second reason is to inform my followers, {mainly the ones who have asked to read more material}, that I have been communicating with publishers. Although I'm not sure which road I shall travel yet, I am well on my way to the final product. When I finally get there you will be able to read all the wonderfully atrocious details. Including the cathartic final days of Alex, which I promise you will love. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I am super particular about every detail, and because of this I know it has taken me more time than usual. Well, what is usual actually? I've been working on this novel for a little over a year now. My truest hope is I will be able to publish soon and that you will join me in my journey.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">This chapter is a glimpse into a new character, or I should say a couple of characters. Most importantly the next victim. Hope you enjoy and of course comments are welcome. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Be well and enjoy the holidays</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">~b </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Chapter 11 - Bad Con<span style="font-size: large;">nection</span></span>:</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2444678451646575290" name="text14824"></a></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;">“<span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">To
take revenge halfheartedly is to court disaster: Either condemn or
crown your hatred.” </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">~Pierre
Corneille, Cleopatra, in Rodogune, act 5, sc. 1 </span></i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i></span><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">A
frantic shuffle resonated through the phone's receiver as it scuffled
along the counter's polished marble surface, when the couple
simultaneously fought to grapple a quickly fleeting handset. It
continued to skeet along the ebony surface, as a blitz of chaotic
clangs rang through the dispatcher's headset. </span></span></span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “Hello,
This is 911. How can I help you. Hello? Ma'am? Sir? What's your
emergency? Hello?”, the insistent undertone of the dispatcher's
voice pricked the air with an alarming concern. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> That
evening's raucous sounds of turmoil were shortly followed with a
shower of flesh striking flesh as Charles Nagle began the ruthless
assault on his wife. Every last resounding blow and whimpering plea
travelled a short distance to the dangling mouthpiece merely inches
above her attacker's head, as a bombardment of dull thuds signaled
her head being hammered along their tiled floor. That is until
Charles had finally plucked the landline from the wall; certainly in
hopes to somehow curtail the quickly descending police. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Moments
before the call disconnected, April Nagle's distinct pleas grew faint
as her husband's forceful blows scampered her frail body along the
kitchen floor until she was flush against the velvet trim of her
living room couch. Just when it seemed her delicate frame could no
longer endure his unyielding blows, her husband's foot plunged
violently into her exposed abdomen leaving behind a blotchy array of
grey and purple blood quickly pooling beneath her alabaster skin. Her
trembling hands fiercely clawed at the tassels that trimmed the
couch's lavish arm rest, as she tried to pull herself up and away
from his ferocious blasts. Her once audible pleas quickly became
muffled when a gurgling abundance of blood spewed from her fattened
lip and quickly rendered her faint pink nighty a deep hue of red.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Those
last few eerie cries that were captured seeped through the phone's
receiver, “Please Charlie, Please stop!! - thud, thud, thud- “Stop!
Please! You promised you wouldn't...”</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Once
the maddening anger had loosened its tenacious grasp from the last
shred of sanity that clung to the innards of Charles' drug addled
brain, he allowed his tired body to fall to the floor merely inches
from his wife's face. His body had finally succumbed to crippling
exhaustion after beating April nearly unconscious, when he propped
his face onto his hands and whispered his empty sorrowful words into
her ear as he pulled the bloodied hair back from her engorged eyes.
Then softly he pressed his fingers into a gash that split her
forehead which revealed a bumpy plush abundance of blood soaked
flesh. Just as his fingers pushed back the knobby flap of skin, a
sudden torrent of emotion welled up inside him and quickly overflowed
when he began to theatrically wail at the sight of his wife writhing
in pain.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> An
outsider would surely believe his rousing display of sorrow was
authentic, only his words were truly unsettling as he howled them
loudly in a shrill cry, “Why?! Why do you make me do this every
time, April!? I don't understand?! Why haven't you learned? I just
want us to be happy and live here in peace. Don't you know how much I
love you? I give everything for you, every day I give all of me out
there for YOU!”</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Somewhere
in the murky depths of his troubled mind lurked these thoughts;
amongst a thick cloud of inebriation through intermittent spells of
lucidity lived these misconceptions of which he was thoroughly
convinced. He was convinced that every time he had to beat his wife,
it was for her own good, and their own good; and that she was
ultimately to blame for his violent outburst. Soon enough he would
discover that he couldn't be more wrong, only his troubled mind could
never truly realize these lessons.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Without
warning he swiftly stood to his feet as though he had just won a
heated debate, and emphatically swung his arms through the air.
Wildly he swirled his arms, motioning toward the swanky items
scattered throughout the room.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “See!
See all this! And that, that over there, April! That!”, he screamed
loudly as he adamantly pointed toward a rugged Italian foot rest
upholstered with thick Burgundy silk.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> April
struggled to lift her weary head and glanced over at the very object
of his immediate obsession as he continued to yell, “That foot rest
you HAD to have! That fucking foot rest that cost me two thousand
dollars that you HAD to have to match all of the rest of this
furniture that you throw your fat ass on every day!” </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “ME!”,
he screamed into the center of her twitching face.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “ME!
ME! ME! After all the work I do so you can have all THIS! Then you do
this! YOU make me angry, and YOU start the fights! YOU push me! You
are an ingrate, April! That's your damn problem! You get me arrested
like a dumb bitch and then all of this goes away! Is that what you
want?”, he asked. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As
she laid petrified, through a stream of tears, the overwhelming pain
sent shock waves through her slight frame as she stammered a hesitant
reply, “N..n..no..no, I don't want that, Charlie. I swear I don't
want that. I'm sorry please don't hit me again, please!” </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> No
sooner had she uttered those words from her trembling lips, when
Charles dramatically lurched back his fist as he swiftly came down to
one knee and angled his menacing fist toward her crumbling face. He
expelled an exhausted sigh when he hesitated and shook his head in
disgust. He stood menacingly and watched her wince in anticipation of
another inevitable blow that just may have done the final job of
knocking her out cold. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “Give
me a friggin' break, April, you think YOU got ME?! You think you got
Me!”, he insisted while needling his own chest with the tip of his
stick like index finger. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “You
think you're gonna make me feel bad about what YOU'VE done?! I don't
feel bad! You got it made and this is what you're gonna put me
through? Put US through?! Do you have any idea what calling the cops
could do to us?”, he screamed into her face as she recoiled as far
back as she could into a dusty neglected corner of the room. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> 'KNOCK,
KNOCK, KNOCK!', spine tingling pounds impetuously rattled the front
door of their ostentatious Beacon Hill home and quickly echoed
through the spacious foyer. Charles excitedly bounded to his feet,
while bursts of air expeditiously wheezed through his lungs and
swirled past his rapidly beating heart. As he began to hurriedly pace
between the kitchen to where his wife laid, he nervously grappled his
bloodied knuckles until he approached the living room's picture
window. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Carefully
he peered through his lavish drapes, that seemed to meld with
flamboyancy of the room, as their shiny silken material reflected the
blinding flash of white and blue police lights. The ominous banging
bursts continued to echo through the lofty hallway for what seemed
like hours on end; only to be left unanswered as he tentatively
watched from a sparse opening through those hefty gold embroidered
drapes. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> A
muffled command suddenly permeated the thickness of their front door,
“It's the Boston, P.D. Someone made a call from this address, we
need to make a well check! We can see you at the window, Sir! Please
open or we are going to have to consider this an emergency and break
down the door!”</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With
a quickened pace he made his way back to where his wife laid as she
clutched her stomach coughing sporadic bursts of blood onto an
elaborate stencil that embellished the baseboards of the room. For a
few moments he stood over her quivering body, and studied every
trembling muscle in her face and limbs; his callous face exuded a
loathsome hatred for the predicament which he believed she was the
sole cause.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Abruptly
he cupped his hand over her mouth attempting to stifle her rasping
coughs, when he angrily whispered, “Shutup, would you shutup
already?! They are gonna hear you if you don't stop! Shit, shit,
shit, I told you, April! Never call the cops!”</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Hastily,
he stood erect as his quick feet anxiously paced the floor, with his
green tipped socks peeling out beneath his aimless gait. His feet
nearly gave out from beneath him before he was able to gain some
semblance of self control; for this his inebriated state could surely
be attributed. He rushed back over to April, tightly grasped her
blood drenched gown and jerked her to her feet; only her limp toes
dangled beneath her flaccid body as he dragged her down the hall to a
guest room. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Violently
he crashed through the room with April's gown clenched tightly in his
trembling fist and her body pathetically drooping beneath. His feet
frantically stumbled as they collided with a neatly placed woven rug
and left it in a jumbled mess that slid beneath the bed. Recklessly
he flung her body, like a dirty sack, and she quickly sunk into the
pristine plush blankets as a mass of decorative pillows slowly caved
onto her face. Charlie snatched a tube shaped pillow that had slid
over half her face and tossed it onto the floor, and drew closer to
April so only she could hear what he had to say. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “I
know you can hear me and you're just pretending right now, but I
don't have time for this shit! Do you hear me?!”, he asked as he
impulsively shook her body. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Only
his words and the room's dim lighting melded with the haze that had
clouded her shaken brain. Once she was able to peer one eye open, she
could vaguely see through a pervading misty cloud that had
infiltrated her murky vision. His words, like blasts of muffled
trumpets, somehow seeped into her mind past the confusion of the
moment. As he shook her tired body, she merely gave a nod and tried
her best to mutter an intelligible reply. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> From
her thick lips she muttered a word that even seemed foreign to her
own ears, “Yeeeesss.”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With
her response, he effortlessly released her limp body into a luscious
bounty of pillows and silk blankets. Just before he turned to walk
out of the room, he looked back toward his wife one last time. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “Don't
even think about making a sound in here, April. I swear to God you
will regret it.”, he calmly commanded his badly beaten wife with
his stoic cool eyes. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> When
he had left her behind, he was convinced she would surrender to
exhaustion as he was certain a gut wrenching pain trickled through
every alert fiber in her body; but she hadn't and as he quickly made
his retreat he hurled her door closed. Slowly and quietly the door
had bounded back from the jam and swung open.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> April
laid still listening, through the pounding whooshes of what could
only be the blood swishing through the scarce space between her skull
and brain. She listened to the sounds of frantic footfalls that
pattered along the high sheen of their hardwood floors. Charlie
anxiously prepared for his impromptu performance once he would
finally open the door for the police. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “I
will be right there! Give me a second! You got me out of bed!”, he
yelled to the officers behind his front door.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “No
problem, Sir, but please hurry!”, the officer's voice hailed.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Then
the distant rush of running water could be heard to where April laid
helpless, as he scrubbed the spattered blood from his quaking hands.
Then the soft sounds of of his soiled clothes delicately cut through
the air down the hall, right before he snagged his bathrobe from a
hook on the bathroom door. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> What
then sounded like a stampede were his quickly descending feet as they
stumbled over themselves down his front stairs; while his bathrobe
swiftly fluttered along a passing gust of air. 'Boom, Boom, Boom,'
the resounding echo of his heavy feet quickly stopped short of the
front door, where he attempted to compose himself. As he cinched the
dangling terry cloth ties around his thin waist, slowly he opened the
front door to reveal two officers standing on his front stoop. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With
his breathy attempt at cool refrain he asked, while his long boney
fingers casually whisked his short bangs from his face, “What can I
do for you officers tonight?” </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “Hello
Mr. Nagle, haven't seen you in quite some time.”, Officer McManus
sarcastically replied. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As
it turns out, not surprisingly, Mr. Nagle hadn't been a stranger to
the inner working of Boston's criminal justice system. Ironically he
was a lawyer, albeit not a criminal lawyer by trade, but a well known
shark in the world of divorce law. To match his rather cavalier sense
of entitlement he exuded a stellar kind of stereotypical snobbery
that could have only been handed down from generations before him,
one Mr. Charles Nagle, Sr. Esq. The very same reason why he had
managed to elude imprisonment and the embarrassment of lengthy
prosecution up to this point in his sickening life. However, his
lifestyle which was akin to vomit inducing vertigo, would quickly
stop short; sooner than he knew. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Charlie
flipped his head back indignantly while adamantly tugging on his
robe's stark white strings, when he replied, “Yes indeed, Officer.
Can't say I enjoy a reunion at this hour of the night. How can I help
you?”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Just
then a substantial blast of scotch scented air suddenly smacked the
officer's face when his eyes quickly fluttered and blinked in an
attempt to fend of the thick haze of booze. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Officer
McManus dramatically waved his hand to swat away the offensive smell
before he asked, “Woah! Jesus, what the hell have you been drinking
tonight?”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Charles
answered with a disgusted tone, ”Really? Is that why you are here
tonight? You want to know what I've been drinking? Give me a break.
I've been home, what business is it of yours?! What the fuck do you
want? If you don't get to it now, and I mean RIGHT now, you're going
to hear about this from your boss in the morning. I don't need to put
up with your harassment.”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “We
don't want to bother you Charlie...”, McManus replied.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “Don't
fucking call me Charlie.”, he quickly interrupted. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> The
officer mocked him with a chuckle when he responded, “Yeah ok tough
guy. Listen, we got a phone call from this address. Dispatcher says
it sounded like there was a domestic in progress. Is your wife home?”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “I
have no idea what you're talking about, and of course you show up
with your half assed report. My wife watches cops and robbers shit on
TV all the time. She probably accidentally drunk dialed and left the
phone hanging through another nail biting episode of Law and Order or
some shit. Anyway, she's passed out in bed for the night, too much
wine. Is that all?”, Charles replied with his arrogant tone.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> The
officer replied while shaking his head in disapproval, “Mr. Nagle,
I understand but we can't leave without talking to your wife. I'm
sorry but you're gonna have to go get her up so we can talk to her
for a minute.”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> “Yeah
that isn't going to happen, officers. You wanna to talk to my wife,
you're gonna have to come back here with a warrant to get in my house
in the middle of the night. According to what you just told me, there
wasn't anything said on the phone about a domestic taking place. So
you wanna come in here, you go get your piece of shit warrant and
maybe then I'll let you into my home.”, he responded with disdain
dominating his inflection. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> A
few minutes continued to pass as their futile arguments blossomed and
intermingled with the boisterous sounds of Charlie's disgust swirling
like a maelstrom down the hall to where his fading wife laid. As he
obstinately stood before them in his effete like house coat, the
sharp bite of the Boston's gusty winter breeze wafted up the stairs
and distorted their echoed voices. Their voices were indiscriminately
devoured amongst the passing traffic, making their words even harder
to interpret. In the guest room, April strained to hear through a
thick woolen veil of gushing blood that funneled rapidly past her
ear and along the right side of her engorged face. Despite a marked
sting that filtered a hot rush of pain swiftly passed her ribcage,
April successfully freed her body from the hellacious heap of tacky
bed cushions. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As
the battle of the wills continued to wage on her doorstep and its
resounding wail walloped the swollen innards of her racing mind, she
slowly slipped her bare feet onto the cool floor bracing herself with
an unsteady foothold. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> She
continued to slowly erect her body as the pain pricked her nerves and
paused her momentum into staccato like beats. She began her grueling
walk down the hall, each footstep followed with hesitation as she
braced her crumbling fortitude with a bloodied palm. A trail of blood
trickled from her gashed forehead and onto the floor as her
staggering feet smeared elongated streaks of gore; and her fingers
left an eerie trail along the blanched white walls just beneath their
framed wedding photos. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As
April drew closer she could hear what sounded like her husband's
final words to the officers on her stoop. In hopes to abandon her
foreboding fate, she desperately quickened her pace as her feet
wildly staggered and a heavy fog continued to infiltrate her mind.
Her every limb struggled to fend off the desire to collapse and slip
into a welcomed state of unconsciousness. Surrendering meant her
being left unheard that fateful night, and each day that passed she
knew could have been her last.</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> When
she neared the corner leading to the stairs she could hear her
husband's harsh words as he continued to berate the police, “I will
tell you for the last time officers, you have no probable cause. No
official report was made on the phone about a crime in progress. You
aren't entering my god damned home without a warrant! There is no
crime in progress nor was there ever! You're gonna need a warrant
before I let you dicks into my house. Now if...”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Charlie's
words were abruptly fragmented like shattered glass careening
through the tenuous safety net that was his front door. Had he only
slammed his front door seconds before without another word, perhaps
her cries would have never been heard. Luckily for April, his foolish
pride wouldn't allow such prudent behavior. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Her
shrill cry broke through what seemed like an insurmountable wall of
pain when she yelled, “Noooo, no don't leave don't leave me. Don't
leave please!”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Her
clumsy feet fumbled beneath her as she struggled to round the last
corner; only her startling collapse rattled the floor and the guests
at her front door. As Officer McManus' widened eyes swiftly entered
April's horizontal view, he recklessly swung his thick forearm
against Charlie's frail midsection brutally pounding him against the
partially opened front door. Charlie's body slowly slunk downward as
the officer's blow temporarily rendered him limp and lifeless; his
boxer shorts and pitiful tufts of chest hair wafting in the breeze as
the commotion had loosened his bathrobe from his meager waist. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> While
both officers stood over April urging her to speak, Charlie fought to
shake the incessant rattle that overwhelmed his mind. When he
couldn't find the strength to speak he listened to their words, their
desperate pleas urging his wife to, 'stay with them' and reassuring
her that 'help was on the way'. Then somewhere deep within the
confines of his weak constitution, he discovered an untapped well of
arrogance amidst the most unusual moment; as he struggled to find the
air that had been thrust from him lungs just seconds before. </span></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Despite
his weakened state, he managed to howl his breathy rant,
“Don't....don't listen to them, April!! Don't listen! They don't
know what happened here and about your accident! Don't tell them
shit! They will just mess every...everything up... Trust me. Trust
your husband! Do you hear me....?!”</span></span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> His
shameless speech was then promptly cut short as he sat helplessly
glaring at a fist plummeting toward his vulnerable face. An officer
at the scene had rendered him unconscious with one hurried fist blast
to the face; an action the officer's cohorts surely commended as well
as Charlie's lawyers. With her attacker out cold, the next half hour
that passed was thankfully silent, but for the clamoring madness that
filled their halls while officers and EMT's desperately tried to
revive April. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Minutes
passed like hours as they struggled to lure her into consciousness,
and when they finally had, any attempts at a discussion were sadly
futile. April wasn't able to give a formal report about what had
happened that night, but Charlie was arrested on suspicion of
domestic assault nonetheless. As luck would have it April was blessed
to see another day, yet not so lucky for her ruptured spleen; among
several other unfortunate details. That night, the night April Nagle
narrowly escaped the savage grip of death, I wasn't there to witness
her agonizing pain. I wasn't there to see the likes of her miserable
husband pitifully writhing in pain along their marble tiled foyer.
Yet, I had the pictures to invigorate a healthy sense of disdain when
Officer McManus' report crossed my desk the following day. </span></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Briefly
I scanned the report's meaningless facts that filled the first few
pages, but the moment I felt the audacious glare of his shameless
eyes staring back at me, I knew... I knew the moment his insolent
face smirked at the snap of the camera, mocking all who could see...I
knew. But then it happened, the very second I glanced down at the
barbaric torment he inflicted on his delicate wife; I was more
convinced than I had ever been. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #999999;"><span style="font-family: Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I
was convinced he had to die, and I was convinced it was me who had to
do the killing.</span></span></span></div>
Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-38727929561738414122012-06-06T14:01:00.002-04:002012-06-06T14:28:37.371-04:00Chapter 7 - Continued<style type="text/css">
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<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: red;"> <span style="font-size: large;">Hello, all... here is a preview of a continuation on chapter seven. a glimpse into the final hours of Alex. I hope you enjoy, and more to come. Editing and new chapters are coming up quickly. bless your little hearts. later ~b</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Chapt. #7 cont'd -</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
heard the bathroom's linen closet door open, and it was then a
jarring spasm strummed my spine much like a prickly handed harpist
would harmonize to a grisly orchestra of sorts. The distinct pains
shot through me and froze me cold and listless as I listened to his
clothes swish to the bottom of the hamper. As he removed his wedding
ring it hit the floor, '</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Cling,
clang, cling, cling!' My nerves so piqued at the time, it sounded as
though a thunderous clang had echoed against my bathroom walls.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Carefully
I peered around the corner and caught Alex trimming his goatee in the
bathroom's vanity mirror. Once I realized how close he really was,
my breath became shallow and quickened. As I slowly shifted myself
back toward the wall, Alex turned on the shower and then returned his
gaze to the vanity mirror inspecting his aged complexion. A soft rush
of plunging droplets hit the porcelain tub, and filled the room with
a light cloud of steam and a calming hush of cascading water funneled
through the drain. The moist air consumed the bathroom's sparse space
within seconds and its wetness pierced my then distressed lungs. </span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
tried to focus on my next seemingly impossible task, as I attempted
to tighten my clammy palms around the knife's slippery rubber grip.
Fear had struck a lightning bolt of trepidation through me and left
me frozen in a momentary spell of panic. I attempted to hush my
quickened breaths. Then it just happened, once I tightened my grip on
the knife's handle I hastily lunged forward. Abruptly I hit the
adjacent wall jarring my naked body and then suddenly, before I knew
it...there I was, directly in his view. </span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqrvd2m5fKpsUAg7NUxGloJtABXlyS5fz6C1PcTVkv1DP84eidFBRRpU9pgNXYp9CG7WlwIf9NfUlsyGWPLAQS8MWxJcdYD5WxxNvP8MISwzO45OSPp-SZYXU1nXXm1QLpIf7bzMSY9T0/s1600/bloddy-mouth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqrvd2m5fKpsUAg7NUxGloJtABXlyS5fz6C1PcTVkv1DP84eidFBRRpU9pgNXYp9CG7WlwIf9NfUlsyGWPLAQS8MWxJcdYD5WxxNvP8MISwzO45OSPp-SZYXU1nXXm1QLpIf7bzMSY9T0/s1600/bloddy-mouth.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Once
Alex looked over at me, he appeared baffled with his bushy untamed
eyebrows angled upward with a toothbrush hanging from the side of his
mouth. You'd think, at that very moment, my bare quivering frame
would have made me feel the most vulnerable I had ever felt. However,
at that moment, it was in fact my fear of failure. My fear of failing
a task that could not be abandoned. My reluctant leap that thrust me
forward, revealed my truest intentions...there was no turning back. </span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> We
stood amongst the steamy bathroom fog that was gradually lifting as I
intently stared into his eyes. When his eyes stared back into mine,
I could sense their disbelief and betrayal; I recognized the look
because I had felt the same for far too long. At that very moment, I
had not expected my sentiment to be sheer joy yet it enraptured me.
It made me feel like I had lost all control, and yet there I stood,
proudly grinning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
stood before me, mouth agape, when I hastily lunged forward cutting
the thick air with the blade's razor sharp tip. Only my momentary
hesitation gave him time to react as he continued to leap back from
my failed attempts. Foolishly, I had abandoned my original plan to
attack from behind,and for that I would pay the price.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
began to yell as I watched him jump back from the knife's edge, “What
the fuck are you doing, Mira? You really think you are going to get
away with this?!” </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
didn't answer him, I continued to lunge forward with wide desperate
swings, my arms wildly flailed, and my body quickly advanced toward
his. With a pitiful sense of determination, he spat his toothbrush
onto the floor and stood obstinately before the knife's point as it
thrust straight toward his rotund gut. Impulsively, he grabbed the
blade with both of his hands, cinching the blade with the meaty flesh
of his bare palms. Blood began to drip from his grasp as he stood
clasping its edge. His gaze shifted to the wall directly behind me,
his eyes rolled back and seemed to touch the back of his brain. With
his teeth tightly clenched, his eyes swiftly widened with a furious
rancor. Instantly, he was a man who had become completely unhinged. </span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> With
his teeth clenched and bursts of mint scented saliva spewing from his
lips, he finally met his eyes with mine when he said, “You sick
twisted bitch, is this how you are planning on killing me? You better
have something better planned than just a knife. You've got to be
kidding me! You think you're gonna be the new sheriff in town now?!
Is that why you want to get rid of me?! You got it licked around
here, you dumb bitch!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
continued to struggle as I attempted to tear the knife's razor sharp
blade from his grasp. As the blood continued to pour from his wounds,
his ferocious tenacity shocked me. Certainly by now his palm's
searing lacerations were unbearably painful, but despite the pain he
continued with incantations of profanity; all while grasping that
blade. There seemed to be no sight of his waving white flag. </span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> With
his unflinching eyes, and his relentless grasp he pulled me closer
toward him and said, “You think this hurts me, you bitch? You just
wait till I put it straight through your stomach?! I will gut you
like a pig! You are nothing but a pig. A dirty rotten pig! You got
that?!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Just
then I noticed at the base of the knife, just above where his hands
were clasped, his blood oozed and pooled along the grip like a thick
burgundy jelly. The blood gradually pushed up between his fingers,
dripped between his hairy toes and slowly pooled onto the floor
beneath him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> For
what seemed like several minutes, I watched him struggle to keep his
foothold; and I knew at all costs he could not wrestle the knife
free. Oddly, the sheer might of his grasp and his masochistic tug o'
war with the knife's blade seemed to aid my endeavor. Without much
warning, his upper body began to shift as his feet awkwardly shifted
beneath him. Violently he fell to the floor, both knees
simultaneously smacking the hard surface of the slick bathroom floor.
A deafening crack followed as his knees met the unforgiving surface,
'Crackkk! Crackkkkk!'. Then in what seemed like a millisecond, he had
pulled himself to his feet by the surface of the blade. He jolted
upward miraculously regaining his foothold on the blood drenched
bathmat. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Then
with every last ounce of might I had within my upper body, I
struggled to pull his body toward mine. Unknowingly, a steady stream
of tears had begun to flow down my cheeks and onto my moist breasts.
My body seemed to violently shake with either fury or determination.
It was a sensation I will never fully understand, but I knew it was a
fight I could not lose despite how vulnerable I appeared. With both
my arms and upper body trembling with exhaustion, I continued to
thrust myself backward against the force of his grip. Somehow, I had
managed to pull him closer despite the consuming weariness I felt in
all my muscles and joints. I think what I felt was a mix of
exhaustion and pure adrenaline coursing through every ounce of blood.
</span>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> To
my surprise, at that moment I was struck with an unfathomable
courage, my voice rendered a wavering inflection as my eyes stared
directly into his.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;">
My face merely inches from his own, when I said, “You were never
the sheriff in town, you were never anything but a coward. Payback is
a stone cold bitch and she's here to collect.” </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> My
words seemed to incense him when he released one hand and frantically
swung his fist toward my left temple; all futile attempts that
appeared to leave him drained as his breaths swiftly became hastened.
I cocked my head backwards to avoid his swings, making sure never to
release my grip. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
can only imagine what happened next to be a surge of unmitigated
madness masked with surreal joy. I craned my head backward and
bellowed out laughter that seemed to erupt from the very tips of my
toes. I continued to pull him toward me and then for reasons I cannot
explain, during a completely unreasonable moment, I closed my eyes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNNYAusZutyo0oJvkYFXlfTdiFysCnZkk3feIxdE-hX91bWRrEtDR3qYEDLRvpezmEkiZOiW8BPRaBTTuQJ40Velb9mF-MKjk9naBhhcmROa0mPkvgSdCFLGF6pckzq5VtcgEGULLqJaj/s1600/110125103840_MURDER-generic-2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJNNYAusZutyo0oJvkYFXlfTdiFysCnZkk3feIxdE-hX91bWRrEtDR3qYEDLRvpezmEkiZOiW8BPRaBTTuQJ40Velb9mF-MKjk9naBhhcmROa0mPkvgSdCFLGF6pckzq5VtcgEGULLqJaj/s320/110125103840_MURDER-generic-2011.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> With
my eyes tightly clasped, I saw in my mind's eye, an image of my
Grandfather, Antonio; I hadn't seen him since he passed, nearly ten
years ago. Yet, he was an image that appeared so real to me that day,
one that seemed I could smell and touch. As he drew closer to me, I
could see the worn pattern of his tweed jacket, the hard lines of his
face and the smell of his sweet pipe tobacco that wafted by on a
subtle breeze. He approached me with his hand outreached and gently
placed it on mine.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Where
I stood was a serene meadow on what seemed like a spring day; like
something out of a magazine. I didn't recognize the place, but for
the time I felt safe. When he approached he sat with me on a tree
stump amongst a field of lavender and grain, a billowing willow tree
sat on the horizon about a hundred feet to our left. We sat
peacefully for a few moments. Today I cannot recall what it was we
spoke of but I remember watching him smile so wide, his crow's feet nearly touched the tips of his ears. I simply kissed the hand he
placed on mine, and we sat and enjoyed the intoxicating smells of
lavender and berry. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYKyx0e2LSyh-AXpEIq3ijyRSpNRBEkVl8OxEkdfKusGhKB1THYdGunx8aF5syBsZ_IFk8F1NhoL4sjI9b7p5oAmgtBm3IKIONifYSd22syIaP-C9mUPH8tAvQSBV4w1d9GDkZZAPzIPGI/s1600/bloddy-sea-scary-red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYKyx0e2LSyh-AXpEIq3ijyRSpNRBEkVl8OxEkdfKusGhKB1THYdGunx8aF5syBsZ_IFk8F1NhoL4sjI9b7p5oAmgtBm3IKIONifYSd22syIaP-C9mUPH8tAvQSBV4w1d9GDkZZAPzIPGI/s320/bloddy-sea-scary-red.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Abruptly,
there was a shift in the air, any sound that may have naturally
occurred in such a place was hushed by a crescendo of moans that
seemed to be drawing near and then grew to a deafening growl. I saw
the worry in my grandfather's eyes, and instantly his eyes and touch
made me feel like a small child as we embraced. The sound emanated
from the horizon, where the beautiful billowing willow tree stood
serenading our scenery. Sadly its beauty was slowly being consumed by
a foreboding cloud, right before our eyes... until there was nothing
left but a black void.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> The
darkness grew quickly and continued to grow, drawing closer to where
we sat as lines of thick charcoal infiltrated the field's grain. The
black melted along the horizon like thick wax streaming along a
slanted picture frame; until we could only see hints of bright gold
where the grain once was.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQhDslPu1W2HWfxJvHuw8sMQIw_EBCyOLICZkZ89XxeZDjdRdgiTcOJl0Zs1lz_Hb873DcC9pAmtb3LGvsy2725lzfY0CvUWr3iUmPcYV4VrTIKvYYGaHkhsIFMwzjpoaWri1iTFFKlpf/s1600/birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQhDslPu1W2HWfxJvHuw8sMQIw_EBCyOLICZkZ89XxeZDjdRdgiTcOJl0Zs1lz_Hb873DcC9pAmtb3LGvsy2725lzfY0CvUWr3iUmPcYV4VrTIKvYYGaHkhsIFMwzjpoaWri1iTFFKlpf/s320/birds.jpg" width="283" /></a></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> A
deep unsettling sound then averted our eyes to the sky as a flock of
birds emerged from where the willow tree once sat. As they flew
overhead, their wings harmonized an ominous tone, 'Woooooosh
Woooooooosh Woooooooosh'. As their wings cut through the clear blue
sky, instantly their path turned a swampy grey. In a state of
disbelief, again we both watched the gaping blackness consume the
hillside. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
looked at me and said, “Mira, do you see that stream just beyond
the hill?” </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
pointed to a stream beyond a long decrepit stone wall that was
speckled with glistening flecks of slate; a stone wall that seemed to
dissect the land from a pasture of green hills with a mirror like
stream running through it that reflected the midday sun. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Despite
how he insisted, I found it harder to concentrate on anything but the
looming blackness that drew closer as we spoke. He grabbed both of my
arms and looked me in the eyes as I simply stared back at him in
disbelief. With a distinct degree of urgency he shook me to awaken me
from my trance. It seemed so real, those images, and the blackness on
the horizon left me feeling helpless. </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> With
no response from me, he began to raise his voice when he said, “Now
you listen to me and answer me when I ask you something, girl! Do you
see that stream beyond the wall?”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> The
wind blew harder, stray debris and lumps of grass began to kick up
and swirl madly until they snapped in our faces, making the
conditions even harder to ignore. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
continued to insist, “DO YOU HEAR ME?!” </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
finally replied, “Yes, grandpa yes! I hear you Jesus Christ! What
is it already?!” </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
scolded me for taking the Lord's name in vain and then lifted his
boney liver spotted hand to point where the blackness grew.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
said, “Never mind that stream for a moment, we've wasted too much
time. You see that evil over there on the hill? It's only there if
you want it to be. It's only there because that's what you want to
see, Mira. Stop this now, be brave!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
nodded and he continued, “God showed you this place today, not me.
I believe he wants you to see and feel what peace you can and should
have. I have no regrets but for wishing I had more moments to spare;
like right now. Don't live with regrets, Mira. It's time for you to
go and move on from this.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
replied, “I know grandpa, I'm just scared. What happens if I fail?
I'm afraid of failing this and then I fail my children, I can't go to
prison over this!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
shook my body, when he grappled with my trembling arms then looked me
in the eyes when he shouted, “NOW STOP THIS! YOU CAN DO THIS! YOU
MUST DO THIS!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
began to assure him, “Ok, I know, you're right...”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
interrupted, “Shutup and listen, girl. I told you we don't have
much time, and I got more to say!” </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> So
I did, finally I just listened, and momentarily the growls seemed to
cease. I finally stood and listened, as I took in the sweet berry
scented tobacco that clung to the air around us; a smell I remembered
from childhood. A smell that always reminded me of him when I was
lucky enough to enjoy the warmth of its familiarity. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMlsF42q5z_gXSuzAXUjgKFK0CZHiPzjsM4v6TsqDpy8sXml0v5Jexbko34wLjzrteCsz2RUnWSvbsTa79m8FjWRMXGOgGKRqCfPerl5oDkEGhMhxzRt2P31v-63Gm8GgWR5LlPlfkjxI/s1600/SCREAM_BLOODY_MURDER_by_zilla774.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMlsF42q5z_gXSuzAXUjgKFK0CZHiPzjsM4v6TsqDpy8sXml0v5Jexbko34wLjzrteCsz2RUnWSvbsTa79m8FjWRMXGOgGKRqCfPerl5oDkEGhMhxzRt2P31v-63Gm8GgWR5LlPlfkjxI/s320/SCREAM_BLOODY_MURDER_by_zilla774.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
said, “Now Mira, you see that stream beyond the rocks?”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Finally,
I replied, “Yes, Grandpa, I see it.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;">The he
said through a smile and slight chuckle as he turned his eyes toward
the stream, “That's where I spend most of my days, and fish for as
long as I please. That's where I sit for hours remembering the days
with my family, our family, wishing I had enjoyed every moment I was
granted; only a hundred times more. If that's even possible, because
I loved my life. We made great stories together. Make great stories
now, Mira. Let this go.” </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
continued with a reassuring tone, “Get rid of the evil, Mira. You
will not regret it, and someday...when you need me, I will be right
there, by the river. But for now, you finish this. Be a brave girl.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
released my arms and nodded at me with approval, and that's when I
turned to walk from him. As I walked away, I turned back to look at
him just one more time. I smiled at him as he stood in that field with a trailing blackness behind him; briefly he waved me on and then folded his arms gently rubbing the scuffed leather patches on the elbows of his worn suit coat. As I
continued to walk down the meadow's path, wisps of long grass and
grain tickled my ankles. It was then I felt as though I left behind
all guilt and regret; I left it behind in that meadow along with the
murky gaping void.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEiGV6hPZVMGxwl1-UKvY3pIQ083ZwEZwFgE_LCJRLoMXsu_Tnqjjf-OiPXWoMUCxt8lhLU49xcdpdxmBTLmMK0Mi0aSPPK01MI-ER3XivH_5VMVwEAJJiLRLGzZSZh2vqr3o8Wdq_k0XZ/s1600/evil-eye.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEiGV6hPZVMGxwl1-UKvY3pIQ083ZwEZwFgE_LCJRLoMXsu_Tnqjjf-OiPXWoMUCxt8lhLU49xcdpdxmBTLmMK0Mi0aSPPK01MI-ER3XivH_5VMVwEAJJiLRLGzZSZh2vqr3o8Wdq_k0XZ/s320/evil-eye.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Abruptly,
with my next step, it felt as though the birds above had plummeted
from the sky when I was sheathed amongst their unsettling familiar
sound I heard moments before, 'Wooooooosh! Wooooooosh!
Woooooooooooooooosh!'. I felt like I was falling when my eyes fell
blank and the distant growls dissipated into a swirling breeze.
Swiftly, as though not a second had passed, there I stood... in my
bathroom, struggling with that knife. In fact, my eyes were still set
on the ceiling above. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Quickly,
I snapped my head down to gain my bearings, and stared directly at my
husband and grunted as I pulled his body toward mine with the knife's
slippery grip. </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Desperately,
I struggled to bring his body closer to mine. As I pulled the louder
I groaned, 'Arrrrrr, Ahhhhhhhhh, Arrahhhhhh, Ahhhhhhhhhhh!' </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> My
feet began to slip when the slick underside of the bathmat began to
shift against the damp floor. Yet, I continued to insist and pulled
him closer as his thick maroon blood drenched the rug beneath. An
earthy smell of sweat and blood clung to the moist air that beaded
along my arms and chest. I knew I had pulled him as close as he would
come, and between us the bathroom's thick fog had dissipated only
briefly; enough for me to look straight through him and absorbed
trembling fear through his grasp. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
managed to pull him a few inches closer when I whispered in his ear,
“And now it's time for you to go.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Then
I released the knife's grip.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdi0ho3oo9FhmvIVpTLfrIwSwi54EGv3z74ZodwJbnwhiwd5HS7RFRSCqAbRC0uo3nVNuEp351K8kAA9QrQdfcQyhC9BqwBil2jE1dE7f8xeGR8jiupcYWXCNxHMDZNKRM4Y8dcrrJGGvs/s1600/0000002788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdi0ho3oo9FhmvIVpTLfrIwSwi54EGv3z74ZodwJbnwhiwd5HS7RFRSCqAbRC0uo3nVNuEp351K8kAA9QrQdfcQyhC9BqwBil2jE1dE7f8xeGR8jiupcYWXCNxHMDZNKRM4Y8dcrrJGGvs/s320/0000002788.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
watched as he plummeted backwards with great force, head first on the
wall across from the bathroom door. His relentless fortitude in
grasping for that knife's edge aided his ultimate loss. Then I stood
on the blood drenched bath mat, with dried blood spatter on my shins
and ankles staring over at his slouched frame. As the moist
bathroom fog continued to lift from the space between us, I drew
closer to study his helpless state. His head was slouched forward
onto his chest and the very tip of his inadequate penis peered up at
me, like a very sad little face. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Standing
over him, I lurched my hand upward and swiftly brought it down
slapping him across the face leaving a distinct red mark in the shape
of my fingers and palm. I laughed at the sound and the sight of the
impression on his cheek. Then I pried the knife's blade from his
ground chuck palms, and washed it clean of blood under the running
shower head. With my blade clean I walked back over to Alex and
placed its shiny edge just beneath his nose, when an opaque steam
spread along the blade's surface. Of course he was still alive,
surely a little bump to the head wasn't going to rid me of my
monster.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Completely
exhausted I reluctantly dropped the knife to my feet. I could have
easily slit his throat as he laid there defenseless, but I felt there
was no sport in that. I yearned to watch the last drop of life funnel
through his eyes. Much like droplets of water cling to a spider's
intricately woven web, then slowly dissipate till there is nothing
left but white. Truly, now it was only the anticipation that kept the
task exciting. It was my plan to let him rest, because in the morning
we would spend more time together. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
leaned down far enough to kiss the blistering palm mark on his face,
when I said, “Tomorrow we will have our own secret accord, darling.
But I'll make it look like an accident. You rest up, sweetheart. ”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> With
what seemed like a hastened jolt to shake the pain from his heavy
eyes, Alex awoke from unconsciousness at approximately 0600 hours.
Alex stiffened his body amongst a downy comforter encased with a
blood encrusted thick black refuse bag. Frantically, he looked down
at the moistened bloody bag that clung to his skin. When he attempted
to lunge forward the clang of handcuffs rattled against the
headboard's frame and lightly chaffed his fattened wrist. With his
free hand he grasped what little hair remained along his receding
hair line desperately scanning the room. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQeWSOvyoNKVmYlvtKW5MNjx6hh1Ysn_r0ShIFMso_MqXhe77eitAFCRBrpQXmBx_f0QnQf6M1CkkqVHXFSHylG1I4sszHgDPan7L3R18ZvRXUzn1q5shvHTvK7tuNG5W3EPffpnXTDLJ/s1600/bloddy-handprint-draft2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQeWSOvyoNKVmYlvtKW5MNjx6hh1Ysn_r0ShIFMso_MqXhe77eitAFCRBrpQXmBx_f0QnQf6M1CkkqVHXFSHylG1I4sszHgDPan7L3R18ZvRXUzn1q5shvHTvK7tuNG5W3EPffpnXTDLJ/s320/bloddy-handprint-draft2.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
sat in the far corner of the room, far enough out of his reach and
barely within his view. He continued to struggle, attempting to
release his arm as he winced in pain. While he was unconscious, I had
dressed the deep wounds on his hands, but surely the pain was
overwhelming as he had lost considerable blood. Then He turned his
free palm toward his face and brought the gauze covered wound to his
mouth and clenched a free strand with his teeth, in an attempt to
expose his wounded hand. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Instantly
he froze when I said, “I wouldn't take that off if I were you. It's
a pretty deep cut, and really you should have stitches. The dried
blood and bandage is the only thing stopping the blood flow...well,
for now. You really messed up your hands, moron.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> He
jerked his head to the corner of the room where I sat, with his right
eye peering as far as it could without bulging from his skull. As he
tried to lunge forward, a metallic thunder caught him when the chains
quickly snapped him back to where he sat. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"></span><span style="background-color: black;"></span>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-87974243918269486832012-04-27T12:27:00.001-04:002012-04-27T13:37:57.224-04:00Chapter 7 – freedom urn<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-size: large;">“</span><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">There
saw I how the secret felon wrought, <br />And treason labouring in the
traitor's thought, <br />And midwife Time the ripened plot to murder
brought.” </span></i></span><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">-
Geoffrey Chaucer, 'The Canterbury Tales'</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpuqx45kZ-CqkbVg_iihN2j3M98CfJqhvCfoZJtsElw3tPAOqDudkn0NPUaXZMcSv69YC5gQez299k6Nq3sLLqzGOekohNy2G2uM6aub9GubHA8nOQXe76jvVgbe__A99dFNJXpM_dg9K/s1600/Bloody_Regret_by_TwistedZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDpuqx45kZ-CqkbVg_iihN2j3M98CfJqhvCfoZJtsElw3tPAOqDudkn0NPUaXZMcSv69YC5gQez299k6Nq3sLLqzGOekohNy2G2uM6aub9GubHA8nOQXe76jvVgbe__A99dFNJXpM_dg9K/s1600/Bloody_Regret_by_TwistedZ.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;">As I drove home that night, I lingered in deep thought, a kind of
deep thought that brings you to another place. An unknown realm of
sorts that makes you feel briefly disconnected. The quiet hum of the
radio distracted me; yet a subtle hush of white noise seeped from my
window seducing sleep. I struggled to fend off tired eyes as I
slouched in my bucket seat entranced by what seemed like a ballet of
pterodactyl sized bugs fluttering along the golden beams of light.
Dreadfully weary when I finally arrived home, yet relieved, despite
my requisite bunk mate...well, just for one last night. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Once
I pulled my car in the driveway, I pulled the key from the ignition
and sat staring at my house wondering what horror awaited me behind
the front door. I shifted my eyes to the rear view mirror,
to briefly distract myself with the two sleepy angels in my back
seat. For a few brief moments, I sat and relished in the sentiment of
solace that came with the kind of memories I planned to build with
them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> In
fact, as the days drew closer to Alex's murder, I found that I would
daydream often about our new days ahead. Days that would surely be
filled with the likes of peace and ice cream. Several celebratory rounds of copious ice cream, served up
with giant spoons, in our living room, on our pristine cream carpet.
Creamy drops of ice cream would fall from their spoons without consequence. Only to be complemented by the joyful sounds of giggling lips covered in chocolate sprinkles;
no more slaps or screams. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvG7fmIeG1FowqqlEOma4ZGMNZ_SqVFsP-o22JQaDD9ARRn_WafrMvkDPCDc61fjeARKqLSFdXp7ZcU8mAs5R_8V3VgqbbAorcJCXnYK0YORM2pvjV1CQUKSLp_TaGjMwnqoN5eydm-GSA/s1600/Bloody_Handprint_by_Karellen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvG7fmIeG1FowqqlEOma4ZGMNZ_SqVFsP-o22JQaDD9ARRn_WafrMvkDPCDc61fjeARKqLSFdXp7ZcU8mAs5R_8V3VgqbbAorcJCXnYK0YORM2pvjV1CQUKSLp_TaGjMwnqoN5eydm-GSA/s320/Bloody_Handprint_by_Karellen.jpg" width="320" /></a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;">As I ascended the stairs leading my sleepy boys to bed, I noticed Alex sitting in the chair situated in the center of our living room
with his feet propped on the furry looking ottoman. He did not speak
a word to me when I walked through the door. I only caught him in my
peripheral vision as he hastily sipped his beer, as though it
distracted him from other thoughts. He lifted the bottle to his lips
sucking back the brew; then followed up with an obnoxious squeal as
his lips released the mouth of the bottle. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Having
known Alex, these actions were deliberate, with his attempt at an
affected cool refrain. Outwardly he wanted to create the illusion
that he didn't care, as though he was unaffected and unmoved by my
presence. As though his cruel tactics of harassment and torture had
not consumed him daily. Tactics that somehow made him feel better
about himself; in lieu of how truly pitiful his life had become. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> That
night I sat on the edge of Anthony's bed and brushed back wisps of
chestnut hair from his face as my fingertips lightly grazed his soft
alabaster cheeks flushed with warmth. This was my secret ploy to
steal a few moments away. A ploy that would not go unnoticed for
long. That night I was nearly certain Alex had cultivated a
“charming” mood prior to my arrival. A fine cultivation at that,
one that was surely nurtured with the likes of ample beer consumption
and not to mention his inclination for being a complete and total
asshole. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Without
my being too obvious, and that being my lack of haste checking with
Alex as he stewed over God knows what, I made my way to the living
room. Like a toddler Alex sat silently crying for attention, as he
though his outward manifestations were unclear and somehow lost in
translation. People with the most dulled sensibilities could easily
make out the teetering chip on his shoulder; a resounding bold chip
that had made its permanent residency some time ago and flatly
refused resignation. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> During
his short stay with us, he would continuously attend to an inflated
sense of entitlement that could devour innocent passerby's with its
consuming fog. God forbid there were forgotten dishes, forgotten
laundry, or worst a forgotten phone call. Luckily, I was no longer
concerned with fixing things. Now I
tolerated his boyish antics...for the time being. Unfortunately for
him, that limited time offer had expired. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOF3BCLXMxKrM1wm832dMY81PcUF7aFIPAwCRQTHYwKoFyMFiISPUkEsDp8E0O_oi61mmokbx25P8QM0REE4RDCA1gL9rxuHuEhhlHfiUY2ym1UJl6rCr-iOsUnaokjPXHJ6X6BzVETY9v/s1600/bloody+waters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOF3BCLXMxKrM1wm832dMY81PcUF7aFIPAwCRQTHYwKoFyMFiISPUkEsDp8E0O_oi61mmokbx25P8QM0REE4RDCA1gL9rxuHuEhhlHfiUY2ym1UJl6rCr-iOsUnaokjPXHJ6X6BzVETY9v/s320/bloody+waters.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> After
stealing away a few moments, I softly tiptoed across
Anthony's floor maneuvering with calculated footsteps to avoid a
nerve wracking floor creek, a sudden mishap with a wayward toy or an
unfortunate slice from the five inch knife stuck in my shoe.
Certainly, by now its blade had shredded the sole of my sneaker. Standing in
Anthony's doorway I slowly pulled the door toward me leaving just a
crack of light for his night time navigation. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Before
I made my way to the living room, an unexpected rush of excitement
came over me when suddenly the knife's cool blade pierced the side of
my foot. It was a subtle yet unmistakable sting of pain. Now with
deliberate, careful movements it became more evident just how real
the situation had become. </span>
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</style><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace;"><span style="font-size: large;">That
night, I stood inches from the man I intended to tear open with the
very knife that now pierced the tender underside of my foot.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Its
razor-sharp edge served as a reminder that this was, in fact, the
end; the end of my journey, the end of a monster. This moment
unnaturally aroused me, in that I delighted in its stinging pain and
the blood stains it left in its wake. It was an unusual rush of
excitement that one cannot say is felt all too often, the kind of
ethereal excitement you remember as a child on Christmas morning.
Only a darker more macabre type fan fare. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Much
to my surprise, that night Alex hadn't stored up his usual artillery
of complaints. His intention was to simply relay his usual
indifference and to keep the status quo of resounding hatred looming
in the foreground. Within the murky culverts of his simple mind lived
a devouring animosity, his choice tool used to manipulate and an
attempt to conjure fear. This was not love, it could never be love,
his belief in love was a twisted sad testament to love. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> When
I walked into the room where he sat, I stood leaning against the
couch for a moment simply awaiting a response. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> After
being ignored for a few moments, I said, “Well, it was a long day,
I'm going to hit the sack. You staying up for a while?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Without
averting his eyes from the TV he replied, “Yeah, I'll be in bed in
a bit, just going to watch the rest of the news.” </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace;"><span style="font-size: large;">Shockingly,
that night my sleep was not disturbed by restlessness and the next
day I was able to remain focused on the tasks at hand. Since I had
rarely enjoyed a leisurely weekend, it was important that I not enjoy
a restful Saturday.</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;">The misogynistic, old fashioned
semantics of life had not alluded Alex. He felt the woman should
clean the house and the man should enjoy the fruits of her labor.
Unfortunately, any concept of hard work always managed to allude him.
That morning Alex woke up around 10 a.m. and announced he was 'making
a trip to the market for a few things'. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> When
I asked him to bring the kids he scoffed and put up a fuss, and I for
that I knew his ulterior motive was to stop at the bar for a quick
pop -bloody mary-. I preferred he hadn't since the tab was ultimately
paid with my funds. More importantly, that particular day he
shouldn't be allowed a drop of booze. His sobriety was important,
important to me, as sobriety would ensure he remembered every second
of terror I planned to inflict. I wanted badly for him to suffer as I
watched his last thread of life unravel. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Once
Alex left with the boys, I staged the necessary props for our evening
out. I went to our closet and carefully reviewed my collection of
slinky dresses, and then hung one seductive red mini dress on the top
of the bedroom door. My red kitten heels stood at the ready, near the
base of our bed. From my modest jewelry collection, I placed some
sparse baubles on my night stand. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> That
evening's relentless bitter irony was that I planned to wear nothing,
it would make for easier clean up that way. This was simply a
masquerade intended to deceive. A staged costume party without a
guest to speak of and ultimately a gravely poor outcome. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Aside
from my staging props, that Saturday morning would turn out
rather unremarkable; like most spent while living with Alex. I tidied
up the house and took occasional breaks to tend to the children.
After having lunch with my mother and having left the children in her
care, I called La Dolce Vita, a charming Italian eatery, and made
dinner reservations.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> The
most merciful sort of axe men would allow their accused one last
meal, however that day I hadn't felt an ounce of mercy. Alex would be
rendered lifeless before one spoonful could touch his lips. In fact,
in just a few short hours, he would lay gasping and clinging to life
on the cool surface of our tiled bathroom floor. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
thought the bathroom was the easiest and most convenient spot to hide
the knife and to wash up immediately after. The night before, I hid
the murder weapon in my night stand drawer, where I also stored my
reprehensible collection of vibrating dongs and dildos. Some would
assume this to be the first place he may nose around. Although, I
knew full well that Alex would never look where I kept my treats of
risqué pleasures. The utter mention of a vibrating rabbit or the
like would expeditiously depreciate his sense of manhood to the ranks
of prepubescent boyhood. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;">Admittedly,
the past few years I had continued to accumulate a small collection
simply to incense him; that is until I discovered one sadly abused
plastic toy cut square in half with a pair of garden sheers.
Certainly his boyish intention was to upset me, however, the result
was uproarious hysterical laughter until my stomach ached and my head
began to pound from lack of air. My only regret was the waste of such
a precious resource. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> After
retrieving the knife from my delinquent drawer, I placed it in
between the pages of an old Newsweek that rested atop my toilet's
tank. I could count on him not turning the pages of an informative
magazine. Alex garnered his political awareness from talk radio and
the internet. He would then pontificate on his vast array of
knowledge with banal blog posts.<span style="color: black;"> <span style="color: white;">His writing was utterly void of
originality and were merely regurgitated editorial columns he claimed to be his
own. </span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> That
afternoon Alex sat in his office undoubtedly catching up on riveting
commentary posted to his blog. Coincidentally, I refused to become a
“follower” of his work.<span style="background-color: black;"> </span><span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Otherwise, I would have endured a painful hailstorm
of emails when he would author one of his varied "magnum
opuses". His idea of civilized discourse would begin as expected and
always somehow end with expletives sprinkled on top; especially if a
woman chose to engage h</span>im. He was truly a moron adorning a mask of
intelligence, but the only person invited to this allusive costume
party was him. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> I
sat in the living room listening to the clack of typing, his fingers
flying over the keyboard, in all likelihood conjuring up a scathing
reply to some unsuspecting follower. In the living room, I sat
staring at the pages of a random book cradled in my trembling hands,
occasionally turning a page. Admittedly, all my faculties were consumed with his
every move. Merely minutes before my planned attack I struggled to find the courage to follow through with my plan. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Alex
brought home a six pack from the market and had begun drinking around 3 p.m. I was somewhat disappointed, in that I wanted him to
experience a certain degree of terror just as he had inflicted upon
me over the past few years. I wanted so badly for him to feel the
worst pain he had ever felt without the benefit of dulled senses. I
tried to focus on the positive and that was his early afternoon buzz
would inhibit his response time and leave him clueless as to what was
coming.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9za8PHpOXwaabrdS_XH90nW1Ty9Q4kZlFUFk8hA8mONrfQToWXKUPpypRpBCNdcANctzhn-Gk_AfOZAefLYf23hiysPCaqhWkZEUD3or5pYxJsIQbt5QUpYivgQgRhx9J1WKcaGW_fPC8/s1600/894705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9za8PHpOXwaabrdS_XH90nW1Ty9Q4kZlFUFk8hA8mONrfQToWXKUPpypRpBCNdcANctzhn-Gk_AfOZAefLYf23hiysPCaqhWkZEUD3or5pYxJsIQbt5QUpYivgQgRhx9J1WKcaGW_fPC8/s320/894705.jpg" width="214" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> During
his last few unremarkable moments, I could have walked into his
office and beat the rotten piss out of his face with a baseball bat;
he would have never seen it coming. I had contemplated doing just
that, that would have been far more gratifying. I delighted in a
parade of images that pranced through my mind, exposing his skull
bone and brain matter with the relentless swings of a smart
Louisville Slugger. Although, the likelihood of him recovering from a
pierced spine was far less. Therefore, I smartly decided to go with
the knife -a sure bet- or so I thought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> At
approximately 6:15 p.m. Alex walked into the kitchen to grab a
chilled beer from the freezer. The hiss of carbonation pierced the
silence of the room followed by a sharp ping of the bottle cap
hitting the tiled floor as it missed the garbage. I sat and listened
to him chug a few sips and then bellow a loud resounding belch. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1aO9Cv09cgFXDEewxVcShcoySwXhsN-ShOCs0c5Mm9aG-TyWivt-_25R-LionGIkbvEJAsn15MnEjJv6PlXNr7lel4vhzGSxoUPLTIgsWq3YRDeREcry_fw9xR3gSCx1fEkpLkq68_JJW/s1600/SCREAM_BLOODY_MURDER_by_zilla774.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1aO9Cv09cgFXDEewxVcShcoySwXhsN-ShOCs0c5Mm9aG-TyWivt-_25R-LionGIkbvEJAsn15MnEjJv6PlXNr7lel4vhzGSxoUPLTIgsWq3YRDeREcry_fw9xR3gSCx1fEkpLkq68_JJW/s320/SCREAM_BLOODY_MURDER_by_zilla774.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> With
a cavalier unscathed air about him he waltzed into the room where I
sat, wearing nothing but undersized boxer shorts and his black
unshaven chest exposed bearing an odd likeliness to a thickly woven
hideous bathroom rug.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> As
an abridged burp continued to reverberate from his lips he said, “I'm
gonna hop in the shower soon so we can head out for dinner.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> With
that short quip he then made his way back to the office to finish
whatever garbage he was spouting off online. It was then I took those
few moments to position myself for the final act. It was unfortunate
for him, during those final moments that he hadn't posted a farewell
blog. Surely his death would pique the interest of several since half
the mail he received was hate mail. A tragic kind of suicide to fuel
the respective twitting twits of the world, at least for a week or
two. Although, severing your own spine would be a difficult feat to
accomplish. Alas, his spiteful blog minions had unknowingly read his
final blog entry and would receive their last scathing reply. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> As
he sat in his office typing and belching up remnants of lunch,
quietly I tiptoed to the bathroom. I hid myself behind a wall where
the toilet was situated. The toilet is partitioned from the remainder
of the bathroom and it was there I crouched waiting... I had already
removed my clothes and placed them in the linen closet. </span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUar7FQwmLZ_seTGpx6f44fbIbdRQcdlxPwF17QSvvcmUJ25RV80KhWUao19ddwgJTX6LLqz3uuSWlUhzs4mHqOvLXJD_EUJqXQwT8M6AKIgEwUz6uicVtr7J-YcZzcCcjtB8P3qRzS0y/s1600/426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjUar7FQwmLZ_seTGpx6f44fbIbdRQcdlxPwF17QSvvcmUJ25RV80KhWUao19ddwgJTX6LLqz3uuSWlUhzs4mHqOvLXJD_EUJqXQwT8M6AKIgEwUz6uicVtr7J-YcZzcCcjtB8P3qRzS0y/s320/426.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> My
bare buttocks were quickly numbed by the floor's frigid surface. My
nerves tingled and a subtle tremor traveled across the surface of my
then goose pimpled skin as shivers ran through my body igniting every
nerve. I pushed my back squarely against the bathroom wall, slightly
propping myself midair, brushed against the beaded moisture of the
toilet's tank then dripping onto my naked skin.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I
pushed back as far as possible into the corner, then rest my head
inside my cupped hands; intently listening and waiting on his next
move. I only prayed he wouldn't need to use the toilet before he
showered. Nervously I sat trembling with nothing to focus on but for
the blank wall before me. After a few moments I lifted the knife from
its resting spot and placed it on my knee and studied the orange
glistening serrations that reflected settling beams of the sunset
peaking through the window above. </span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="background-color: black; color: white; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: large;"> Suddenly
the bathroom's linen closet door opened, and it was then a jarring
spasm strummed my spine much like a prickly handed harpist would
harmonize with a grisly orchestra of sorts. The distinct pains shot
through me and froze me cold and listless as I listened to his
clothes swish into the hamper. 'Cling, clang, cling, cling!' as he
removed his wedding ring it had fallen to the floor. My nerves so
piqued at the time, it sounded as though a resounding boom had
echoed against my bathroom walls. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-24650304973732679902012-02-28T12:34:00.001-05:002012-02-28T13:11:24.117-05:00Chapter 6 - It only hurts when I breath.<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><b>Chapter 6....it only hurts when I breath. </b></span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2444678451646575290" name="fulltext43813"></a> “</span><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">What can be more soothing, at once to a man's Pride, and to his Conscience, than the conviction that, in taking vengeance on his enemies for injustice done him, he has simply to do them justice in return?” - Edgar Allen Poe</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2444678451646575290" name="query_h11"></a> </span><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> The next morning during my ride to work, I sat stoic as the train thrust its way through Boston's subterranean</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">cavernous maze. Just feet above, along the streets of Boston, a bounty of asphalt and rugged cobblestones endured a brigade of footfalls as pedestrians braved the likes of kamikaze cab drivers and dared to step from their respective curbs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> That day I was oblivious to the coarse friction of disharmonious chatter which ordinarily clanged chaotically against the train's dense steel walls. Most days, a muffled mass of discord would pervade and awake my every sense, but that day it was merely a hushed whisper in the foreground. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> If you were to ask me how I appeared to most that day, I'm not entirely certain. I would imagine transparent with the vapidness of a child's puppet with a dangling cascade of strings. Clearly my mind had traveled into the unknown. Outwardly, surely it appeared I was absent. Somehow I had managed my own of astral travel of sorts; at least that's how I felt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As my frame jostled in time with the heaving underground terrain, I sat entranced by the deceitful plans that consumed me. An overwhelming tingle of numbness embraced me; seemingly a legion of pinpricks could have grazed my skin with the slightest of ease. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I would have quickly volunteered the excuse that I was simply overtired. The truth would surely disturb most, and that was the elaborate web of alibis and deceit which entangled my every waking thought. The tactics I would execute consumed my mind, that is...my careful plan of murder. Planning the days that would lead up to my husband's final gasps for air. These fateful days he had unwittingly mapped out for himself. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> After having seen several women suffer from the distasteful service of lukewarm justice, I could not bear to unleash the cancerous lesion that is Alex unto amass of unwitting singles. The only chance for a scintilla of hope, was to stomp out what scarce light remained in his dimly lit spirit. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Sitting across from me on the train that morning was an elderly couple. The woman, a slight framed feeble looking woman, who wore a threadbare knee length plaid woolen skirt. Her hair a deep gray, loosely held back from her face with intricate looking turquoise barrettes. Cheap plastic jewelry was draped over her aged parched skin.</span><br />
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peered at the cement walls that were covered with thick patches of
black mold occasionally interrupted by flashing signs and numbered
lights that swished past her view; her eyes briefly shifted back to
meet her husbands. After a few moments she shifted her gaze back to
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> With his cracked aged forefinger, he slowly circled a thin gold band she wore, circling it slowly around her nearly transparent skin. So slowly, as though he were afraid she would break with the slightest of touch. His movements were deliberate as though he held the most precious of flowers cradled in his hands. Worried that the slightest movement could cause its petals to fall and its beauty to forever dissipate from the world. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> His feeble long aged fingers grazed the top of her hand that he held in his own, as he looked down at their clasped hands he simply smiled to himself. He looked up and studied his surroundings with a deep sigh of contentment exuding from his lips. As though you could hear the joy rushing slowly from his lips. The old man finally glanced over at me, feeling my eyes on him, and once our eyes had finally met he slowly nodded his head and smiled so wide one could swear his face may split in two. His face beamed with joy and it showed in the corners of his smile and the brightness of his eyes. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> That day, amidst the ugliness of a dirty train, directly across from me sat the epitome of enduring love. Witnessing their exchange was something akin to watching caramel drip through the curves of a twisted decanter. A rare yet unique event indeed. I believe God had purposely placed me there, right at that moment, right in that precise seat, so I could to see what was to come, or what could be. For that moment, I would always be truly grateful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> It was then I knew that I could have peace....someday. Perhaps a lifelong love? But for now, I coddled the hope of a new day; hope, such an elusive concept for some. Luckily, I had not lost sight of my hope, it felt only a few short breaths away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">That
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> A sweet twangy voice jangled through my earpiece, it was Victoria our station's victim witness advocate, she resonated an unexpected chipper tone when she had what most would consider the most detestable job at the station, “Hey Officer Chiatti, It's Victoria Smalls, just thought I'd report back to you about my recent chats with Gina Steenley and how that's been coming along. Basically, I haven't been able to reach her for the past three weeks and Ron's hearing is coming up next week. I have a feeling she is going to clam up on this one. Perhaps the prosecutor should try and reach her on this one before the trial? Call me later when you get a chance. K? Bye-bye!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Holy Shit, Tori, skip a cup of coffee or two. Damn girl. Then again, I guess it was a nice way to get my daily dose of bad news. That morning I called the prosecutor, Michael Armstrong, to fill him in on Steenley case. What was happening or I should say what wasn't happening with the case. As expected his voice mail kicked in...such is the life of an overworked prosecutor. The most overburdened, underpaid public servant known to mankind. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> With a morose tone I left Mike the unfortunate details, and that he should expect the spousal immunity card to be thrown his way any day now. That is, spouses cannot be forced to testify against one another. Every day until the hearing I would follow up on the Steenley case. My messages became more and more insistent, as the date inched closer. I never did receive a return call from Michael, but I would have my chance to speak with him at the hearing. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As the days passed, my anger grew. I felt oddly invested and spiteful for yet another victim falling prey to the clutches of yet another deceitful predator...and on my watch. That's all these people were to me, predators who simply did not deserve the deals they were dealt. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> The morning of the hearing, my palms moist with what seemed like an endless cascade of sweat, I walked beneath the court's ornate vestibule embellished with phony gold plated ornaments clinging to images of justice with the likes of gavels and balanced scales. The metal detector's nerve-wracking pings reverberated through its lofty corridors assassinating the nerves of each passerby. Court room assignments were posted on a tattered cork-board, uniquely out of place for a building with such delusory grandeur. The respective schedules were pinned amongst a graveyard of stapled remnants with shards of hastily ripped paper; </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><i><b>'Commonwealth v. Steenley: Courtoom 4: 8:00 AM : Justice M. Scalia.'</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As you walked through the thick wooden doors of any one courtroom, you would leave the behind the world of cool marble sheen and enter one spacious blank unremarkable space. Where hopeless panic stricken faces lined a tier of benches. Loved ones clung to the knee or hand of their “wrongfully accused” as the briefcase toting lawyers sat crouched behind the bar to exchange insignificant details; callously indifferent to the dreary mood that filled the room like a deep fog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> With a temporary restraining order still in place, Gina and Ron obediently put on a show for onlookers, as they sat as far apart as possible in such a close space. The truth is, they had resumed living together weeks ago. I glanced over at Gina, dressed in her Sunday best, and as my eyes met hers she shamefully averted eye contact and looked down into herself. She exuded a desire to dissipate, much like a wisp of steam.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Despite Gina's obvious discomfort, I continued to glare in her direction as I made my way across the courtroom toward the prosecutor's desk. I knew what she had done, and I knew she was letting him back in, before I even had the chance to find out for myself. A few short steps before I approached their desk, the coarse smell of freshly print paper and cheap cologne assaulted my face; as a team of prosecutors swarmed like a chaotically papered flash mob. A line of lawyers and police officers patiently awaited the attention of one of these newly swarming bees. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> When I came to the front of the line, Mr. Armstrong looked up at me while alternating eye contact between his file and my face, and dismissively said, “Oh, Hi there Officer Chiatti. How are you? You know, I meant to call you. Yeah, real sorry about that. I was kinda working on a deal for the Steenley case. So you know? I wasn't quite sure what to tell you. But we just finalized the deal this morning with Ron. We won't be needing your testimony today. You have a great day though.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> And that was that. There was nothing I could do. The deal was done. Instantly, a hot rush of anger welled up inside of me as it bubbled up from the deepest pit of my gut and ascended toward the ranks of my forehead and temples. My complexion assuredly beamed a scarlet red as I became enraptured with an overwhelming sense of unmitigated rage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As I turned and began to make my way down an ugly depleted grey rug, I shot my glance toward Ron Steenley, who sat in the far rear left hand corner of the courtroom proudly displaying his cocky grin. He stared directly at me as he brought his right hand to his forehead and gestured a half assed salute while subtly nodding his head. He was letting me know he had in fact, won this round.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Without Gina's testimony to back up her former statement, there was little to no chance that a jury would convict a man without any corroboration from the accuser. Ron cut a deal and was on probation for a year with a ninety day suspended sentence and was ordered to attend anger management classes at his cost. Unfortunately, as we later discovered, a cost borne by Gina as well. His criminal charge didn't just disappear, this certainly wasn't an acquittal and for that Gina had to pay the price. This whole ordeal would always be her fault and that could never change. Ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Within two weeks of the hearing, Victoria would follow up at the Steenley home, since we were certain they resumed living together; and the restraining order was in fact dismissed. But when Tori arrived at the Steenley home, Gina only partially opened the door and sheepishly peeked around its frame. Despite Tori's persistent efforts she was not allowed in the home but as a silent cry for help, Gina slowly revealed her entire face. Her face so engorged with blood it appeared as though she had strapped a blood sausage along the left side of her face, with a fluttering eye just beneath its casing. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Gina's employer later reported, she had been calling out of work that entire week, and now we knew why. Victoria claimed that as she stood in the hallway quietly talking to Gina, when Ron discovered who was at his door, he quickly became hostile and rushed to slam the door in her face. After she had seen her in this condition, Tori later called Gina and urged her to file a complaint with the PD, and she flatly refused.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Unfortunately, for Ron he would be attending a funeral only two short months from that very date. Once I had my chance to kill him. For now, he would play his cynical game of torture. For now... for this very short time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Over the next few weeks I focused on my tasks at hand rather than allowing anger and rage to consume my every waking moment. Before I completely lost my mind, I knew my first order of business was Alex. I knew I could not truly help anyone else until I helped myself. I was in desperate need of peaceful solitude, and if it could not be my home then where could it be? </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> The day after Gina's hearing I started making calls to plan my last night with my husband. My children would need a place to stay that night; a place with more humble on goings than the likes of police lights and congealing pools of thick blood.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I could always count on my mother, and after a few short rings to her phone that morning, she answered with her usual chipper tone, “Hello! Hey, I was going to call you last night. I'm glad you called. I was going to ask if your father and I could come by for a visit this weekend.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I replied, “Of course, actually mom I have a favor to ask.” </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “Sure, what's up?” she replied. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I said,“Alex got a new job.” </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> She replied, “Really, well that's good.” </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I continued, “Yeah, it is good, mom. So I was thinking about taking him out to celebrate this weekend. Could you watch the kids at your place Saturday night? That would be a great.” </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> We quickly discussed plans to bring the children to the park for the day, catch some lunch and then of course she would quickly ran through a list of special activities she planned for later that evening. This would include smores making fan fare, living room forts, and who could pass up a rousing mess making spell of finger paint? Most assuredly more wholesome activities than what I had planned. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> After I hung up with my mother, I scrolled up to “Ann” and pressed send. Ann was a good friend of mine who lived up in New Hampshire with her boyfriend, Dan. I had been meaning to pay her a visit and since I was overdue, I was praying she didn't have plans for Friday night. The reason for my spontaneous visit was two-fold. First I had to visit my friend to uncover some refreshed inspiration. There was perhaps no one on the planet who loathed Alex more than I had. While I could not divulge my plan, she would surely provide me with a fresh dose of gumption. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> My second reason, aside from the fresh New England air and a free home cooked meal, I knew there was a rather impressive collection of hunting gear in a special room just beneath her kitchen. A hunting room where her boyfriend, Dan, assigned well appointed pegs for his collection of avid huntsmen gear. An array of muskets, crossbows and buck knives littered that wall. A wall I planned to visit that evening. Certainly I couldn't buy myself a weapon. My service revolver was out of the question. Unbeknownst to him, Dan was my librarian of mass destruction. I would simply borrow something...with the intent to return.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">As
Ann's ringtone resonated through my ear,I realized in all likelihood,
she was rounding up her brood of children for school. Briefly it made
me think of my own kids and that soon enough I would have to ensure
they were safely off to school. Since my unemployed husband would
very shortly, no longer be around. As expected I had to leave a voice
mail, and asked if the boys and I could come up for a visit that
Friday night. Later that afternoon she returned my call and responded
with an enthusiastic yes. I welcomed the solace of Friday night. The
calm before the storm.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> That morning when I arrived at work Jay was sitting at our desk. He was unusually early for our shift. I approached him to ask what brought him in so early.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Jay nervously replied, “I don't have time to chat right now, Mira. I have twenty minutes to get this done. I should've been here a goddamned hour ago. My stupid alarm clock didn't go off like it was supposed to. I set the damn thing, but can you believe it? Some asshole blew the service to our whole building.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> He continued, “ I talked to his girlfriend and she told me he was trying to get an amp to work with his new guitar. I guess he got the bright idea to cut the ground adapter on his amp to lessen the 'feedback'. Course needless to say, he forgot about his soaking wet rug from their all nighter keg party. The damn fool, the shock sent him sailing clear across the room.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Jay continued with a slight chuckle, “His girlfriend called the ambulance. I guess he had some pretty bad burns and passed out too. What an ass, huh? Turns out he'll be fine, but what a goofball? Anyway, Mira I got to finish this report or it's my ass.” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Briefly I watched him looming over the keyboard, hunting and pecking at it with his thick stodgy fingers. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;">I took pity on him and said, “Scoot over, get up.“</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> He looked up at me with a surprised look of confusion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I said, “Scoot over dummy, we don't have all day! You are never going to finish this in twenty minutes typing like that. Tell me what you need to write here. Just kneel down next to me.” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I nudged him out of the seat with my hand, in an attempt to be inconspicuous, yet with a certain sense of urgency.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As I took his seat, I hastily handed him a piece of paper from our outbox and said, “Take this report from last week and pretend like you are talking to me about it. You know, use your hands and stuff, play it up a bit, but talk softly; not too softly, hell you know what I mean. Just point a little at the paper and tell me what you need me to type here. We don't need anyone knowing I am typing your report for you. You don't need anyone giving you shit.” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As he slowly knelt down beside me with his goofy dumbfounded face, he looked up at me and with a sincere humble tone he said, “Thanks a lot, Mira. Thanks a lot. You really are saving my ass today.” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I replied, “No worries my friend. Someday I may need a favor from you. Anyway, you'd do the same for me, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Jay nodded and business resumed as usual. No need to dwell on his embarrassing typing skills and last minute planning. Our workday went rather smooth without much incident, no arrests, just a few traffic stops and lunch. It was a nice segue for me, since I had a rather busy weekend ahead. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
following night, the children and I would visit Ann in New Hampshire.
That evening when I arrived home, Alex was already off to his
brother's house, since his bike was missing when I arrived. As
expected, when I discovered his absence, the resident invisible two
hundred pound weight evaporated from my shoulders. Thankfully, this
meant less opportunity for an argument or uncomfortable forced
friendly conversation.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Prior to leaving that night, I found a note bearing Alex's nearly illegible chicken scratch. It read, 'Off to my bro's house. See you later tonight, sweet cheeks. Love You!' At the bottom of his gut wrenching note, I scribbled, 'love you too.' The whole sickening exercise made me want to vomit but I would leave it there...for later. Conveniently. So family may see, but more importantly the police. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Later once I arrived at Ann's house, she came out to help me carry in some groceries I had bought on the way. As we walked into her house, she called me an asshole for being late, and it was as though we had picked up right where we left off. We had been friends for several years, and for us it always felt as though not a moment had passed. Ann is an attractive woman not mainly due to her outward appearance, but for the carefree demeanor she embraced. A woman who assumed a resolute and courageous spirit, a woman who laughed loud and often. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Truth is some could not tolerate her boisterous nature and shunned her before truly giving her a chance. With the slippery sheen of snake-like politician, she had a bold opinion for all things she believed true and just; all things from which sheepish souls would scramble as she sat squarely in your face. Together we were not for the faint of heart, as we both clutched life with the tenacity and heart of a lion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> After our enjoyable dinner consumed with sporadic outbursts of laughter and the clanging of our Merlot filled glasses, we made our way to her back porch as the children settled in with full tummies in front of the TV. We sat under the pink sunset that looked like fluffs of cotton candy melting from the sky, as the cool sting of the fall air settled on our shoulders and face. We sat under a canopy of bare trees; hearing nothing but the melodious hum of crickets and bugs looming in the thick of the green grass. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> After she had inhaled her nightly dose of weed, she sat in her dulled state of lucidity as she shared with me what had been going on the past few months. For a spell we shared what we had missed. She continued on about report cards, teenaged angst, the ex, baseball...the usual suspects. I carried on about my two until our respective scorecards were relatively even. Once the mosquitoes and bugs had begun their descent, and our trusty citronella candles were extinguished to their very nubs, Ann headed indoors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As she collected her things, and wrapped her tattered shawl around her thin awkward shoulders she said, “See you inside bitch face. This shit is too cold and buggy for me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I said, “Be there in a minute. Just a few more minutes to myself, it's so quiet out here. Don't get this in the city.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> When she left me, I sat still in the brisk fall night, patiently waiting to ensure my trek to Dan's hunting room would go virtually unnoticed. As it was vitally important not to be noticed or heard. I left my seat and descended the badly rotting staircase which led to the back door of her basement. Close by were overfilled garbage cans stationed squarely amongst a graveyard of rain drenched beer boxes. As a waft of garbage smell and the pungent odor of mildew struck my face, I gently placed my ear against the frame of the door and listened for a few brief moments. Once I was certain I heard nothing I entered the house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Once I made my way to Dan's hunting room, I quickly surveyed my surroundings only to discover a haphazard cave of manliness. In front of me, there was a workbench littered with taxidermy tools, empty plates bearing remnants of rotting food and half empty bottles of cheap booze. A true man cave of sorts. As a collection of vapid expressionless stuffed creatures stared back at me with their deep ebony plastic sheen eyes, a spine-tingling chill fluttered down my left arm. Despite the overwhelming desire to leave, I hastily surveyed the weapons that clung to the pegboard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;">The blueish glow of the dangling harsh fluorescent light, filled the room with an unnatural hue making all the weapons seem that much more surreal. A grand serrated buck knife gleamed at the far right corner of the board, it's dark shimmer illuminated almost a violet tone. Its long handle bore plastic strips, to make it better for gripping. I drew closer to the weapon that gleamed in the light, as I studied it I could see my reflection staring back at me. I drew it closer to my eye to study the fine succession of serrations as I ran my forefinger along its side. I was certain this was the one. Oh yes, this was the knife. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> The very knife I would lunge into my husband's neck like a finely cooked pork roast only to rip out spaghetti like shards of tendons from the base of his spine. I grabbed the knife from its peg, and later that night </span>
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<br /></div>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-27715803342741808362012-01-05T12:31:00.002-05:002012-01-12T11:54:57.550-05:00Chapter 5 - Save the Date.<style type="text/css">
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<i><span style="font-size: small;">“<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It is the same thing: killing, dying, it is the same thing: one is just as alone in each. He is lucky, he will only die once. As for me, for ten days I have been killing him at every minute.” - Jean Paul Sartre</span></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> That morning I sat with Gina swathed amongst a mist of misery, as she recounted the dreary details. While she described the assault, I jotted down each sentence nearly ripping the paper with the tip of my pen. I remember feeling out of my mind with anger, mostly for the fact that I had been experiencing the very same shit at home. But for the fact that Gina had not reached my same boiling point. I was the ticking time bomb that had already gone off. Where my collateral damage merely laid in wait. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> When I wrapped things up with Gina I called out to Jay, once he came into the apartment I approached him and whispered in his ear, “She says he hit her, admits he put those marks on her arm and face, signed the statement too. Looks like this is gonna happen. You wanna go break the news?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;">Once Jay approached Ron, he replied with the anticipated response, “No, this is bullshit! She doesn't want me to be arrested! Go ask her, she doesn't want it this way! I'm sure of it!” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f2KUdJ9eHCM/TwXiPUpLBfI/AAAAAAAAALs/Tn2sgVZ17yM/s1600/knot" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f2KUdJ9eHCM/TwXiPUpLBfI/AAAAAAAAALs/Tn2sgVZ17yM/s320/knot" width="280" /></a></span><span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;">As Jay began to grab Ron's right hand to put him in cuffs, Ron defiantly pulled away. The fortitude of Ron's pitiful physical challenge matched his pitiful stature, and only seconds passed until Jay's patience wore thin. Jay slammed Ron to the floor pinning his meager frame to the shoddy filth laden carpet as Ron's left cheek smashed against the baseboard of the hallway. The commotion swiftly serrated what shred of serenity remained in those dimly lit hallways. The hastened turbulence careened through the hallway like a bulldozer, shaking the building to its very core. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Jay's thick stodgy knee pinned Ron to the floor as he cuffed him. That day Ron laid in the hallway of his decrepit castle blubbering like a little girl. It was a sight to see...indeed. During our ride to the station, Ron muttered his useless pleas of innocence. Booze does brings out the best in people; sometimes emotional hogwash. Sometimes... if you're lucky, you'll get a peek at their innermost sissy pants. This was always enjoyable, especially when countering with the likes of Ron Steenley. There seemed to be a use for these kind after all...entertainment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> While Jay endured the booking process with Ron, I granted myself a few moments of solitude at my desk under the guise of drafting incident reports. Truth is, I was in dire need of aspirin, as my earlier dosage had worn off and a headache was slowly creeping in. Jay and I shared a desk, but I noticed that my assigned voicemail was blinking. I had shut off my blackberry for the day, and of course as expected, a message from Alex loomed behind that red blinking dot. -I detested his loathsome predictability- </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Reluctantly I hit the button only to hear his caustic voice resonate through my head, “Hey, hunny it's me, I just wanted to call and let you know that I heard from this guy, Carl, he works at HP. Anyway, he called to tell me I got the job I interviewed for last week. He said I could start next week, Monday morning. So I want to go out for dinner tonight to celebrate! Maybe you can wear that black dress you wore to dinner on our anniversary? I love that dress.” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Notice the complete omission of an apology? I hadn't expected one, and it wouldn't have mattered. Even when he offered an apology it was always followed by a caveat, 'I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have done....'. Who could be bothered with such utter crap? I saw no justice in his actions, and neither would anyone else if they had known what happened behind our walls. Frankly, If he had told me the Queen stopped by to use our toilet, I would have sooner bought that over an apology from his hateful lips. It was no matter, the only thing I wanted from him those days was an obituary with his name on it. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Now I had the remainder of the day to dream up reasonable excuses as to why I was turning down his gracious dinner invite; for which I would have undoubtedly paid. By nightfall my stomach was mangled with anxious knots; rendering myself a rather poor dinner companion. At the time, I would have preferred the company of a stinky hobo, rather than enduring the agonizing tales of Alex. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As I later discovered, his new job was merely a glorified shipping position with a smattering of IT knowledge. For a few short weeks, he would call himself an “IT organizational tech”. His detestable existence was only justified amidst the the cloud of his sociopathic mind when showered with recognition for a mediocre job well done. 'Hey look at my piece of shit job! I'm important! Look at me!' He was plagued with the most abhorrent case of LAM syndrome -a.k.a.: look at me syndrome- This particular affliction seemed to plague him worst than an army of toddlers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> When I opened my front door that night, there Alex stood at the top of our stairs, ready for our “date”; all five foot five of him. He was sporting his super fly button down shirt and a pair of tan jeans (circa 1992). Just when you thought there was no end in sight for the comic relief...enter stage right with one brown leather bomber jacket. The only thing that could have topped this dreadful fashion statement was a “members only” jacket. -surely he had one of those stashed away-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> On his feet were ankle high leather boots with a one and a half inch heel. Along with his crippling case of OCD, he could never bring himself to throw away the most useless of trash. These particular boots had likely seen the streets of Boston since Reagan was in office. In fact, one day I caught him shamelessly scribbling black sharpie marker on the backside of a boot. I called these bad boys his 'man heels', they would make him appear just a bit taller than me; so as not to bruise his effeminate man boy ego. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> The qualities one could lend to his Napoleanesque type traits, were his stature that matched the pathetic length and girth of his stubby little penis. In fact, our first time together I wasn't sure if he had penetrated me or poked me beneath the covers with a vienna sausage. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> On our first date, I thought he was kinda cute; even though he carried on about himself nearly the entire evening. When he asked to go dutch treat he conveniently miscalculated his share for the three gin and tonics he threw done his gullet. Admittedly, he was fairly charming at first. I tried to look beyond the bad. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> We were a rather odd couple, and left most people baffled scratching their heads in utter amazement. Alex would pride himself on being a “ladies man”, but in all likelihood the women that threw themselves at him were either drunk or mentally challenged. To date I'm still trying to figure out what this said about me, but at one point in time I allowed myself to somehow be charmed. That ship had long since sailed. In fact, it had capsized....with no lifeboats to speak of. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> After a few short months of dating, he proposed insisting on a quick marriage. Now when I reflect upon that time, I believe he rushed the marriage as he could no longer hold back the ugliness that lurked inside. The one that most of us knew and despised. The ugly I came to know in time. Coincidentally, at his wake only two of his siblings showed -he had eleven-. It was a rainy day and the maple trees that hovered overhead sprinkled more tears from their leaves than any eye had shed that day. The only tears were mine... and were manufactured for effect. His children came bearing cold hugs and shallow sentiments. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> In the beginning, for Alex and I, everything was fairly peachy keen. Until he slowly unveiled the monster inside. Once the children and I were invited to live in “his home”, a calculated list of do's and dont's were presented to us. Albeit not a written list, but a list that would eventually reveal itself with time. We were merely guests in his home. Guests that couldn't step or play on his grass. Guests that had to wipe themselves down with an assigned towel before stepping onto his bathmat. Guests that had to endure slaps and shoves should the remote turn up missing. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Now Alex was on borrowed time. He would continue to try and salvage the laughable union we shared. Much like tonight's request to go out for dinner. Too little too late. Nothing could save this asshole now. Not a damn thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> That night as he stood there eagerly awaiting our departure for dinner, he approached me with a fake grin and exclaimed, “Honey, I got a job! I got it! Wahoo!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> He embraced me with his half assed hug and then pecked my cheek with his tightly pursed lips. It was the kind of kiss you give your great aunt or grandmother when you saw them every third year for Easter. His sickening kisses were yet another reminder of our situation; which was merely a convenience that kept him out off the streets when he fucked up gainful employment. When this happened, I would be there to hold down the fort; a much needed yet unwanted houseguest. Soon enough he wouldn't have to concern himself with bills or the like. Soon enough his foremost concern would certainly be the nine inch buck knife I planned to lunge through the back of his head. Thankfully, the last woeful concern to plague his simple mind. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> When he stepped back and looked at me, my face surely relayed my restrained enthusiasm. It was a long day, I was off my game and I just didn't have it in me. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> He stood back and looked at me saying, “What's the matter? Aren't you happy for me? You still want to go out for dinner with us tonight, right?” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I replied, “I'm sorry Alex, I'm happy for you I am just so tired after work today. Can we just schedule this for another night? This weekend my mom can take the boys and we can go out, just you and I. We can go to a nicer place. You know, like that nice Italian restaurant you like. How's that sound?” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> No sooner had I spoken these words, within a nanosecond his face blossomed like a freshly steamed radish. His complexion would change drastically whenever his temper was about to boil over. This effect made for a rather accurate asshole barometer. You could generally predict when dread was forthcoming, as his complexion would gleam with the likes of Chernobyl. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> What came next was one of his favorite side show acts, what I came to know as the “wedding ring toss”. All he needed now was a super mini-sized car so he could join the circus with a myriad of midgets adorning their best clown like attire. This particular side show, as he had a few, consisted of him ripping his wedding ring from the grips of his bulging finger fat and then tossing it wherever it may land. This charade was always accompanied with a fresh bouquet of profanity clinging to the air. After he wrestled the ring from his finger he sent it sailing, as it ricocheted directly up and pinged off his eyebrow...much like a foul ball -only more entertaining-.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> After his rousing display of infancy he stormed off to his office and yelled, “You are so selfish! You knew how much I was looking forward to this! I was looking forward to this all day, and all you can do is think of your goddamned self! God, I am so sick and tired of your bullshit! Don't come talk to me, just leave me the fuck alone! You useless bitch!” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I daydreamed about him losing his foolish ring. He operated under the misguided impression that I continued to wear mine as a symbol of allegiance to delusional dictatorship. He was mistaken, I only continued wear it so as not to arouse suspicion when I finally him released him from the clutches of his miserable existence. I had considered baking his ring in a cake, and then gleefully watch as he choked on the foolish thing. I had decided against it, since Saint Peter would most assuredly scratch my name from his blessed list.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> More often than I care to admit, when I came home to this shit, I wanted so badly to pick up the phone and vent to mom and friends. But I squelched this desire and internalized every heaping dose of crap he served up. As most women would surely attest, internalizing all of these feelings made for one nasty mess to eventually clean; for now, I swept it under the rug. Now my mess had become an unsightly carpet covered white elephant planted square in the center of my home. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> That night Alex wouldn't receive any complaints from me as to his request for silence. Actually, I rather enjoyed not sitting across from him that night, affecting my engagement with the crap that dribbled from his mouth. I was happy to pay the price for a quiet night at home... or what I had thought was going to be a quiet night at home. I had predicted a little game of “wedding ring toss” but not that evening's main attraction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> That night once my boys were tucked in bed, I went downstairs to our room where Alex loomed with a beer in hand and his back squarely against our headboard. He sat stoic and unmoved and continued to dismiss my presence altogether, as I crossed the room to my bureau. His festering anger was so thick, it was as though I was enveloped with a sheath of rage as it dripped from our maroon walls. For the moment he seemed unmoved by my presence, but just beneath the surface lurked a maelstrom of obscenities. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I wasn't sure what I was in for that evening, but I knew I had to sleep in that bed to avoid another all night brawl. As I pulled my shirt overhead to change into my pajamas, a smattering of bruises were revealed just above my elbow. I had forgotten about these particular war wounds of sorts, but now with their ripening yellowish hue...they were hard to miss. Briefly, I ran my hand down the side of my arm to feel the subtle bumps that were raised just beneath my multi-colored skin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> For a fleeting moment, I could feel his eyes on me. Then quickly his eyes averted toward the TV screen as he raised his beer to his lips. He always pretended they weren't there, the bruises that is, and if the were, they would always somehow be my fault. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> After about ten minutes of welcomed silence he asked me, “So, are you just going to sit there and ignore me all night?” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> With Alex I always felt as though I had spiraled back in time to seventh grade. There was no accounting for maturity with this man. His outward appearance was not foretelling of the actual paucity of common sense he accumulated throughout the years. It was clear, he never learned when to leave well enough alone. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As I sat on the foot of our bed slipping socks from my feet I replied, “I just don't have anything to talk about, and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow so I would just rather relax and talk about this later.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> He replied, “Doesn't it bother you that we don't talk anymore and that you go around ignoring me all the time? I mean what is your issue? You used to want to talk about it when we fought and now all you do is avoid me?” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> The first thought that entered my mind, 'it's because I hate your filthy rotten guts.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Of course, like always, what I wanted to say, was exactly what I couldn't say. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I quickly conjured up something of substance in an effort to ward him off, “It's not that I don't care, Alex. I just don't want to talk tonight, ok? Can we just talk about this later, please?” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Immediately after my response he stood to his feet and ripped the blanket from his body to the floor, as he stood in the middle of the room purposely obstructing my view of the TV...seething with clenched teeth. Here we go, I was in for it tonight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> It didn't matter that my children were sleeping, his nut had finally cracked, and then came the yelling, “You just want to go to sleep?! Don't you ever think of how I am feeling?! You know I have been depressed and you refuse to read those articles I printed about depression! You refuse to go back to counseling with me! You refuse to go to dinner with me and refuse to talk to me when I ask?! What the fuck is going on with you?! You aren't going to keep sweeping this under the rug and ignoring me! What are you cheating on me?! What is going on, Mira? Unless you talk to me right fucking now you aren't getting a wink of sleep! I will make sure of it. I will make your night hell, like I did last night!” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> With the shred of gumption that remained in my quickly wilting spirit, I made my way to the bathroom for refuge. I locked the door hoping for peaceful solitude in the one place where one would should reasonably expect. Quickly, I engaged the lock behind me with trembling hands and tried to soothe my contorted tummy. Sadness, Fear and loathing consumed me, it overwhelmed me daily, nightly and by the second more and more as the days had passed. I hadn't expected tears to flow...yet they had. They spattered onto the flat surface of my blackberry clutched in my hands, and then slid onto my cool shivering knees. Restraining muffled sobs only further rendered my body aching with what seemed like a crippling angst. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Before I had a chance to soothe myself with a spell of mind numbing web browsing on my blackberry, he startled me as he rapidly pounded his fist against the door jarring its entire frame. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Once I collected myself I replied with a cool refrain, “Please just leave me alone, I just want to be left alone.” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> In his unrelenting quest to antagonize me, he continued with the berating and profanity. That's when my youngest son, Anthony, came out of his room and asked, “What's wrong?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> To which Alex replied “Get your ass back in bed, and mind his own damn business!” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Such a swell guy. Unfortunately, regret and shame was the expensive price I now paid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I remember sitting there that night with my ass cheeks pressed against my cool wooden toilet seat cover, silently praying for what seemed like hours that he would just let me be. Then suddenly a clamorous bombardment of his fists pounding on the surface of the door sent my heart palpitating so loud that its beat became the only thing I could hear amidst my terror filled mind. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> For a fleeting moment once the pounding ceased, I felt like I could breath again, as I though I had been breathing through a thick wool sheet. Then the sharp wooden crackle of the door's frame unexpectedly collided with the solitude that was my space. Where I thought I had solace had quickly become the stomping ground for his unrelenting rage; as the door suddenly careened from its hinge sending shards of wood toward me, and with a impetuous slam it smashed against our tiled floor. With intent force he charged toward me as he plunged his feet against the door's surface sending a deep crack down its center splitting it in two. Within seconds I was dangling from his fist as he pinned my vulnerable frame against our bathroom wall. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Instantly he rendered me gasping for air, with his hands grasped tightly around my neck like a tautly strung leather brace. With my body pinned against the wall, he shoved his body against mine and placed the bridge of his nose directly on mine. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> A scented warm rush of hops and weed hit my face along with random spurts of frothy spit as he screamed in my face, “You think you are going to put me through this? You're not going to do this, you bitch! You are my wife! This is not ending with divorce! I waited years to remarry and this isn't going to happen like you want! I will fight you to the end and make your life hell! So you better straighten your ass out and change your fucking attitude, because I have had enough of your shit! Don't play fuck fuck with me because I will make your life a living hell!! You got that, bitch?! Got it?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><br /> At that moment despite my state of near unconsciousness, he expected me to promptly answer. Amidst a cloud of an unmitigated rage, the reality of the situation at hand seemed to allude him; as though we were having an ordinary conversation and I was expected to immediately reply. As he continued to ask through tightly clenched teeth, “Huh, well do you get it? Do you fucking get it or not?! Answer me!?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> That night I remember thinking, while pinned against my wall wearing my best Wal-Mart pink laced jammies, that I was going to die that night. That I was going to die just a foot above my toilet. Toiling with regret for not killing him first. I remember thinking how much my kids would hurt, how my mother would cry; and as I peered into his widened eyes filled with hate, everything began to fade. Everything was was on mute as a legion of black dots began to infiltrate my eyes. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Despite his being a raging sociopath, a sudden stroke of conscience compelled him to release his grip from my neck. Too little too late, and apparently he didn't realize that by then, I had been rendered unconscious. Once he released me, my body abruptly fell as my forehead cracked the back of the toilet. Come to find out I had laid there for three hours, while he desperately tried to revive my consciousness. That stupid son of a bitch could have killed me that night. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> Hours later I awoke with a sore throat and an indescribable headache. Once I finally sat up the first thing I saw was Alex crouched over me as he leaned forward and tried to caress my face with his hand. Instinctively I shied away. Once a sharp sting pierced my forehead, I lifted my hand to discover the culprit, my fingers grazed a shard of porcelain that had lodged itself in my now blood encrusted eyebrow. I sat on the floor trying to collect myself. Then it occurred to me, 'Why hadn't he called for help? Would he have sooner let me die than call for help? Sick bastard'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I recoiled from him on the cool tile floor and brought my knees up to my chest as I wrapped my arms around them. I sat staring at him in amazement as he began to sob, carrying on about how sorry he was and about how it would never happen again. I wasn't really listening, in fact all I clearly remember was thinking about how he could have killed me. He could have killed me next to the damn toilet! But most importantly what I remember that night was a strange sense of elation wash over me as a cool shiver ran through me. The irony of my happiness was that I knew this was the last time. The last time he would ever do this to me or anyone else. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> When I was finally able to speak my voice rendered a scratchy tone. In order to fend off any further attacks I hastily rendered a nearly inaudible plea, “Ok, Ok, you got it, Alex. You know what, don't worry about it, this will all get better; I promise. I will go back to counseling with you and read the articles you gave me. I will try harder. Can we just please go to bed now.” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> He sat with me on the floor, and cupped his face in his hands. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> As he quickly conjured up a batch of fake tears he looked up at me and said, “That's all I want. I just want this to be better. I don't want to lose you. Don't make me mad like this anymore. It just isn't worth it, hunny. You know what I mean?” </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> I couldn't believe how this man's mind worked. How fucked up he truly was. That he had expected this to continue... forever. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> When he finally helped me up from the floor, I made my way to our bedroom where I would curl up and pray that this was all a bad dream, and that he would quietly die in his sleep. Forever dissipating into the realm of to be forgotten by all, much like a bad dream, and then to resume life as it should be. I had said that prayer for many nights, for so long I couldn't tell you when I had begun. God never answered my prayers, I figure this was his way of <span style="color: white;">making me stronger...forcing me to take care of him on my own. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"> </span> </div>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-4268532861868527452011-11-16T10:41:00.027-05:002012-01-12T11:39:27.986-05:00Chapter 4, cont'd: A consortium of characters.<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">H<span style="color: white;">ello everyone! miss me? don't answer that..... it's been a couple weeks. -sorry for the wait on my next post.- But luckily for me I have a fairly reasonable excuse, I'm busy. Busy writing a blog that doesn't spout the daily minutia of my life. That's what facebook is for.... no, my blog is not for the faint of heart nor is it for folks who read blogs to entertain themselves while taking a ten minute power dump at work. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">I'm adding this particular commentary because I find most blogs to be utterly dreadful. -not all- Now, I am a big foodie fan, also I love bloggers who give me good movie/tv show tips. Since I find most prime time shows to be complete garbage and equally dreadful. Not to be crass -ok, maybe I do- no one gives a rats ass about how you love to run, pictures from your last vacation or how shitty your week is going. [well, at least no one wants to follow a blog that is solely devoted to such cuck. But for the fleeting no brainers of the world] My point is, if you are going to author a blog, post something of substance, something that will entertain. Something that doesn't focus solely on yourself. For Christ sakes, write something thought provoking! Ok- that's enough of that- </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Soooo, here is a continuation of chapter 4: a consortium of characters. In this part of the chapter I introduce you to Ronald and Gina Steenley. The chapter is rather long, obv. since I am posting in two parts and this is still not all of it. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">With that said, I have already finished writing chapter five. In that chapter my character kills Alex. That is the first murder of the book and perhaps the most cathartic, but rest assured not the last. Again, I'm sorry because you will not know how he is killed unless you buy the book.... ahemm... </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Without including the end of chapter 4, one can safely assume that Ron doesn't get a friendly pat on the head and served a chocolate ice cream cone. Soon enough you will find out, not to worry. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">Right now I am tightening up what I have already written and working on new material. I have seventeen chapters for this book. It doesn't stop there, as I have said this will have to be published in a series. For now, I offer you samplings of the first book....enjoy. </span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new; font-weight: bold;">share, facebook it, send along with holiday cards.... whatever your little heart desires. ciao ~b</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;">That morning my train plummeted through the cavernous dimly lit tunnel until my destination was incoherently uttered over a speaker that clung to life by sparse wires just above my head. My morning began like many others, Jay and I would <span style="color: white;">scope out drive-thrus for the shortest possible line; a girl needs her coffee. Until we received a call over our radio, then off we went to a domestic disturbance only two and half miles down the road. Merely a quick jaunt down the potholed road, where the air feel heavy with a veil of deceit, where dysfunctional dementia loomed in the foreground. Welcome to Dorchester Massachus</span>etts; where it rains and pours.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Along the way, my mind present yet miraculously absent, my view jostled and jolted in time with the wheels that bounded through the asphalt's pits and valleys. My view along the way, swishing past my eyes, were tiny trees that seemed to consume a maze of steel. Their lifeless branches embraced a meager supply of leaves. A parade of limbless greenery sprouted from the streets and populated the median of an otherwise concrete playground. The city's attempt at beautification was transparent with a parade of frail, mangled branches consuming corroded black steel; as though the streets were outlined with the silhouettes of a hundred feeble souls. At least that's how it felt in this part of town; it seemed the trees shared the sentiment.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new; font-style: italic;">-Coincidentally, this was the fateful day I had met Mr. Ron Steenley. Now thinking back on that particular morning, the trees and the gloom that pierced the morning sky were certainly foretelling of his macabre fate which laid ahead. The tree's silhouettes our faithful ushers into the outermost circle of hell, and the journey had just begun.-</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><span style="color: white;"> When we finally arrived at the Steenley's home, the smells of cooking filled the hallways of their apartment building. It seemed there were several people overpopulating this wretched building and were coincidentally home in the middle of the day; judging by the residual sounds of midday TV and the offensive odor that saturated the hallway that assaulted your face the moment you walked through the</span> front door. I would like to think there aren't many folks amongst us who have a proclivity for cooking their garbage. That morning, standing at the entrance of one badly weathered brick and mortar hell, it smelled as though someone had done just that. Dear Lord.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Apparently for weeks now, the Steenley's upstairs neighbor was hearing loud bangs and yelling coming from the apartment just beneath hers. As it turns out the loud bangs were Gina Steenley's body being flung like a dirty dishrag against their living room wall; accompanied by the filthiness Ron bellowed through the halls. With each bounding fling, Gina's body would shake the thin walls of the building to its core; sending ceramic fruit displays and pictures blasting from their well appointed positions.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Our anonymous informant, Dawn Carritta, a single thirty-three year old woman, had done for months what she thought was best and stayed out of it. She figured she didn't need the trouble of some angry half-cocked drunk hassling her about cops nosing around.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> She claimed the commotion seemed to occur almost daily until the day her three-year old son, Caleb, looked up at her and asked, “Mommy, does that man upstairs hurt that lady? Why does he call her those bad names so much? I can hear him calling her bad names sometimes when I am going to sleep at night. We should tell him that isn't nice, huh Mommy?”</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdimdNEfwa1a-0pigQGiEg0oKyCgorEd4E66CaM3FIswvag5IzssqTRBSMHzr13RgT1kEM2DrzoB3B9vugJWA6lfq0lnqM6o4AcUj1nUdc8_SZ9Cr9B3Ha-Z_BdN0ppQ0xjp5DlXPld9jh/s1600/415097642_aa300e9fa1.jpg" style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675620293551607794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdimdNEfwa1a-0pigQGiEg0oKyCgorEd4E66CaM3FIswvag5IzssqTRBSMHzr13RgT1kEM2DrzoB3B9vugJWA6lfq0lnqM6o4AcUj1nUdc8_SZ9Cr9B3Ha-Z_BdN0ppQ0xjp5DlXPld9jh/s320/415097642_aa300e9fa1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;">Two hours after Caleb's curious admission to his mother, we received a call. As far as a witness statement from Dawn, well the history of Ron Steenley spoke for itself along with the details Ron would predictably voluntarily supply. Luckily, most criminals don't have the savvy to withhold all the varied details of their respective sordid lives. Niavely thinking we are their appointed religious counsel of sorts. Like a collection of macabre trophies, Ron's record was a blue ribbon variety, with a string of domestics, 209A restraining orders for a varied number of women - approximately three still current- an A&B kicking around for a bar fight back in 2005 and just for fun... two aggravated OUI's.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Ron enjoyed drinking, problem was liquor was not Ron's friend. He went from jovial and talkative to downright mean; like a hissing cat, mean as the dickens, freshly fished from a pool. This would lend an interesting spin on any attempt at a coherent discussion with Ron when we arrived.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> As we later discovered Ron, an iron worker, was laid off from his job and was collecting unemployment. His wife Gina, was home during the day as she would bartend nights at the Bell and Hand. Of course, Ron didn't mind taking every dime of his unemployment till it ran dry. Even when the union called with work he would decline with some piss poor excuse. As the calls for work eventually thinned out, he would sail along on his Commonwealth sponsored drinking benders. Now that your caught up, this should adequately lay the foundation for our appearance that day -enter stage right-.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> We ascended the building's awkwardly thin staircase with deliberate footsteps until we reached the second floor, the warped floorboards creaked underfoot and shook the loose handrail that rattled with each step. It seemed nothing was stable in these parts, a stiff wind could bowl this rathole into oblivion.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> After an abrupt knock on the door of apartment 2B, a few moments passed as we stood before the white door laden with grey greasy fingerprints smeared along its surface when it swept open a pungent breeze of booze and body odor wafted into the hallway.</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> With an irritable intonation in his voice, as though we had interrupted his busy day, Ron asked us, “What's going on? How can I help you two?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> With a stereotypical cop like demeanor Jay answered him, “Sir, we received a call that there was a disturbance in your apartment, and we were asked to come and do a well visit. May we come in for a minute?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Ron replied with a sniveling tone while scratching his gnarly unkept hair with one hand and pulling up his oversized pants above his prominently displayed boxer briefs with his free hand, “Well, I'd rather you didn't, but yeah come on in. I got nothing to hide.”</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Upon entering the apartment's narrow hallway after a short trip down a rust colored shag rug, the room would open up to a poorly furnished living room with a large flat screen television on the wall. There appeared to be a bedroom down the hall and a kitchen directly to our right that appeared dark and unoccupied.</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Immediately I noticed down the dimly lit hall, a sliver of light illuminating the rust colored pile from beneath the bathroom door and I asked, “Is your wife home?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Ron replied, “Yes, she's in the bathroom. She will be right out. What is this all about anyway, can I answer something here?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Ron was doing his best to put on a convincing act, but sadly failed like a puppet whose strings were being orchestrated by an inebriated puppeteer. As he struggled to keep his foothold he stumbled forward a bit while clasping his hands and making his best attempt at affected sobriety coupled with humble offerings. But his slurred speech and awkward movements just made him appear transparent and pathetic. A typical drunk, but not so typical to see prior to noon. Ron Steenley was a grade A drunk, not even the best of them have him beat this time of day.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> I stood back from the now uncomfortably close Mr. Steenley and replied, “Sure, Officer Maldonado can speak to you out in the hallway. Typically we like to question both parties separately first, if that is ok with you?”</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> He quickly agreed and seemed cooperative...for the time being. Boy, was he in for a surprise. In approximately one hour he would leave in cuffs, and that polite demeanor dissipated quicker than a fart in a windstorm. As the story goes, Ron would leave behind a trail of obscenities clinging to the badly tattered wallpaper along with smatterings of saliva and blood from one ill advised struggle.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Ron and Jay left to speak in the hallway, as I sat waiting for Gina. Their living room was infused with a heavy nicotine scent and the walls stained a deep mustard hue. Sporadic streaks of brownish filth infiltrated cracks extending from the ceiling and dissected Ron's only treasured memoirs: tattered wall coverings and paltry drapes encrusted with thick yellow patches of nicotine. Clearly this apartment had never seen the likes of Febreeze.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Coincidentally after I left the apartment, for what seemed like days, the smell of stale cigarette settled deep within my sinuses. While waiting for Gina I quickly ascertained the culprit, one nearly overflowing ashtray sat on a badly scuffed up flea market end table. On its edge, a tiny roach, so tiny if I didn't have time to sit for a moment and inspect my surroundings it would have gone virtually unnoticed. Frankly I didn't care, at the time I was more concerned with arresting the likes of that massive dick who was speaking with my partner just outside the door. Bigger fish to fry, my friends.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5eL471QUIp1rGo8FwlhGjKl3c5IofS1gxjEUR7BXeunj5HkvkC5ZGjzuHTINfmOWmm4zlHhiw0Zg4beRVQn7RTSb7R_HsxMYg6CCgUJUbJ_U5aFrIoZpgIjfn4OfgGyrD_UD8vnn7nmq/s1600/2009-01-06-img_56551.jpg" style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675620747168810898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5eL471QUIp1rGo8FwlhGjKl3c5IofS1gxjEUR7BXeunj5HkvkC5ZGjzuHTINfmOWmm4zlHhiw0Zg4beRVQn7RTSb7R_HsxMYg6CCgUJUbJ_U5aFrIoZpgIjfn4OfgGyrD_UD8vnn7nmq/s320/2009-01-06-img_56551.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 214px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;">During my wait I practiced my deliberate mouth breathing, and then she came out... looking exhausted and teary eyed. Haphazard crimson like patches were raised along the right side of her face with copious amounts of mascara smeared across her moist cheeks, her eyes still red from tears. Gina is a fair skinned girl, with the type of skin that would burn after five seconds of exposure to the sun. God forbid you give this woman even the slightest of pinches; it would assuredly produce a monster of a bruise. She was frail looking but had big breasts, the perfectly round and perky type; the fake looking brand of boob. I immediately noticed what looked like a long shallow scrape on her left arm.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Ordinarily Gina kept her hair straightened and groomed meticulously for work, but left with little time for grooming -contending with that morning's random unexpected blows- her hair was one blonde streaked hodgepodge. The most suiting description for Gina would be trailer trash Barbie, if there ever were one, Gina would fit the bill... in spades. Contrary to her harsh outward appearance, turns out she is very sweet and soft spoken. The girl had a certain something going for her, so it was hard to counter with the notion of why she was there, with Ron Steenley. Although Gina probably feared what most victims had, fear of retribution. An all too real fear that not even a thousand restraining orders could allay.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Gina approached me with an awestruck look, and immediately I could see pain in her eyes. It looked familiar, some were better at hiding that look than others, in the past four years I had nearly perfected this requisite technique...nearly perfected. She dragged herself across the room like a scolded puppy with her tail trailing along behind her. Her right hand clasped her left arm at its elbow, as if to hold herself together, she wore an oversized shirt, one sleeve extended beyond her wrist as she lowered her arm beside her. The sorrow displayed on her face seemed to melt beyond her sleeve and down to her trembling fingertips. Despite her hesitation to join me, she didn't seem too surprised to see me sitting in her living room.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Gina approached the coach and allowed her body to slowly slink along the armrest, slouching a bit into its corner, as far as possible from where I sat. An awkward silence filled the room as her eyes widened, and her delicate arm craned downward to retrieve a stray pack of Marlboros.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTtjTE-_KxN3Lh9IyZROHIWs34FUgsqjrobPNvuDsimgs_s0rQGtVmhyphenhyphen_liTLnpGMSu9hyWdMzbuvQxwHJe5LCuu5Exgf0AW-oZNUc8dFwAKStZb6yKqDXZbex6YshUYJxTg7Ky2prt2u/s1600/leaf.jpg" style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675621072753495842" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTtjTE-_KxN3Lh9IyZROHIWs34FUgsqjrobPNvuDsimgs_s0rQGtVmhyphenhyphen_liTLnpGMSu9hyWdMzbuvQxwHJe5LCuu5Exgf0AW-oZNUc8dFwAKStZb6yKqDXZbex6YshUYJxTg7Ky2prt2u/s320/leaf.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 225px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 225px;" /></a><span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;">As Gina tore open the thin cellophane of her cigarettes, and shuffled for a lighter in her jean pocket, she asked in a rather cavalier fashion, “So let me guess why you're here. Did someone hear us fighting? Because this week Ron seems to have a bad case of PMS, worst than normal. I hate it when he has his man period. But honestly Officer, he does this a lot, nothing that won't pass, you know?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> I quickly dismissed her carefree approach and replied, “No, no I don't know, Gina. This isn't just a phase. Let's cut through the bullshit, because my job is to help people and I can't help you unless you tell me the truth. There is an anonymous informant in your building that claims to hear a lot of commotion coming from your apartment, almost daily. This person has no reason to lie to us, and judging by the way you look...neither do you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Gina began her story with a somewhat generic excuse for her husband's behavior. She alluded to his unemployment and how it “made him feel like less of a man”. -Funny, because this sentiment didn't seem to deter his affinity for continual couch surfing.- She claimed that him being at home seemed to make him a bit edgy.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><span style="color: white;"> S<span style="color: white;">he looked down at the index finger of her right hand and fiddled with an acrylic nail that was cracked down its center and</span><span style="color: white;"> was loose at its base. As she sat playing with the tiny plastic atrocity danglin</span></span><span style="color: white;">g from the tip of her finger she looked up at me with despair in her eyes and just shook her head. Anyone watching this exchange could easily tell how unmoved I was by her offered excuses for Ron's behavior.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> After all I hadn't moved from where I sat. I didn't make headway for the door exclaiming, 'Oh is that all? Sounds perfectly legit to me!' Gina had to know that her distraught and disheveled appearance, coupled with Ron's past and the corroborating witness statement... this situation wasn't going to be easily explained away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> I extended my hand to touch hers, to offer some comfort as her body language<span style="color: white;"> clearly relayed her discomfort, she recoiled in her seat to avoid my touch. Once she rejected my comforts, I stood pacing the room to peruse the collection of dollar store frames that littered her living room walls. The predominant guest of honor hanging on the Steenley's wall, a little boy, about age six with squeezable cherub like cheeks and a thick crop of blonde hair sprouting from his head. In one picture, his eyes were tightly clasped shut with a smile that ran from ear to ear, in his chubby little fingers he proudly displayed a yellow matchbox truck.</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9En40r_uCGkC0Ilzp3qzx4wj_K4_awYRNN2FDKpAurcnDGidK-FnKTsjJmLS38LM_UXpTGeTWx3pHG8o0LEO7Q8geyW9ThmQYh2Ci8LGiXUqUwWGJ-M_wnn88znR1R1t-ED4tUxKd58dm/s1600/4297284946_4da75749df_o.jpg" style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675621343181388706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9En40r_uCGkC0Ilzp3qzx4wj_K4_awYRNN2FDKpAurcnDGidK-FnKTsjJmLS38LM_UXpTGeTWx3pHG8o0LEO7Q8geyW9ThmQYh2Ci8LGiXUqUwWGJ-M_wnn88znR1R1t-ED4tUxKd58dm/s320/4297284946_4da75749df_o.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 214px;" /></a><span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;">I looked over at Gina and asked, “Who is this little guy in the pictures? He's a cutie.”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Gina answered, “That's my nephew, Devon. He is cute, such a little doll. I don't get to see him too often. He lives in New Hampshire with my brother and his wife. Sometimes I make a trip up to see him, but I have been real busy with work.”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Even though I had already assumed the answer for myself, I wanted to keep the conversation going, so I asked, “Do you have any kids Gina?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Gina giggled as she pushed her snarly bangs from her face and craned her thin boney hand toward the ashtray when she answered, “Hell no, like I could take care of a child with the way my life is going. No thank you. I don't know if I will ever be ready for that kind of thing.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> I averted my eyes from their photo wall, a wall with conspicuously absent photos of the happy couple and I looked directly at her when I told her, “I am not sure you have to make that kind of decision for yourself now. You are still very young. You have plenty of time to turn your life around and make changes for yourself. Everyone screws up, don't be too down on yourself. Make changes, positive changes. Anyway Gina, how is your life? Would you describe yourself as a happy woman?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Apparently what I had said shimmied the floodgates free and released a torrent of details, as she replied, “Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I am very happy with Ron, work and life, ya' know? There are weeks that everything is great around here and we are very happy. Ron will just do the sweetest things. He will sometimes make us dinner, he's a great cook, and he will buy me a bottle of Merlot. He knows that's my favorite. Sometimes I will come home and there will be flowers waiting for me. He buys them just because and well, sometimes because we had a fight. But mostly because he is just a sweetheart.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> She paused for a moment and then continued. <span style="color: white;">No telling how one might obstruct </span><span style="color: white;">this virtual word cascade now pouring from this seemingly broken woman. A once recalcitrant Gina, threw caution to the wind and just let it all out. I wish I could do just that, but with my upcoming plans for Alex, I kept my secrets locked safely away in the murky depths of my mind.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> She continued with her story after wiping away tears with the </span><span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;">back of her hand which was now shaded with ebony streaks of mascara. I extended my hand and gently touched her arm as she stared vapidly into thin air while recounting the sickening details.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><span style="color: white;"> Through her intermittent sobs she continued, “Then somedays it's like I am living with a different person. It's like a switch goes off and he is just a totally different person. I don't understand it, I just don't </span>get it. It will be when I least expect it too. Like you know, somedays we will spend the whole day together, and yah know everything went great. Then when I am ready to go to work he will say something about how I am dressed or how I am wearing too much makeup. You know he will say something about how I look like a whore, and not to collect too many phone numbers because he will be checking my phone later. He says it like he's joking when he says stuff like that, but I've caught him looking at my phone a few times. This is strange, I mean I tell him all the time that I think he is handsome and I love him. I am just so confused about all of this bullshit!”</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFCmdbtbG7gSUA_rWsoUEIMmLwrev8bhRqhuvkeRTgszvXeuleDiXMQ_vowC5d7e-Y0fRjVsdohs-9vIuAOL2-62mUO15MjIBJkDAdbIWhoqwz6wn8ghqqo4P7CaeticBg4JNRsjuPhNUu/s1600/creepy-trees.jpg" style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675621613055778306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFCmdbtbG7gSUA_rWsoUEIMmLwrev8bhRqhuvkeRTgszvXeuleDiXMQ_vowC5d7e-Y0fRjVsdohs-9vIuAOL2-62mUO15MjIBJkDAdbIWhoqwz6wn8ghqqo4P7CaeticBg4JNRsjuPhNUu/s320/creepy-trees.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;">Her trembling voice trailed off melding with the somber silence of the room. She only paused for a brief moment and then continued, “So this one time, a few months back an old friend of mine, John Nagel, came into the bar where I work. He's a real estate agent and I started talking to him about his business, and how I always wanted to get into something like that. You know cuz I don't want to bartend my whole life. Anyway, he gave me his business card to call him about the real estate test, told me he could give me some prep materials and point me in the right direction. I slipped his card in my bar apron and just forgot about it. I meant to call him, but I never got around to it. That's only because Ron found it when he was doing laundry, or at least that is what he tells me. Sometimes I swear he just goes through my stuff looking for things to get pissed at me about.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> There had to be more to this story, since she wouldn't have brought it up otherwise, so I asked, “What happened when he found the card?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Gina continued with a shameful tone and her best attempt at averted eye contact, “Well, it's no surprise that he trashed the card so I never got to call John. I told him a hundred times why he gave me the card, but he don't trust me. Can you believe that I still hear about that and it happened over a year ago? God, Ron was so mad at me! He accused me of having an affair for months. I told him to call him and John would talk to him about it. I told him that he would tell him what we talked about. Ron just refused and continued to berate me over and over, harassing me about this fucking business card. Like he wanted an excuse to be mad at me about something.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> She inserted a sarcastic chuckle as she continued while leaning over to stub out her already extinguished cigarette in the overfilled ashtray, “For a solid goddamned month he made me sleep on the couch. A whole fucking month!!! One night I got brave and tried to climb into bed and he kicked me out with his foot. Left a wicked bruise for a whole week, and then once I got up I asked him if he would just forgive me. You know, even though I didn't think I really had anything to be sorry about. He told me to 'shut the fuck up and leave him alone'. That whole month, every night I would cry myself to sleep hoping that it would be over the next day. It was hell, just pure hell. Then one day, out of nowhere, he came up to me and told me he had forgiven me and told me not to let it happen again'. It was just fucking insanity. ”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> The sadly sobbing Gina began to dissipate and unveil her woman scorned as she began, “You know I still hear about that shit?! The night before last he asked me if I thought of John while we were having sex. Like ok, yeah, I think about him. Sooooo not happening! That whole day with Ron went great, no issues and then that subject reared its ugly head. Honestly, I was so pissed that I just rolled over and ignored him. Of course, Ron persisted and asked me, 'Well, do you?' Like I said, sometimes I think he just likes to torture me. Sometimes I just don't get the guy?! It's like I want him to love me, because I feel like I love him. And then well, days like this I just don't know.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> She had flaunted the perfect segue when I asked, “What do you mean when you say 'days like this'?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> “Honestly Ms., I just don't know if I want to tell you what happened. You have to understand that I just don't want the hassle of court and I just feel like it would be so embarrassing. That's why I just haven't told anyone about any of this. I honestly don't know how it ever got like this.”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Then I began with my hypocrisy fraught lecture, “Gina, he needs to be held accountable if he is hurting you. It is never alright to hit someone, ever. You need to tell me the truth if he is hitting you. If you don't tell the truth, he may never learn from this. He may never change and he may become even worst than he is now.”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Although, I had never taken my own advice, I had a more simple solution than courtrooms and police reports. A solution of which Gina would eventual discover, by default.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHR8t3woB5ZcQH64eoGc2BDKtrLRufOIqEPXsGFHHpnjzjkdT90WvMZWNsYmnGauW5kxOBn0JYZgYPHllcC21gSWqcWbYOV4n43hkKAFpiIieXgboCOdLC0NqNDVMy-37mylXdZcfYXPT/s1600/scary-street-corner.jpg" style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675622180973105202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHR8t3woB5ZcQH64eoGc2BDKtrLRufOIqEPXsGFHHpnjzjkdT90WvMZWNsYmnGauW5kxOBn0JYZgYPHllcC21gSWqcWbYOV4n43hkKAFpiIieXgboCOdLC0NqNDVMy-37mylXdZcfYXPT/s320/scary-street-corner.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 214px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;">Either way, I was determined and had already made up my mind that day, Ron was indeed, leaving in cuffs.</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> So I reworked my angle a bit, “Ok then Gina, let's start over. Why don't you tell me how it came to this? I mean when did all this fighting start with your husband?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> She looked at up at me from her clasped hands, “Oh, it has been like this for years. I have been with Ron since high school and it has just been a roller coaster ride since we first started dating. All our friends knew he would explode when you least expected. It got to the point, my girlfriends stopped calling me and we were spending more and more time with just each other; because no one wanted to be around him. He would get mad at me in front of people and I think it made them feel uncomfortable.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> She refrained for a moment until I prodded her to continue, when she said, “ Well there was this one time, in front of a couple we knew, he slapped me pretty hard for like no reason. My girlfriend, Tina, her boyfriend at the time got up and pushed him on the floor. They were in each other's faces yelling and stuff. It was just awful and I was wicked embarrassed. Honestly, I don't even remember why he slapped me that night, it couldn't have been anything too bad. But Ron was drinking and sometimes when he's drinking he gets really mean.”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Then for the first time since I had been there she looked me in the eyes and said, “It's always been pretty bad, but it goes in cycles. This month has been pretty bad.”</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> <span style="color: white;">I leaned toward her and touched the long shallow scrape visible on her arm and asked, “So, what happened here?”</span></span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> Without any hesitation she replied, “That is from today.”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> I replied, “It looks pretty painful, how did it happen?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"> With a look of concern on her face and a trembling fear in her voice she asked, “I think you probably know how it happened, and if I tell you then how do I know he won't come back home after he is arrested and hurt me again? I am afraid that he will come home and try to hurt me again. How will you protect me?”</span><br />
<span style="color: white;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier,Courier New,monospace; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
tried to reassure Gina by telling her a temporary restraining order
would be in place until his arraignment and during that time she had
better apply for a permanent restraining order with the court. With
the restraining order in place, I told her not to give him an inch
and call if he should rear his ugly head. She seemed a little more at
ease with my response, but the truth is... no one could offer
unyielding security. The sad reality is, at times the truth will not
set you free. Sometimes, in fact, the truth may kill you, but not if
you kill first. </span></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeI-S5-NUnbC8u4uQi3jxLOFGnSLoe8Q5fyUvjickVW4Ji1pKShB3fZ2BUIDX9D7MBr92O6l8Qj2BZklHAoqb0qvyRl7oFAmNgTwDa0bj6-PI5Kq8k-sTtHpgLXYPcB7ikZlEG33BSlk6H/s1600/murder-scene-love-gun.png" style="color: white; font-family: courier new;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675622395763959186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeI-S5-NUnbC8u4uQi3jxLOFGnSLoe8Q5fyUvjickVW4Ji1pKShB3fZ2BUIDX9D7MBr92O6l8Qj2BZklHAoqb0qvyRl7oFAmNgTwDa0bj6-PI5Kq8k-sTtHpgLXYPcB7ikZlEG33BSlk6H/s320/murder-scene-love-gun.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 247px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-23542703295243641602011-10-26T12:28:00.016-04:002011-10-26T13:29:21.639-04:00Chapter 4 - consortium of characters<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-weight: bold;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" >Hello! I know it's been two weeks. Sorry. been busy busy. But busy writing on top of butt wiping and other assorted motherly duties. So here is chapter four -part of it-. In this chapter I introduce two characters, ok maybe more than two. -two bad guys, ok?-. In this excerpt I introduce Frank Olivieri... next will be Ron Steenley. They are a suckish collection of dudes.<br /><br />Also, it should be noted that I am amending the title of my book to: "Dead Beats. the beginning." Turns out I need to write more than one book to include everything I have to say. There's a lot of disturbing/humorous plots prancing through my twisted little mind. So I will be sticking around for a while. ::sigh:: y'all are just gonna love me!!<br /><br />As usual, comments, praise random showers of unabated flattery are always welcome. : ) Hope everyone is enjoying the lovely fall weather we are having. Looking forward to more pumpkin carving, scary movies and Halloween! ciao be well, ~b<br /></span><style type="text/css"><!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><b>Chapter 4...a consortium of characters. </b></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;">“<span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal">I’m tired of you sayin’ I should be prayin’.<br />I know it’s me against the world, I’ve been turned out.<br />Been thrown down to the killing floor.</span></i></span></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i>Some people say I need to pray, Feels like it’s me against the world. I’ve been turned out. Been thrown down<br />to the killing floor, Down to the killing floor.”- Lyrics from “Killing Floor” by: Black Stone Cherry.</i></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1xIENo383DM3Z_-dX4oanM2pXeE78cEDwoW8q0Tpa8OOnK3XceLGclrEaT7asxTW7qP-aD5PTP0Bf81RlvGR2NqsTEoLt9R8znS2IBDNu3tyyWF3r3Y2K4ZuG2n_Uecel63LIavD1JBI/s1600/2135082225_8c37853620.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1xIENo383DM3Z_-dX4oanM2pXeE78cEDwoW8q0Tpa8OOnK3XceLGclrEaT7asxTW7qP-aD5PTP0Bf81RlvGR2NqsTEoLt9R8znS2IBDNu3tyyWF3r3Y2K4ZuG2n_Uecel63LIavD1JBI/s320/2135082225_8c37853620.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667840951497942914" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">After my rather unexpected furious face smashing foray, with the crazy adequately amped up, I was somehow able to numb myself to my otherwise panic riddled state; like an emotional barometer I had finely honed. With time, I mastered the technique of numbing myself to his prattling presence and pitiful pleas to work on our marriage; what a joke. But with my distance finally becoming apparent, his crazy was off the charts. I was surprised he hadn't noticed my distance till now. Truth is, this man was so self absorbed I am surprised he hadn't been engorged with his own shit via osmosis. A girl can dream. In fact, it's amazing he noticed anything but for the mirror he constantly stood before, admiring himself. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></i></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">The following morning in the wake of my unbridled rage, with its dust still clinging to the air, I was met by Alex stewing with rage at our kitchen table. The air was heavy, like walking into a vat of pudding. </span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal"> </span></i></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">With a wavering intonation in his voice he pulled a seat out and begged me to sit and talk, “Please come sit next to me so we can try and talk about this, Mira? Please. I don't want to go through the day like this.” </span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal"> I turned my back to him and opened the fridge looking for the gallon of milk. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal">-fuck balls, all out of milk...I will have to stop at Nancy's market on the way to work. Milk does the body good.- </span></i></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal"><span style="font-weight: normal">Coincidentally, I was more concerned about the milk than anything he had to say. Immediately he noticed my indifference and began pounding his fist on the table, demanding we talk. A rapid progression of wood wallops were intently designed to capture my attention. I had no desire to engage him now or otherwise. </span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Swiftly exiting the kitchen I went to grab my backpack from the hall closet, but the door was abruptly obstructed by one tear streaked monster. He stood before me and poked me in the center of my chest, needling me with his sausage like digit. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With his face squarely placed in mine, suddenly his tears had miraculously dried and were replaced with one familiar snarling sneer as he began berating with his deep growl like tone, “You aren't getting my fucking house, you bitch! You aren't fucking getting it, so don't even think about it! You and your kids better start packing up your fucking shit, you asshole! How are you going to stop the financial bleeding around here if you leave? I will go down with this ship and so will you! If you think I am leaving, you are mistaken, bitch! Because I will just keep coming back and plant myself right in your goddamned living room! You will get no peace! None!” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> There was nothing I had to say to him, not a word. With a forceful thrust, I </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvqL5cFskYal3Q_wl6IP1Zx4-B5Rw0WckX8eYhcn4ZD5savSd4GOkbSo6pfLH-lz_Re_S60PRclipMTXpXtqf0gu3q82Kn4E2GlVGMNeyNeSZqbC_m9SGFWN_1Gz4Yc98mlU0ef0RoppJ/s1600/art_of_murder_06.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvqL5cFskYal3Q_wl6IP1Zx4-B5Rw0WckX8eYhcn4ZD5savSd4GOkbSo6pfLH-lz_Re_S60PRclipMTXpXtqf0gu3q82Kn4E2GlVGMNeyNeSZqbC_m9SGFWN_1Gz4Yc98mlU0ef0RoppJ/s320/art_of_murder_06.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667841235541381714" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">pushed him away turning my body from his; then turned my face into my hands and covered my eyes. I intimated sobbing sounds with a side of violent shoulder shrugging. In an attempt to console me, he approached placing his hand on me. Before another foul word was uttered from his heinous lips, I turned around and shoved him square in the chest and sent him sailing about three feet back. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Continuously shoving him till his back was flush with the adjacent wall, then politely reminded him, “Stay the fuck away from me. Stay the fuck away from me and my kids. Leave me the fuck alone and everyone will be fine. Let it go and stay out of my way.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I was all done. That morning, in my living room, my monster's jarring frame jolted as I stared into the whites of his shocked eyes, then widened with disbelief and awe. I delighted in the seeming helplessness exuding from his every pore. He wasn't fighting back, surely this was a limited time offer. It was indeed time to get the fuck out of dodge. It was as though the tables had turned, but I wasn't interested in learning what was on the other side. With haste I made my way to grab my backpack and practically galloped out my front door. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Clenching my bag in my angry throbbing fist, I made my way to Nancy's market for my morning dose of cool calcium goodness. It was a morning ritual that could not be bypassed no matter what pressing matters loomed; a vice of mine that was not so bad after all. The madness of mind consuming murder, perhaps not such a positive one. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Typically on my morning walks I would ponder the details of Alex's murder, thinking on every detail. At times pangs of guilt stung my conscience. I continuously convinced myself that killing him was the best way. Mini pep talks would infiltrate my mind. This was the best way, the best way for things to go. The only way. If I let him go, I would unleash him. I would set my monster free to track down new prey. I would certainly read about some poor woman left for dead and badly beaten... and one missing Alex. Surely, I was doing the right thing. The only thing that could be done. There was no other way. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbm0EfuS-c0u_obksJFZ_KBqkqovANjmS2jnMAEfpcyTEd_-ph35Ba1zH3CGhiAGWjkWiPhxzAa8E4luxPsAojIdtblTuHdXnvN70HAgqvhQTVUXHd4XkL4Owgoey67FNuvo465f-7Pbap/s1600/2616346902_63acff0c97.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbm0EfuS-c0u_obksJFZ_KBqkqovANjmS2jnMAEfpcyTEd_-ph35Ba1zH3CGhiAGWjkWiPhxzAa8E4luxPsAojIdtblTuHdXnvN70HAgqvhQTVUXHd4XkL4Owgoey67FNuvo465f-7Pbap/s320/2616346902_63acff0c97.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667841432443942722" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">Turning the corner of one fractured decrepit street corner, I navigated it with distinct movements to avoid one fractured ankle. An abrupt right turn led me through the badly cracked front door of Nancy's store. Duct tape and ribbons of silvery tape constructed an awkward maze on the lower half of her door. Hmmmm...this was a new development.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Concerned with the presence of Nancy's newly acquired duct taped decoration I asked one brightly beaming Nancy, “What's with the door Nancy? Did you have a problem here or something?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With an ear to ear grin monopolizing her portly face she responded with a hint of levity and laughter in her voice, “No no, Ms. Mira, nothing like that. There was just an accident with the cola vendor last week. His cart hit the door and made a big crack. We have to wait on the insurance people now to fix it.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> She carried on as her rotund frame jostled and exclaimed through her animated laughter, ”Ha ha, just my luck! Hey, How are you?! I haven't seen you in a while! Want a cup of tea? You should stay and have a chat with me. Gets lonely around here sometimes, you know? Hey, why is your face so red? Did you run here or something? Haha!” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Nancy Privetti, a wonderful blessed soul of a woman, the same face I had greeted at that very store for the past thirty memorable years of my young life. As I stood there listening to her, I thought how unusual it was that just moments prior I was consumed with my killing plans. Having just received an unanticipated invite for tea and scones, I found it oddly amusing. Did she see murder in my eyes? Because I could feel it consuming me. Or was I the same doe-eyed kid that bought a pack of nerds from her with a half a nickel less than retail cost? She would smile, send me on my way and tell me 'It's ok, I'll put it on your tab'. Of course she didn't see what I was thinking or feeling for that matter?</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With an exhausted sigh of relief clinging to my words I replied, “No, Ms. Privetti I'm sorry I really got to run. You know lots of police work to do today, as usual. I'm glad to know that everything is ok and no bad guys are giving you a hard time. Maybe another time, I will come by and have some tea with you. Maybe a nice quiet Sunday morning.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With a subtle hint of disappointment she replied, “Yes dear of course, I understand. You keep the city safe for us now.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLfSajqD_O31SnGXUxQvLMnOJjyUy0GchIAtc4Q7oJqV1r1Fji3Q6JVf2aX7QZxH8wQqpsVfYPgcmTPTXiyfjTgRMnHNJCfTkbUHeN8IsbLEgOT9SPbU4lsnmTxegs80Qn0kp84cHpFXUX/s1600/8.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLfSajqD_O31SnGXUxQvLMnOJjyUy0GchIAtc4Q7oJqV1r1Fji3Q6JVf2aX7QZxH8wQqpsVfYPgcmTPTXiyfjTgRMnHNJCfTkbUHeN8IsbLEgOT9SPbU4lsnmTxegs80Qn0kp84cHpFXUX/s320/8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667841651394837074" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">I nodded and turned down an aisle toward the milk cooler with chips, corn nuts and slim jims surrounding me as I made my way. As I walked down the aisle I noticed a man standing in front of the beer cooler with his young daughter -about eight years old if I had to guess-. An awkward looking girl wearing clothes, that by the looks of it, she seemed to have outgrown long ago. She wore filthy shoes with laces that were untied and covered in thick streaks of mud. Her fiery red hair looked as though it hadn't been brushed with gnarly bangs dangling across her milky white skin. Right before I was able to snatch up my morning milk, I couldn't believe what I saw next.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Out of my peripheral vision I caught the quick motion of her father's hand grabbing her arm as he lifted the left side of her body six inches from the floor by the apex of her elbow. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He looked her in the eyes as she whimpered in pain, and growled in an attempted hushed whisper, “If you fucking ask me again I am going to beat the piss out of you when we get home. Do you understand me? Every time we come to the store I can't buy you something. I told you that before.” </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I am uncertain what demon crawled up out of my ass that day and made me do what I did next but it happened. It just happened. As my heart was pounding, my blood seemed to run cold into the very epicenter of my heart as a seething anger enraptured every fiber of my being. I walked up close behind him grabbing his right arm at the base of his wrist. I drew in close enough so no one but he and I knew there was now a Glock .40 neatly pressed against the base of his spine. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He had in his right hand a twelve pack of Natural Ice that was released from his grip and fell abruptly to the floor once my gun was wedged just above his Fruit of the Looms. Nancy called out when she heard the commotion, asked if everything was 'ok'. I assured her that I had just dropped something...no worries I had it. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He stammered nervously when he asked, “What the hell are you doing lady? What are you out of your mind?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> In a calm restrain, as calm and collected as I could muster I whispered in his ear, “Shut your lousy mouth. You aren't going to make a sound. Not a fucking sound. Nod your head if you understand me.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Trying to turn his head to see me out of the corner of his eye he rapidly nodded with his big pumpkin head. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As I continued with my instructions, “Right now I have a Glock .40 pressed up against your spine. If you piss me off once you will be looking at your guts falling out of your zipper. What is your daughter's name?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He was quiet for a few moments, hesitant to answer but then stammered a barely coherent sentence as he whimpered out his answer, “Nora. Nora Joy I call her.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Strange. How could she have joy with a father like this? I looked down at the little girl, she had no clue what was going on. That's how I wanted to keep things. No need to upset the poor thing anymore than her father already had. Dickhead. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> She looked up at me and asked a series of random questions with a heartwarming overtone of innocence, “Are you my daddy's friend? Daddy says if I am good today I can watch Disney channel before bed. Do you like Disney channel? I have an apple for snack time at school. I love apples.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I smiled as I informed her of our plans for the morning, plans that didn't involve tea sipping, “Yes hunny, I am your daddy's friend. We are going to make a fun trip back to your place so you can watch Disney and play with your dolls. Do you have dolls?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> She looked up at me with glimmering eyes and nodded, “Yes I have lots of dollies, can you play with me?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I answered her, “No I am sorry sweetheart, I have to talk to your daddy about a few things then I have to go to work.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Looking away from Nora, I pressed the barrel of my gun until its front sight was nestled deep inside the fleshy nest of fat overflowing his pants. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With my attempt at unwavering unequivocal command, I whispered in his ear, “Now you are taking me to your place, and you aren't going to make a goddamned peep but for your home address. If you run or make one false move I will shoot you dead right were you fucking stand. Nod your head if you understand me.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He nodded his head and as he continued to walk a few paces before me, we</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZy0q6Q4orY_f9w97dvoTNVwKpaW0wXX3MKWszO0S2N0mkzEfK99IA50m90OmbItxjiZb1oaIWzYIS4KWkLBdVUk0ODKf1H2XdbvVXgRmXzHUDqdsWK8TJuFKDaxFVBhRBCtKjnTwaWQG/s1600/6_halloween06-00.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZy0q6Q4orY_f9w97dvoTNVwKpaW0wXX3MKWszO0S2N0mkzEfK99IA50m90OmbItxjiZb1oaIWzYIS4KWkLBdVUk0ODKf1H2XdbvVXgRmXzHUDqdsWK8TJuFKDaxFVBhRBCtKjnTwaWQG/s320/6_halloween06-00.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667841926801182322" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> began our journey to the dungheap he called an apartment. Along the way, I looked down at Nora who walked beside me. She was a sweet looking little girl, she walked beside me giggling to herself -she seemed delighted with the notion of company-. Swinging her arms as she began to skip along, her undersized shirt swung back to reveal a path of thick bruises along her tiny forearm. Instantly, I became enraptured with rage.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Once inside the stank filled hovel, I knelt down and held little Nora's hand and asked her to go to her room while her daddy and I talked. She smiled and walked down the hall to her room, only to return later... begging me to play. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He sat in his recliner that he had clearly coveted since it had been purchased circa 1974. He looked up at me and asked with a tone of hesitation in his voice, “So what the fuck is this all about? Have you lost your mind lady? Your a goddamned cop? I could turn you in for this shit!”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I quickly drew my weapon and pressed it against his right temple holding it hard and steady against the right crease of his eye, causing him to recoil in his fleabag chair and plead, “Stop, ok Stop, I just want to know what is going on!”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I stood back and studied him, taking a moment just to take in the sloth-like pitiful appearance of Frank Olivieri. The man looked like a rat, with a large pointy nose, thin legs and arms with a bulging distended belly; along with the nasty smell and hygiene to match. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Crouching down and placing my hands along the wooden arms of his chair, I placed my face near his and said, “You are going to answer my questions, only the questions I ask. Nothing more. I am not here to have story time and I don't give a shit about you. I am here because of that little girl and because of what I saw you doing to her in that store. We are going to get down to business, and it starts now. Do you understand?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He nodded his head as he continued to recoil in his filthy seat. He was good at the head nodding routine. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As I stood upright I effected a deliberate tone in my voice as I began with my questions, “Let's start with what's your name, shall we?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He answered, “Frank, Frank Olivieri.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I replied, “How long have you been hitting your daughter and leaving those marks I saw on her little arm?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He raised his eyebrows and with a tone of dissension in his voice he replied, “I don't know what marks you are talking about lady. Nora is a clumsy girl, she falls a lot.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I withdrew my weapon and placed i<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">t snugly just beneath the bulging spot</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOmxl1If_kaNLC67cY_SONnvKfKwtFs_VLKVUO7dhI2ilnbDnMcyAiPyRYfaBLJd0P8aHNts7gV3kwJ-PleGebWtz3tbAX9GWTiWjQonAi1PfMK1zzukb5qmn02xZbnz4EpPBzdorQnLa/s1600/bloody_scene_by_lalerpink.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCOmxl1If_kaNLC67cY_SONnvKfKwtFs_VLKVUO7dhI2ilnbDnMcyAiPyRYfaBLJd0P8aHNts7gV3kwJ-PleGebWtz3tbAX9GWTiWjQonAi1PfMK1zzukb5qmn02xZbnz4EpPBzdorQnLa/s320/bloody_scene_by_lalerpink.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667842137131101826" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> in the crotch of his jeans; with the barrel of my gun neatly nestled against his denim covered s</span>crotum I continued to prod him, “Don't make me pull the trigger and cut the bullshit. I told you, this isn't happy time. I saw what you did and I heard you tell her you were going to beat her. You aren't fooling me, so spill it.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">In an attempt to remove his nuts from the barrel of the gun he leaned back too far causing the chair to flip backward. Quickly I pulled him up from the floor by his left arm -just as he had done to Nora-, and </span></span>threw him onto the couch. I didn't have time for this, fuck that chair. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Nora's sweet voice chimed into the living room from down the hall, “Is everything ok daddy?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I replied, “Yes, Nora just stay in your room for a little bit. We are almost done talking. The chair just fell back by accident.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Nora replied, “Ok, that's ok. I will stay here.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Squatting directly in front of Frank with my weapon leaning against my left knee pointing squarely at his loathsome face, I resumed my questions, “Ok Frank, back to square one. You ready?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With a whimper and a crackle resonating in his pathetic voice he replied, “Yes. Yes I am ready. Sorry it won't happen anymore.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I replied, “So answer the question, when did you start hitting your daughter?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With a look of desperation on his face he replied while fighting back tears, “I don't know, sometimes I lose my temper I know I shouldn't. I am real sorry lady, listen I will go to counseling if that's what you want. Don't torture me lady. I am just trying to take care of my little girl you know, it's tough being a single father.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With conviction I pounced to my feet and growled my reply into the center of his face as a loomed over him and his then shivering frame, “I already told you I don't care about you. Don't piss me off, Frank.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He stammered with a quivering lip as he replied, “Yes, ok. I know I know. I'm sorry.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As I stood back I noticed the saturated denim where Frank had just pissed himself, just beneath his bad ass skull and crossbones belt buckle. Talk about irony, and he thought he was going to "beat the piss" out of someone today. Good, I was glad I scared him... But I was becoming exhausted already with this guy, plus I didn't want to be late for work. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I continued, “Frank, how are you supporting your daughter?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He answered, “I get disability and workman's comp for now.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I replied, “Is that it?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He answers, “No I get Social Security disability income for Nora because she has autism.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With disgust and despise now dominating the inflection of my voice I replied, “What the hell, you are beating your autistic daughter? Man, you really are one sick puppy aren't you.”<br /></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He just stared at me with his pitiful eyes as he sat there in his piss soaked pants. I wanted to beat him within the inch of his life as he slouched back on his Brady Bunch looking couch, but I wouldn't do that to Nora. That wouldn't be right. I brushed off that fleeting desire and propped upright the hideous chair that had been pushed back onto the floor. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Now sitting squarely facing Frank, taking in the musty smell of his pea green chair as it pervaded my nose, I continued, “Do you have someone you know that can take care of Nora. Someone other than you? Someone you trust?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He sat up with a look of relief in his eyes, wearing the expression of condemned man that had discovered a probable means of escape as he replied with a heavy tone of alleviation, “Yes ma'am, my mother, Edna Olivieri, she lives in South Boston. She's real good with Nora. I'd trust her anyday.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Tiny footsteps pattered down the wooden floor of Frank's hallway, and around the corner peered tiny green almond shaped eyes covered by wisps of scarlet red hair. I looked away from Frank and saw Nora giggling in her cupped hands with a Barbie doll at her feet. The poor thing was dying to talk to me so I called her over. She bounded across the room with barbie in hand. Without hesitation she proudly propped herself on my lap, with her boney bottom digging into my left knee she looked up and smiled at me with her extended hand offering me her half naked barbie doll. When I looked down at her hand that was clasping the doll by its hair, it was then I noticed it. A deep welt in the shape of a skull in the center of her hand. Just like the one on daddy's belt buckle. That dirty rotten son of a bitch. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As I grabbed her hand and studied the imprint I asked her, “Who did this, Nora? How did this happen?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Nora pulled her hand out of mine as she coyly replied, “I don't want to talk about that. Can we just play dolls?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I held Nora's fragile hand in mine and said, “It's ok Nora, you need to tell me, daddy said it was ok.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Nora glanced at her father and said, “Is that true daddy? Is that ok?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He sat stoic with a look of disgust in his eyes glaring at me, and then answered his daughter, “Yes, you can tell her Nora. It's ok.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvBfer9e5TnxUuMbz7rHbpXeKdg_XMLg9pieCMUpybUD0xIUB68Lcwp3e3W6xDXyNZsIutXVHPOh2MYy4NLW2-t3bKWQCtOFjRkptIq_NkfxCa-9yKbQftM5Yd2tYgWic97t6HJZb20Fa/s1600/scary_skull-2070.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvBfer9e5TnxUuMbz7rHbpXeKdg_XMLg9pieCMUpybUD0xIUB68Lcwp3e3W6xDXyNZsIutXVHPOh2MYy4NLW2-t3bKWQCtOFjRkptIq_NkfxCa-9yKbQftM5Yd2tYgWic97t6HJZb20Fa/s320/scary_skull-2070.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667843077156986098" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">Nora looked up at me and in a matter of fact like tone she replied, “My daddy gets mad at me sometimes and yesterday I snuck a can of soda into my room after bedtime. Well, he caught me with it and I had to get spanked with his belt. Sometimes I do bad things and sometimes my daddy has to spank me. It's ok though, I still love my daddy. I just have to stop doing bad stuff, that's all.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuoNcU0ZADJPWdlflke3JkoUzQASah_sBHgEQ1zxCxv6Y3s_ImVzsoyvG7Yqs6FUdBYX-iGeSEv__ELZNFGfDk-T8DZvlZsHE3T8a3hcvODM33BbuUOev1XWrOr7RGtZ0D_dVG0jDxHaN/s1600/Blood_Spatter_001B.gif"><br /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> After she shared this horrifying story, she looked up at me with her carefree demeanor and again insisted upon playtime. My heart melted, I felt like taking her from him that day. I had thought about reporting this, but he had to surrender his parental rights to someone who cared. Someone who knew Nora, like her grandmother. I didn't want her to get lost in the system, it was just a bad place to be. He needed to hand her over to Edna. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Later, I did my homework on Edna, no record, a well respected widow in the community, retired, and would love the daily companionship of someone as lovely as little Nora. That's where she had to be, and it was going to happen...otherwise Frank my have an unfortunate accident. Hell, that may happen anyhow.<br /></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><br /></span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Disgusted with what I had just heard, I looked over at a now sobbing Frank and told Nora that she had to go back to her room for a little while so her daddy and me could finish talking. After she smiled at me and nodded she hopped up and ran down the hall to her room. She seemed like such a well mannered child, I couldn't wrap my head around why he would do such horrible things to an innocent child. Honestly, I just knew something had to be done and what was best for her wasn't here. I loathed this giant sack of shit sitting before me and it would have done me no greater pleasure than to extinguish whatever shred of humanity that clung to his meager soul.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As Frank sat before me sobbing into the palm of his right hand while covering his eyes, I told him, “Here is what you are going to do Frank. I am going to make myself clear. I am going to come back here and check in, in one month. You are going to get yourself a lawyer. I don't give a shit how you do it, just do it. You are going to draw up papers to surrender your parental rights to your mother. I will check back, and you won't be able to hide. So don't try to. If I come back and find out she is still here and nothing has been done or your not at least working on it, you will regret it. I will find out, so don't try to be slick. I will hunt you down and put a bullet right between your eyes. Oh, and don't get cute and try to report me, I'm a well respected cop, you're nothing but a piece of shit. They will never believe you. Now Frank, don't make me come back here and launch a bullet straight through your nutsack.” </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuoNcU0ZADJPWdlflke3JkoUzQASah_sBHgEQ1zxCxv6Y3s_ImVzsoyvG7Yqs6FUdBYX-iGeSEv__ELZNFGfDk-T8DZvlZsHE3T8a3hcvODM33BbuUOev1XWrOr7RGtZ0D_dVG0jDxHaN/s1600/Blood_Spatter_001B.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuoNcU0ZADJPWdlflke3JkoUzQASah_sBHgEQ1zxCxv6Y3s_ImVzsoyvG7Yqs6FUdBYX-iGeSEv__ELZNFGfDk-T8DZvlZsHE3T8a3hcvODM33BbuUOev1XWrOr7RGtZ0D_dVG0jDxHaN/s320/Blood_Spatter_001B.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667842536657971794" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">I stood to my feet and as I marched out the front door, the sound of loud dramatic sobs and whimpers trailed off in the distance as I made my way further down the chilly halls of the seedy apartment building. Off to work, with a pep in my step. The corners of my lips and eyes felt as though they were pinned against my face, tightly curled upward, as I grinned all the way to work. I even laughed to myself as the train jostled my body against the steel beam to which I clung. That just made my day, Thanks Frank. </span></span> </p>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-25895037803412681582011-10-05T15:47:00.013-04:002011-11-16T11:49:15.553-05:00Chapter 3 - call waiting.<span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" ></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >“The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.” - C. S. Lewis </span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > The following day with lukewarm ambition I began to pry open my left eye to peer at my alarm clock's ominous red digits of which would undoubtedly disappoint. Rather than the expected glare of the demonic digits, there loomed my monster. Alex hovered with a heaving chest, labored breathing and saucer like eyes bearing tiny pins at their center protruding just beneath one lengthy furrowed brow. My cell phone clenched in his hairy ham hock fist with knuckles stark white. He seethed as his forehead beamed a scarlet red and his teeth produced a tenacious grind. -This wasn't going to be a good morning.-</span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > A shaky nervous tremble resonated in his voice as he extended his fat hair laden fist blasting the phone toward my then vulnerable face, “What the fuck is this, Mira? Why are you sending emails to your partner after hours like this? I read three this morning. God knows how many you deleted. Is there something you aren't telling me here, because you guys seem awfully comfortable with this “honey” bullshit talk? You don't see me going around calling girls, “honey”. Since when did you start calling your partner “honey”. I can't fucking believe you are doing this to me!” </span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > He then produced his highly anticipated series of whimpers and pathetic moans as he clenched his hair between his fingers and knelt groaning while expelling sobs like vomit on the floor. Off in the distance a random B rated actor turned in his grave, as manufactured tears streamed down Alex' fat ugly face. I had expected this charade, but not what came next. </span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > As he carried on he stood to his feet with conviction bounding half way across the room with great momentum. As he began to pace in sporadic patterns across our berber rug, I laid back with my face toward the ceiling. With an exasperated sigh, I laid there praying it would end quickly. Silence may have been unwise, but seeing how worked up he was, I knew I could offer no acceptable reply. Remain quiet, hunker down till the tornado passes; hoping it would cease without taking its pound of flesh. </span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > Moments later he pounced on me straddling my body with his thighs, pinned the arm I had craned overhead and then continued with his interrogation, “You going to answer me about this shit, or are we going to have a long day in this bedroom. Because let me tell you, you aren't going to work until you give me an answer about this, Mira. You think you are walking out that door without giving your husband an answer you are wrong! I will call you all fucking day, maybe show up at your office, swing my dick around a little. How about that? You wanna lose your job over this bullshit?”</span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" >-He had officially snapped his carrot. He must have known this was the end. Oddly, he didn't seem as pleased as I. Of course, he had no idea that it would not end as civilly as he imagined. The outcome would have made divorce seem inviting. Lucky for him I hear hell has a hovel where wife beaters like to go and wet their whistles.-</span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > Suddenly, he began pounding my temple with the phone on the right side of my face, repeatedly slamming its flat surface against my skin until a shard of tiny glass shattered from its surface and careened toward my eye. Neatly nestling itself in the crease of my then tightly clasped eye, producing a sharp sting of pain and along with a steady surge of blood; minutes which seemed like hours passed before I was finally able to release the shard from its prickling grasp leaving behind a grisly mess in its wake; rendering my egyptian cotton sheets beyond hope. </span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > As a swirling tempest of whooshes inundated my ears as he continued to violently thrust the phone toward my face, while shouting a nearly unintelligible plea, “Why?! Why?! Why?! Why, Mira?! Why do you have to make me do this? Every goddamned time! Why?! Why can't we just have peace in our house?! Why can't you just love me like I need?! Why?! Why?!”</span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > Left with few options, I unleashed a side of me I had never met. With the force of what seemed like a thousand adrenaline junkies, I lifted my free arm and thrust his body forward as I wrenched my legs from his vise-like grasp. With limited visibility, blood now pooling near my eyes, I lurched my body toward him and overtook his stocky frame beneath my trembling knee. In a blind fit of rage I began plunging my fist toward the center of his repulsive face. My fist on auto pilot it continued to plummet toward the center of his face; as though my elbow was being operated by an invisible turn crank manned by one unrelenting psycho.</span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > Blood spattered toward my face as I continued to strike my monster, steady streams flew as a few random droplets clung to my lower lip. Once I was certain he couldn't move -I had rendered him unconscious about five fist blasts ago- I pushed myself from his still body. Standing over him with my face inches from his, I studied the crimson orchid of serrated flesh that blossomed from the bridge of his nose. I ran my tongue along my lower lip clearing the droplets of his foul blood that settled on my skin. </span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" >-It was nice to see him bleed, for a change.-</span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" > With days that passed, I delighted in occasional fits of muffled laughter as images of his badly beaten face paraded through my mind. The following day, a shiny purple swirl of thickened blood quickly developed at the center of his face. It was a wonderfully grand hideous bruise...it matched the ugliness inside. Unrivaled bliss overflowed my heart as his futile attempts failed to mask its deep blackened hues with cover up. Was it wrong to find such joy in this? Had I become a bile spewing monster too? </span><br /><br /><span style=" color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" >He had to go...soon.</span>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-7067600069445906902011-09-29T16:22:00.015-04:002011-10-05T09:38:11.221-04:00Chapter 2<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">H</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">ere's my second chapter, not the most exciting chapter, but necessary to lay the foundation of my main characters. So it's a must read for all who are looking forward to the "finished product". Ahemmmm, don't get me wrong....it's still a good read. ::wink wink::</span> </span></span> <span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" >Many of the chapters are written, but I keep going back and reworking.<br /><br />Deleting....adding....editing, yucky yuck yuck! Editing sucks, straight up suckage. But the truth is, the first draft always sucks. Hell, the second draft sucks. So I keep going till I think it is close to acceptable. There will surely be change in the final outcome....<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" >I should also take this moment to mention that -for those of you paying attention- that I don't intend to share all chapters in their entirety. What's the fun in that??</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" >Of course, as usual, comments, sharing, following is gladly welcomed. </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" >[also, it should be noted that insertion points or tabs are impossible on blogger....so they are in my book but not on my blog. I'm sure that none of you really care, but thought I would point it out. It's a writing thing/hangup.]</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><style type="text/css"><!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><b>Chapter 2....work. A well ordered madness.</b></span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;">“<span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i>It was a hot afternoon and I can still remember the smell of honeysuckle all along the street. How can I have known that murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle?” - Billy Wilder</i></span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWS_wuAy-SUIalJfjpukmCs0CajEg_wo5YL-YgZndjTlNXlnOYLtL_4JmlNAdENF3nQp9KnQMxhNnfusx3KNNaQTWpSzFZSltybC8AhZfIvIYAVEJcjtHvmdVVojrDjMOIBgTDaQvaFGNU/s1600/1287647806_470x353_bloody-hand.jpg"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAUfrdVB9gmObAzc9Wo_u9VPhuun22mtjx63AFBf-cEJaNKZKavQTtXsZacfDnwERsrvLHVRmF1wojHhQXKjS7pdv-JFUq79NXA6Ao19kbSKXs-s-d539EHxcSQe3ZQkwpcjXu8PaZ2QG/s1600/usma45899-bw.small.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAUfrdVB9gmObAzc9Wo_u9VPhuun22mtjx63AFBf-cEJaNKZKavQTtXsZacfDnwERsrvLHVRmF1wojHhQXKjS7pdv-JFUq79NXA6Ao19kbSKXs-s-d539EHxcSQe3ZQkwpcjXu8PaZ2QG/s320/usma45899-bw.small.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657882039565491858" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Hunched over a dull pain seeped through my ligaments and joints. That morning movements with gentle refrain kept those dull aches from striking sharply and jolting what little nerves remained. I crouched desperately jerking frayed shoestrings through eyelets of my boot, -Fingers nervously trembling, I could barely master a simple task.- Tightening strings into a zig zagged constricting noose of sorts, my toes grew cold from lack blood. Undoubtedly, brewing in the foreground were colossal “tales of martyrdom”. I scrambled to avoid another physical attack or unwelcome assault on my ears.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><i> </i></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><i> Jesus Christ stop shaking – just let me stop shaking... I need to get the fuck out of here, away from him...</i></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I moved swiftly, the soles of my feet numb and tingling, makeup half assed, I was in a secret race, to the finish line that was my front door. I knew the few moments I had were rapidly dissipating before he resurfaced. As I clenched my foot into one rugged leather boot an intoxicating earthy smell of leather wafted toward my face; my senses reeled with a strange combination of anxiety and excitement.<br /></span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i> </i></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal">-I was winning my secret race. His keyboard clicking...adequately distracted. Almost there.-</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><br /></span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With a marked sense of urgency and heart pounding so hard I could feel blood pulsing in the tips of my fingers and the temples of my head, I made it to the street. </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i>-Victory you are mine! Canned applause and laughter echoes in my head-</i></span><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> A dreaded hail from my front door, his desperate shrill voice went through me like teeth dragging through cotton pile, “Mira, wait I want to talk to you more! Mira, what the fuck? You are just going to go to work like this? Can't we talk?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal"> I didn't answer, I hastened my footsteps praying I wasn't chased down by a madman in a housecoat. </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i>No fucking thanks, dickhead... I'd rather eat a steaming pile of shit.</i></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I never turned around, I was certain he retreated to his trusty email bunker. Where the allure of electronic dissension called his name. Rest assured a nasty email would populate my inbox with due haste. -Delete.-</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWS_wuAy-SUIalJfjpukmCs0CajEg_wo5YL-YgZndjTlNXlnOYLtL_4JmlNAdENF3nQp9KnQMxhNnfusx3KNNaQTWpSzFZSltybC8AhZfIvIYAVEJcjtHvmdVVojrDjMOIBgTDaQvaFGNU/s1600/1287647806_470x353_bloody-hand.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWS_wuAy-SUIalJfjpukmCs0CajEg_wo5YL-YgZndjTlNXlnOYLtL_4JmlNAdENF3nQp9KnQMxhNnfusx3KNNaQTWpSzFZSltybC8AhZfIvIYAVEJcjtHvmdVVojrDjMOIBgTDaQvaFGNU/s320/1287647806_470x353_bloody-hand.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657881719003990146" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal"> My boots pounded</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> on the sidewalk which resulted in an army of pins and needles infiltrating my feet to the brim of my boots. The warm glow of the sun emanated a balmy hue in the wake of an early morning shower. The tangerine sun cut across the horizon melting on the streets like a smooth orange butter funneling through its cracks and corners. An occasional cool fall breeze rushed through my thin cotton shirt; despite the warmth of the sun, the bracing cool would quickly remind you of where you were. -Time for that fall jacket, which I had put off until that day-</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a name="query_h1"></a> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> New England lends itself to a unique climate, with some beautiful landscape to admire. Yet the intermittent cool breeze alluded to an anticipated transformation, a bittersweet yet welcomed change. When a </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">kaleidoscopic</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">canvas of foliage envelopes the trees -Change can be a good thing – That morning, I took in the refreshing fall air as it swept over my face, feeling the sting of it bite my lungs. With the warmth of the sun on my face, I tried to embrace the day with renewed hope. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Though hope is a sentiment that is hard to embrace under these circumstances, I had to force horrible images from my mind and focus on my workday ahead. Some unfortunate folks of the working world live amongst the monotonous hum of cubicle hell five days a week. I was lucky to find work I that doesn't suck you into a vortex of endless emails and useless meetings. I am a police officer for the city of Boston, Massachusetts. Among my myriad of titles, Police Officer Mira Chiatti is one of my proudest; mommy being at the top of my list. Wife soon to be scratched off. Thank fucking God.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> In Boston, there is just enough grit to make it interesting but not too much slum to make it unbearable. Well, at least I thought so and even though crime was on the rise. A tad bit naïve, yes... I still wore the horn-rimmed rose tinted glasses. I still saw the city where I grew up. Unfortunately, my job required interaction with scumbags more often than not. But then there were always good people, thank God for good people. Life would be a lot harder if there were a scant supply of these folk. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I took the good with the bad, and if I could help one person a day, then I felt alright at the end of the day; dispelling the poison in intermittent doses. Like one unrelenting liver after a weekend bender. Honestly, work helped me forget the bullshit going on at home. It's cliché but it worked, so I didn't fix it.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxKajbSL-ZwHUM7nyYG5SxxF0KqwRV8N7t496y1rmSRtpRn9lrx9E3qlfOlMiL2XNdSSmmkMaCf3tG-J5BAoKNgNJ2c-CwwUCHveY66Yr83t7JmmD474mw9PyxfGjpi_m073AyQ7BgN4P/s1600/bloody-scene-red-murder.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOxKajbSL-ZwHUM7nyYG5SxxF0KqwRV8N7t496y1rmSRtpRn9lrx9E3qlfOlMiL2XNdSSmmkMaCf3tG-J5BAoKNgNJ2c-CwwUCHveY66Yr83t7JmmD474mw9PyxfGjpi_m073AyQ7BgN4P/s320/bloody-scene-red-murder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657883088475520754" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">We lived on the North End of Boston, reminiscent of our hailed European roots, a mosaic of cobblestones and brick buildings loom over the narrow streets. Brick buildings that have the stature of a feeble woman, seemingly eager to topple on the random passerby. If you were to stand close enough, you could swear they'd whisper an endearing tale in your ear. The streets were steeped in history that felt familiar and safe. Since my childhood, corner stores were run by the same familiar faces who would greet you by name. Waiters in your favorite restaurant remembered the wine you preferred with your marsala. All these blessed traits served as a reminder that you were, in fact, home.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> My morning routine was a walk to Quincy Market where outdoor vendors sold coffee and pastry treats. James was my favorite vendor, and he made one mean cup of joe. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Along with James' charming Irish brogue, he always served up the most welcomed compliments any woman could appreciate. Mark Twain once said that he could live for two weeks on a good compliment. As it happens, if compliments had caloric value, James would have rendered me a rather large woman by now. For that wonderful trait I adored him, he was an older man in his seventies - if I had to guess-. The hard lines on his face told the story of a hard life. If you had time to lend an ear, he would eagerly share a story or two about his wife, Elise, or the grandkids armed with a wallet chock-full of pictures; he was a delightful little pit stop every morning.</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> After my brief interlude in fairy tale land, population James and I, I would make my way to “the T”. It was there I would catch a train that eventually dumped me onto Tremont Street. The day would start with a morning debriefing with Captain Jack Brewster. Everyday at 0800 hours Captain Brewster held a meeting at police headquarters. As expected, the meeting would consist of what had occurred the night prior and any ongoing issues of concern. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Generally speaking the Captain would have my undivided attention. However, on this day I found myself struggling to focus on anything but the pulsating pain now infiltrating my face. A daunting heavy pain filled my head. It felt like a mixture of hangover and sinus pressure. Although, I am nearly certain it was facial swelling due to being smashed in the face. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Unfortunately these days, more often than not, my random daydreams of freedom would interrupt an otherwise perfect work week. Today I arrived as usual, on time, my uniform neatly pressed, hair tightly coiffed in a bun. The only additional contribution, one muffled complexion with heaps of makeup and powder; add in a few ibuprofen for good measure. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG2jrrqiM2Jgsq6FzGHnOyzZy8gwX84FbCHa-mYXGDswU7A44t0k7Tz1vc5Cyifi8Qlnns00C4x4g5F-gReylYk8yIUtbDf9LODqHhUQz8bI7dely_Flzkqurikf8gwzjPDxg_gka0-fOW/s1600/murder_scene.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG2jrrqiM2Jgsq6FzGHnOyzZy8gwX84FbCHa-mYXGDswU7A44t0k7Tz1vc5Cyifi8Qlnns00C4x4g5F-gReylYk8yIUtbDf9LODqHhUQz8bI7dely_Flzkqurikf8gwzjPDxg_gka0-fOW/s320/murder_scene.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657882498954177842" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">Officer Jason Maldonado, my partner, sat in a chair with an attached desk welded to its legs, his body overwhelming its frame; his bulky thighs spilling from its sides. He sat squarely facing the podium in the center of the room. He looked up and shot me that flirty smile he perfected after years of seasoned practice. -He looked good today, very good in fact, of course there weren't many days he looked bad. Actually there were none at all.- I made my way over to to the seat next to Jay and sat waiting for his daily social updates before the Captain showed up. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Jason quipped, “Mira, hey you ready for another day in paradise?”I answered him with as much enthusiasm I could muster, “Yes, as always, of course.”I thought to myself, </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i>Just let me look at you, you don't have to talk much - in fact, don't talk at all, please. </i></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal">That day I was just in need of some goodies</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> for my ailing spirit, not a lot of chit chat. Oddly he always seemed to chat more than I had.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Jason is that protein drinking meathead type you see at your neighborhood gym. But had the most inviting pillowy pecks, with hearty biceps of yumminess. Admittedly, he made me shamelessly drool. But sadly, beneath the shiny surface is one dopey Italian. You just had to love him and his jovial demeanor, or at least I did. Honestly, I just loved to look at him. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Jay has a wonderful glow of Sicilian olive toned skin, a wide nubian-like nose and thick back hair, perfectly cut to match the lines of his face. His eyes, a deep brown, and a hard jawline gave him that “appeal” most men dearly covet. Clearly, good genetics were in this man's corner. Although I was wildly attracted to him -as most women were-, I never revealed even a scintilla of interest. Per usual, I did as my father taught me -you never shit where you eat-. </span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Work was priority, not some scandalous affair that I would have loved to entertain, but my better judgment got the best of me. Rats...Life was far too complicated to put that in the mix. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Then I noticed Jay studying my face as he leaned toward me brushing back a wispy crop of bangs that dangled over the left side of my face and said, “What the fuck happened to your face?”</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I quickly replied that I had tripped on the steps leading to my house and simply couldn't block my fall quick enough. - Note to self: buy more cover up.- Neither he nor anyone else at work knew of my problems at home. It was better that way. Especially now, with what I have planned. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Jason replied with a certain sense of levity along with a subtle hue and intimation of concern, “Oh shit, you gotta be careful. You need to keep that face lookin' pretty.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I tried to keep it light and replied, “Ya ya ya, I know. I tried putting a bunch of cover up on it, but nothing gets by you. You are just sharp as a tack there buddy.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Jay then started in with his morning “stories” before our daily meeting, “So remember that girl, Robyn, I told you about?”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I answered, “Yeah.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> He continued, “Well, I was out with her last night and I swear to God this girl would not stop talking about her damn cats. It was a little freaky. It went from her cats to her grandmother and then to her nieces. I spent two hours looking at pictures on her iphone. It was ridiculous! Seriously, this girl had one smoking hot tight little package but I don't see myself calling her again. She already texted me like three times since I dropped her off last night. Maybe I should just tell her? Or you know, she should get the hint, right? I mean if I just don't call her back? Right?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I replied, “You know, I don't know, sometimes honesty is the best policy but sometimes it can bring the psycho out of the best of em'. You know?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With a perplexed look on his pudgy face he nodded in acknowledgment, all while sorting it out in his big melon head. Knowing Jay, he is such a softie, he may give her a second chance. He was a strange hybrid of sorts, not betraying his ethnicity, he had a pinch of </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">misogyny when it came to his attitude toward women. Honestly, it seemed engrained, somewhat pitiful; almost like he didn't know any better. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I could never imagine him hurting a woman, he was just a little rough around the edges. Ok, maybe a lot rough around the edges but a good guy, or so I thought. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> The truth of the matter is, I wanted to give him an entirely different response when he asked me about Robyn. He had been trying to get a date with this girl at his gym for months now, and then he finally does and he is not going to call her back because she showed him some pictures on her phone? What a crock of shit! Maybe texting him three times since last night was a bit much. It's funny how men in their twenties can be so fickle at times. </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i>-Stop being such an asshole, Jay. Hell, it will catch up with him in time, a little humble pie never hurt no one.-</i></span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> What I </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i>really</i></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> wanted to tell him was, “You ever think she really likes you and she wants to share pictures of the animals and people she loves? Look at this as an endearing quality rather than a burdensome one? Stop being such a dick and open up a little bit too. I mean how would you prefer she act, ditzy and aloof?”</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> If I had to venture a guess he was trying to act “cool”. But of course I didn't offer such sage advise, instead I offered a brief piece of shit answer. You can't offer “Dear Abby” type advise in this neck of the woods. There is no prancing around these parts like a princess. You would lose respect in a millisecond and become either a joke or the station's fun pump. Either way it's a lose lose situation and I preferred to be respected as an equal; so I put on a more manly front. You have to. Women who don't, just never last here. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Truth is, on the outside I'm as girly as they come. I love your standard issue, “girly stuff”: pedicures, pretty little strappy sun dresses, prolonged excessive gossip, and I'm a sucker for romantic comedies that make grown men cringe. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As Captain Brewster dramatically burst through the door its metallic slam clanged as he blasted his bassy voice through the room, “Ok folks, let's cut the small talk here. Let's get with the program.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Making his way across the room to a small wooden podium situated on a shifty metal desk, he demanded our attention with a bang of his beefy fist on its shallow surface. I liked him, he was always good to me and understood what it was like to be a single mom. I say single mom b<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">ecause although I was married, I lived my life as though I were raising the children alone. I preferred it that way, since it was only a matter of time before I actually was a "single mom".</span><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><br /></span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98u1j3H6vyrA5JZCvKN8OgtJmwYtl_JjAySbdJ3E7j5JzHhyHyGH8rZBMBWJu6TZLEGWW2EbE06cNf6V5jZfrzZdCIQJc2yFl9Ae2W2Uvj39emqTt811ZanqV1LMUVzbRbPQ2eXq7W5E5/s1600/268887-creepy-cemetery-boston-united-states.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98u1j3H6vyrA5JZCvKN8OgtJmwYtl_JjAySbdJ3E7j5JzHhyHyGH8rZBMBWJu6TZLEGWW2EbE06cNf6V5jZfrzZdCIQJc2yFl9Ae2W2Uvj39emqTt811ZanqV1LMUVzbRbPQ2eXq7W5E5/s320/268887-creepy-cemetery-boston-united-states.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657882787037755202" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;">Throughout my relationship with Alex, I was the only true caretaker in our “arrangement”. I was a mother of two when we met, and he vehemently insisted that he “loved them as his own”. Truth is he only loved them when it was convenient, much like an odd trophy of sorts. Occasional bragging rights would bolster his image as the ideal stepfather. But once the applause <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">died, there w</span>as nothing. Among fellow churchgoers, he would swirl their already scoured brains into a frothy lather with his accounts of devoted parenting. Such Sunday semantics required knee high boots propped on pews, because the bullshit would flow up to your chin. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> His profound allegiance to my children waned when the reality of a dreaded sniffle or sour stomach turned the children's world upside down and I could not excuse myself from work; Alex would then liken himself to a daycare professional. Capitalizing on the unfortunate luck of these children he claimed to “dearly love”, he would quickly offer an explanation that he saved me money in childcare and now he “deserved” a new trinket, a lobster dinner, or a bag of weed. I didn't care that he smoked in excess. Getting high, smokin' weed... I just figured it would increase the chance that he dumped that mini bike he called a motorcycle. Bring.it.on.</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"> <span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> The sentiment which seemed to dominate our marriage was one of resentment with his varied domestic roles; random psychotic outbursts would relay his emasculated esteem. This was the battle that raged in his sick little head. On nights I came home late from work, often times he would lie in wait with his wannabe bike rumbling between his stalky thighs. He would lookout just minutes before I was expected to arrive, and as I walked toward our house he would startle me as he shot out like a rocket...revving his popcorn machine as he sped off. Another one of his pathetic attempts to feel in control, exerting a pitiful punishment of sorts; yet dangling on the edge of insanity.</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Without disclosing all of my sordid details, it goes without saying at times the Captain knew when I just had to leave. Usually I was calm and even keeled under pressure, but when it came to my children I am nearly certain I wore eminent panic on my face. He could see that I'm sure, as a father himself. There was protocol that had to be maintained and I understood, but the Captain Brewster was always cool and I think he knew what was going on at home with me... deep down, but never said a word. In my book, the Captain gets two brightly beaming gold stars. Although at times, he had the stereotypical tough demeanor, yet another standard issue police protocol. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> After an exasperated sigh and a quick pause to sip coffee from one seasoned coffee stained mug, the Captain started with his daily routine, “Ok, Benoit and Coppola you are going to be on the South End today, and everyone remember to reference the bench warrant list. There is a bunch of em' after last week, for some ungodly reason. Just be on the lookout for these runners, folks. Oh and another burglary last night, actually a couple on Comm. Ave. Luckily, no one was harmed and the residents slept through the commotion, but it appears that it may be the same suspect since the homes that were broken into were literally right next door to one another. There have been incident reports filled out by the reporting officers, please look at them, everyone! I want Maldonado and Chiatti to go down there today and take witness statements from surrounding residents. If they aren't home, figure it out. Make a phone call or two.”</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Suddenly a shuffle in the room produced one perpetually tardy, Officer Sean Brewster. Sean was proof that the heart of nepotism steadily pumps well nourished blood through the core of the working world. Undoubtedly, he will need to RSVP for his own funeral when that lamentable time should finally come. As the Captain's nephew, he knew he could never be fired...If it weren't for the inner workings of nepotism he would be a well appointed fry cook at McDonalds; showing those egg mcmuffins whose boss.</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> The Captain's bravado hail resonated off the walls of the cramped concrete room, “Hey! What the Fuck, Brewster! I told you about this! Get the Fuck out! Take the day off!” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Of course, we all knew this was for show. Sean would gladly take the day off, he had what most would describe as “infinite job security”. Another banner day for Brewster...sitting at home, watching cable and drinking beer. We all wondered if he was paid for these days off, but no one had the balls to ask. It had become a funny kind of pathetic joke amongst the group and now no one wanted to work with him. It didn't really matter, it would usually give us something to banter about for days.</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Visibly flustered with disappointment, the Captain continued, “Anyway, Adams and McManus you are going to be doing separate traffic details in Government Center. Apparently, the city thinks it's a good time to be doing road construction for the morning commute; so you are both there. I know it sucks but hey, there's a Starbucks down the road. Knock yourselves out.” </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> As he continued to spout the minutia of the day's itinerary, I sat entranced as I glanced out the window. The wind whipped red and gold leaves onto its moist surface. I would count the seconds till droplets of moisture released random debris from it's grasp. Strings of water, slowly dripped onto a brick ledge where the ugly pigeons flocked. I looked down pretending to scribble details in a mini spiral bound notebook I kept in my breast pocket. Even if I didn't have anything to write, I would pretend. More often than not, instructions were fairly straight forward, but for the occasional lunkhead that would screw it up. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> After our daily debriefing, Jay and I head out. We made a brief stop for his morning Burger King “crossaintwich”. These days he's crazy about those lil' critters – with a sausage and hash brown-. You would never know by looking at him, his workouts were certainly not in vain. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> With his stodgy greased up fingers plummeting into a spotty oil stained bag, he masticated his goodies in a few swift, yet ample bites as we made our to Comm. Ave. When we finally arrived where the burglaries occurred, we half expected no one to answer our knocks, and as expected, no one did. This was no surprise. These well appointed brownstone don't pay for themselves. The people who live here work hard to keep and maintain them, and it is not a little known fact. Otherwise there wouldn't be half as many “visitors” bearing crowbars, hammers and blunt like objects to harness their finely honed trade of larceny.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Residents who live in Back Bay usually came from money and are seasoned Boston natives. They remember a city that was safe and clean, hailing from a time when unlocked doors were homegrown staple. Unfortunately, many still live under this misguided impression. As it goes, it's hard to cope with such a downturn when you are accustomed to peace and quiet. For these residents, learning appropriate home security measures seemed futile, despite the numerous break-ins reported. As expected, for the wannabe criminals of Boston.... it became a goldmine. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> We approached a few nearby homes and knocked on their doors and rang buzzers. Often times a large group of college students would rent and share space in this part of town, being nicely situated to schools, Landsdown Street, and Cambridge -the perfect recipe for the utopia that is college -. It was easy to catch college students at home during the day. Obtaining a lucid statement about what had occurred the night prior, well that is another story altogether. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> We pushed a few buttons at the fourth brownstone we came to, which produced a recently awakened Ms. Cindy Ackley. Her voice crackled over the monitor with an intonation of sleep in her unfamiliar voice. “Umm, hello? Who is it?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Jay answers, “It's the Boston PD, we have a few questions for you, if you have a minute.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> A slight pause lasting a few seconds ensued, she then questioned back, “What's going on? Why do you need to ask me questions?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I finally chimed in, “Ma'am, we don't want to take up much of your time, there have been a string of burglaries next door to your residence and we are looking to see if there were any eye witnesses nearby.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> The very next sound we heard, a buzz followed by a click of the door. We entered the building and made our way to apartment B2. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Cindy quickly greeted us after the she hastily disengaged the latch on the door, “Hi, come on in. Sorry, I just woke up and the place is a mess, but sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> We sat on a rather bohemian type couch that melded to the floor like one giant blob of bean bag mess. It was actually amusing as Jay and I sat with our knees practically up to our ears. Looking at my partner sit on this “chair”, I fought hard to resist the urge to chuckle. In fact, the entire apartment was a bohemian mess of Ikea type furniture, neat with no sign of little hands or feet to occupy its walls. Clearly, the home of a single girl. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Without delay Jay smiles laying on the charm, “Don't worry about it Miss, we don't want to take up much of your time we only have a few questions if you could help us out.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Cindy is a pretty frail brunette girl with thin arms, a large round face with almond shaped eyes. She was wearing baggie short shorts on her underweight frame and a shirt that seductively exposed her right shoulder down to her elbow. With soft graceful features and delicate lines that traced down to the contours of her prominently displayed clavicle bone. She smiled and seemed to look down into herself. An outward exchange of flirtatious glances consumed the next few moments as I sat in uncomfortable silence. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> Then she nods and says, “Sure, well the truth is I did see something. I was up late working on my thesis for my psychology class and I heard a commotion outside. I was sitting next to my window on my laptop and I saw two men, but I wasn't sure what was going on so I didn't think much of it. I was curious if they were visitors or not, but they seemed to be kind of slinking around. You know what I mean? Anyway, I was planning on calling the police today to see if someone called about any intruders. Truth is I didn't want to call if I wasn't sure. Sorry, plus I was really busy with my paper, I feel like kind of an asshole now that I didn't call. ” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><i> -Yeah well, she got the asshole part right.-</i></span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"> I was mildly annoyed with the constant flirting between her and Jay. But I was happy that we found Cindy so early on in our shift. As she spouted details of what she had seen, Jay scribbled them on a victim witness statement which she later signed. She even saw the van they hopped into and jotted down the license plate number for our records, and although the streets were dimly lit, she was able to provide a fairly accurate description of the suspects. We got lucky. Needless to say, later we were able to utilize her for a lineup to identify the suspects. </span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ></span> <style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" >Armed with what we had discovered, we were ecstatic that we didn't have to consume the rest of our week finding leads on these string of burlglaries. Thankfully, we had hit the mother load with Cindy. As the saying goes, “everything happens for a reason”. Indeed it had; with our respective agendas cleared we had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Ronald Steenley. Tomorrow we would meet for the first time as he had a strange preoccupation with beating his wife, a month from now we meet again...for his murder. </span></span> </p>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-73016533436553056542011-09-15T09:27:00.017-04:002011-12-28T09:32:59.055-05:00Chapter 1 - bile spewing monster.<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } A:link { so-language: zxx } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><b><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">-hello all, here is the first chapter. revisions and editing abounds, as I am trying to ready my manuscript within the next few weeks. So have patience, it's coming along....slowly but surely. More to come, folks. -for the curious macabre minds that abound-, yes, the snack cake incident really happened...along with several other incidents mentioned herein. I hope you enjoy, feel free to comment and share. my promise to you... i will provide a strange mix of humor and debauchery. enjoy...ciao ~b-</span><br /></b></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;" ><b><br /></b></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none"><span style="font-weight: normal">"Murder is a horror, but an often necessary horror, never criminal, which it is essential to tolerate in a republican State.... Is it or is it not a crime? If it is not, why make laws for its punishment? And if it is, by what barbarous logic do you, to punish it, duplicate it by another crime?" -Marquis Des Sade</span></span></i></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZ6UCK4p4azo8TWm5ktcuyundahnLTYwb41sbKgTethEB5LK2ApjnKQGNKpS1bkkU9c8cGf_DVbOEFxJvL4YkeMFaqTq-WTNJRQyfEemhQdVxuLn09pozlhWHtBlbxZ4uZ5Fi4nnRvvvw/s1600/bullet-gun-blood-murder.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZ6UCK4p4azo8TWm5ktcuyundahnLTYwb41sbKgTethEB5LK2ApjnKQGNKpS1bkkU9c8cGf_DVbOEFxJvL4YkeMFaqTq-WTNJRQyfEemhQdVxuLn09pozlhWHtBlbxZ4uZ5Fi4nnRvvvw/s320/bullet-gun-blood-murder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652585385943442978" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">The tinny clang of the wind</span> chime undulated on the waves of the crisp fall air tantalizing the senses. The sound eagerly beckoned me to greet the day, its melodious charm was like delicate wings of a hummingbird fluttering on my cool skin. Unfortunately, like recent days that had passed, my head was still heavy from the bottle of chardonnay I single-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">handedly</span> consumed; combined with an unyielding intense pain pulsing in my head and thigh. Briefly, I glanced down the side of my body- partially covered by one paltry fleece throw - Then quickly reminded of yesterday evening, as I noticed the deep maroon welt ripened on my left thigh.- My brain covered with an all too familiar cotton gauze of alcohol induced bliss; a subtle yet insistent pain dominated the lower part of my neck and head. A pain accompanied by the somber regret of last night's brawl.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><br /></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> An early November chill unnaturally pervaded my living room, its source another dreary tale to tell. My four year old son, Anthony, laid cozily nestled in the fetal position on our pitifully undersized futon. Having monopolized the lion's share of our Buzz <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Lightyear</span> fleece throw, my fingers and face remained exposed leaving me cold and uninspired to attempt even the simplest of tasks.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> Peering down at what was once my pristine beige wall to wall carpet, now soiled with snack cakes -zebra cakes to be precise-. I chuckled in spite of myself, knowing dread was forthcoming due to my ill inspired tirade of last night’s revenge. In fact, I would be swiftly reminded the moment I made my way to brew a crappy pot of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Folger's</span> coffee. I</span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><span style="background: transparent"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">mpetuous</span> retribution loomed with the lurking </span></span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">monster down the hall... my husband -Alex-. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">Even if I did not intend to sip this horrible brew, he insisted I have coffee freshly brewed for when he finally made his glorious appearance. I just did it, it wasn't worth the heartache and the nasty emails that would infiltrate my blackberry. The smell of freshly brewed coffee would wake him and then torture would ensue. What was I to expect? What made this day different from any other? Not much, same old bullshit. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> The unnatural chill in the air would lend itself to an all too familiar, “Alex temper tantrum”. After his toddler like antics, I preferred the company of my four year old son; with the soft noise of cartoons to soothe us into peaceful slumber. Of course, this decision did not come without consequence. What this meant for Anthony and I: sleeping with all windows fully opened to allow the cool New England air to disturb any chance we may have had for peaceful rest. Alex sat seething with anger in a folding chair, squarely placed in the center of the room, intently watching to ensure not one window was closed. This was our punishment and we had better endure it, without complaint. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> That night I covered us both as we drifted off to sleep, as I lay praying not to be violently thrust out of sleep; my son had been through enough. The temperature was unpleasant but the covers combined with snuggling, made it bearable. My sole intention... to comfort Anthony to sleep, by all accounts I should have left; if I hadn't feared such an attempt would produce an unimaginable beating. Eventually that night Alex made his way to our bedroom, muttering his small minded insults, but then briefly to return in the morning hour. Doling out more shit. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin9EiFr35-ppyM0_mqgIJy5sKVsEtcUgMalB3H9RvEbNljgkyEoOtjjZzx0mn6rAJQ6I58m22XNIOxQj8jJNTai8pyuM7sur4M-Zl3w5BL7pozsfgVIi5zLaJm0pKPxnSrhnlEIBzEtubL/s1600/blood.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin9EiFr35-ppyM0_mqgIJy5sKVsEtcUgMalB3H9RvEbNljgkyEoOtjjZzx0mn6rAJQ6I58m22XNIOxQj8jJNTai8pyuM7sur4M-Zl3w5BL7pozsfgVIi5zLaJm0pKPxnSrhnlEIBzEtubL/s320/blood.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652586433751327986" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">Alex was the worst kind of monster, an abusive prick, a menacing nature that was indiscriminate in its choosing. An obsessive neat freak with a side of bi-polar, just for fun. He would blend perfectly into most settings and was the most delightful showman at nearly any occasion. The loving husband, stepfather and fellow churchgoer.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> During requisite outings, an awkward moment of hand holding and his sickening cheek kisses would produce coos from surrounding onlookers because of the wonderful “love” we shared. Inside I would count the minutes until any given church sermon or family gathering was over -usually noting the time, wondering if it was too early for a glass of wine-. Nearly every outing was due to his adamant request; where I was displayed like a possession. Like a doll, a doll that was expected to only speak on occasion. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> He would tell people “stories”, funny stories. Alex loved his “funny stories”, problem was these stories were usually only funny to him; and more often than not ridiculing for me. When he carried on with this comedy routine of sorts, he would receive uncomfortable silence rather than his anticipated uproarious laughter. This wouldn't stop his continuous side show. Laughing sometimes till all the blood rushed to his face, bumping elbows encouraging others to join...I would sit dumbfounded at what a huge prick I married. I remained unmoved and silent, bravery in numbers and sticking up for myself wasn't an option, ever. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> Alex insisted we attend church regularly, but this weekly exercise was accompanied with a healthy dose of hypocrisy. While he would gloat about his weekly routine of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">churchanity</span> and prayers, I sat mentally filtering through a litany of excuses to leave the house that afternoon -groceries? no. dry cleaning? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Ehh</span>. Visit with mom? He hated my mother. Maybe a friend?-. As the harmonious mass of worshipers harmonized hymns or became consumed by the spirit with tongues, it was then I would embrace my wonderful daydreams. </span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size:11pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Daydreams tip-toed through my mind and delighted my already numbed sensibilities. Daydreams with a bus, a colossal bus, a bus filled to maximum capacity- bearing decrepit brakes crackling from their hinge, excessive speed, one rapidly advancing hulking mass... Enters one Alex, stepping from the curb, oblivious and flattened with great prejudice.</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size:11pt;"> </span></span></span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> Only rubber saturated with remnants of organs and blood remained to attest to one pitiful meager existence; that and chunky streaks of blood smeared on the asphalt like thick frosting on a cake. </span><i>The audience is one: me. Singing praises! Hallelujah! -worship had never met the acquaintance of an irony so oddly suiting, yet grand-. </i><span style="font-style: normal">I often would pray my dreams came true.</span></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5gOdAWZSVPC4JPm8wkX91YKkdA3fyj7yPwuWdS8jipw2_amMQXaTAX8vx7dQ6wWgTtg6MWFqU9d6D3-82UaLURpGhQebqWdeWT1-QxNGEOwyY2shLUeYIV-6MhoGF_jXg8a4zdUOxy4Q/s1600/death.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5gOdAWZSVPC4JPm8wkX91YKkdA3fyj7yPwuWdS8jipw2_amMQXaTAX8vx7dQ6wWgTtg6MWFqU9d6D3-82UaLURpGhQebqWdeWT1-QxNGEOwyY2shLUeYIV-6MhoGF_jXg8a4zdUOxy4Q/s320/death.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652586738320325074" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">As I laid there that morning, surveying the room. Thankfully, I discovered... he was still asleep. The sadly smeared snack cake that now soiled my carpet signaled the occurrence of my bi-monthly boiling point. Usually I tried to reserve my explosive temper, but when the emotional pressure cooker had been stewing for a month or two...a fit of blind rage would conquer me. The evening prior, Alex insisted there were crumbs on the carpet...his carpet; and they were from my son's mouth. Filthy, pesky little morsels of food that would systematically dismantle an otherwise perfect world for his highness, a kingdom where clean carpets and perfectly ordered cabinets ruled the day. </span> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"> <span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> As he persisted on the matter, his ugly face curled with disdain. Screaming with toes tipped forward leaning into my body, saliva sprayed randomly toward my cheeks and hair as he pushed insistently against the bridge of my nose -drill sergeant like antics from one reinvented Napoleon- spouting on my lack of supervision and my “bastard kids” who had no respect for <i>his</i> <i>house</i> and <i>his things</i>. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> Precedent anticipated an inescapable onslaught of swears and torment. Alex prattled on, spewing remarks such as, 'bitch' and 'how dare you let your child.' Continuously pressing his bloated face against the bridge of my nose, strings of saliva reeking of hops exploding from his mouth, with a hot rush of halitosis assaulting my face. Needless to say a reprieve from such antics was not foreseen in the near future.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> Then it happened, my patience dangerously thin, without a second thought I grabbed snack cakes from the pantry and tore open their gentle cellophane wrappers. Instead of plummeting the gentle spongy goodness into my mouth, I tossed them onto the carpet and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">smooshed</span> them with my feet. Feeling the ooze of sugary frosting envelope my toes was almost euphoric. Only knowing how ironic this sweet revenge would truly be, and how angry it would make the monster that loomed over my son and I.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> Of course my sense of victory would be fleeting and came to a screeching halt. In fact it had, with a blast of his clenched fist to my mouth and my body abruptly slamming to the floor. The cool salty taste of blood filled my mouth. I laid there for a minute to determine damage control, softly rubbing and caressing the pile of my rug, rubbing it slowly between my fingers. Any sensation other than the one I had felt, at that very moment, was much preferred. I brought my hand to my mouth running my finger along the line of my lower lip, feeling the jagged skin serrated by my lower teeth. I softly chuckled- but only for a brief moment. It was my last ditch effort to intimate lack of concern for the invasive force that was my looming monster, an attempt to preserve a shred of self worth which remained.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> </span> </p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> As the sensation of pain coursed through my face and head, I could feel my mouth pooling with blood and funneling in a fine stream from along the corners of my mouth. I quickly ran my tongue throughout the insides of my mouth only to discover a meaty flap of skin peeling back; a large bumpy chunk of skin flapping against my now blood drenched tongue. The perfect accompaniment: one instantaneous welt on the side of my face. I laid still, mustering the will to stand, only to receive a blunt blow of his heel to my thigh. Coming attractions appearing on a thigh near you - a four inch multi-colored bruise-. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJch6GWpaSOT6Inu6wZgUkquxWKFqJN9jFVxqbe5H8UFrOslV8i5LLJpcqit63LLZIlDfRynvly1Q0WIfuRfjqbS-CdY5UVxPICNhyphenhyphenPXGuilBmyUFZi7kukBmNtCyy1LepXUj8Ht9t1Hq/s1600/3675977-murder-concept--gun-and-blood-studio-isolated.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 168px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJch6GWpaSOT6Inu6wZgUkquxWKFqJN9jFVxqbe5H8UFrOslV8i5LLJpcqit63LLZIlDfRynvly1Q0WIfuRfjqbS-CdY5UVxPICNhyphenhyphenPXGuilBmyUFZi7kukBmNtCyy1LepXUj8Ht9t1Hq/s320/3675977-murder-concept--gun-and-blood-studio-isolated.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652588437171412658" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">During this unwholesome encounter, my son stood crying and asked, 'Why my mouth was so bloody?'. It goes without saying, my core was searing with a fiery shame. I was only glad my eldest son, Nicholas, was sleeping soundly in his bed at the time. When I knew an argument was on the horizon, I would attempt to keep it out of the purview of my children. Alex did not share this mindset. It was <i>his house</i>, he would say as he wished whenever the mood would suit him. </span> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">That morning, after my short lived chuckle fest being reminded of one dearly departed snack cake, I made my way to the kitchen across our linoleum floor to which my feet stuck with every step. Alex tossed a full container of lemonade that rested on the counter while spouting some choice obscenities. Undoubtedly, a sticky mess he expected me to clean... too bad I would be sure to disappoint on this expectation. On a side note, the floor remained sticky for the remainder of the week; a silent battle of the wills proved me to be the victor. He couldn't help himself, he had to clean it, it was in his DNA. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> My mind running through the horror of last night, I rifled through a drawer looking for a coffee filter. Then with coffee brewing, I made my way to the bathroom, a place that would ordinarily lend itself a safe refuge. I sat and considered options until a deep round impression had developed on my ass. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">didn</span>’t care. The pain in my face and head was persistent, which ironically kept me focused. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> Once I left the bathroom, armed with a myriad of thoughts racing through my clouded mind, I rounded the corner to our kitchen... there he stood. A steaming red unshaven face in one partially opened terry cloth robe -exposing his undersized boxer shorts, the man believed he still had a 32-inch waist...he was mistaken-. Instantly berating me, expecting a discussion followed by one heartfelt tearful apology. Again, I would disappoint, since I would have sooner kissed a boar's filthy ass. He then entered his standard plea that I should no longer 'make him react this way', and 'please don't make him so angry any more'. All the while I thought, “Please, please just shut the fuck up. Dear Lord, strike him down with one swift heart attack, it doesn't have to be painful.”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> During the first year of our marriage I had forgiven more often than not and was absurdly convinced by onslaughts of promises to change. Of course, the change never happened and the violent mood swings and physical attacks only escalated with time. As time went on the beatings worsened, apologies became a rare commodity, and sincerity considerably waned. He knew an apology was moot and would only fall on my then numbed sensibilities. I was to blame, with no other excuse or promise to offer....I was the sole cause. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> I was completely devoid of any reverence for our marriage. Much like a dead water buffalo floating along a river, seeping toxic juices into an otherwise healthy stream of water; he was polluting our lives. I kept myself busy with my children and work. After all, I knew it was only a matter of time before our marriage finally died...the sooner the better. Now I knew I was just procrastinating. This had to stop. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> Standing in the kitchen that morning, I affected intentful concern as he harangued with his tired rant. As expected he artfully spun, what I referred to as, his "bathrobe soapbox routine". I poured myself a cup of coffee, figuring I would be there for while. He was so pathetic. Coincidentally, not much would motivate this man to change into street clothes prior to noon. He had nowhere to be, after all that's what he had a wife for. I hated every essence of his being, even the way his forehead wrinkled into what seemed like a fine point as he snarled. I wanted to jab it with a pencil till I penetrated his tiny skull. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUpExru5gY0Dza0usLSKLSKxRWovaQUkVJc-DYUV77MiVCkKiL_JeOLazrhJ8zuKkPiTAjQtAZMNWOG4NkkWb35BvlmUOuKZu1VcNk_eLBGiqovjDKpl2XsXnqGoWR21STcuZVFO5J_dZZ/s1600/black+and+white"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUpExru5gY0Dza0usLSKLSKxRWovaQUkVJc-DYUV77MiVCkKiL_JeOLazrhJ8zuKkPiTAjQtAZMNWOG4NkkWb35BvlmUOuKZu1VcNk_eLBGiqovjDKpl2XsXnqGoWR21STcuZVFO5J_dZZ/s320/black+and+white" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652587676662448594" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">After he was finished his lecture of sorts, I looked at him with a cool gaze and remained stoic and unmoved in response to the unmitigated slew of bullshit. Saying nothing, I then turned to leave the room. As I continued to walk from the room, not to my surprise, I was thrust forward... coffee cup and all. I then laid with my head adjacent to a wall, now covered in caffeine spray marks, and my knees slightly shaven by the carpet. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> I quickly stood with my back faced toward him and made my way to the bedroom to collect my uniform for the day. He continued to follow me, muttering insults. Typically my silence would incense him to the point of unmitigated madness. However, on occasion my silence would cause him retreat to his office. Luckily, today, my silence had done just that. Thank God.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> When Alex took sanctuary in his office, he would spend a majority of his time emailing his friends, family or various political columns; as he was perpetually unemployed. Historically, he would be employed for about a month or two and then fired for insubordination or the like. His days were typically filled with making phone calls to jam up my voicemail on Alex’s thoughts of the day, and somehow -by some stroke of a miracle- I managed to block out his incensing voice. He would prattle on, and I could only hear sounds of muffled mumbles; hatred for this man had consumed me. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> </span></p><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Usually on a “normal” morning I had time to focus on the day ahead and I looked forward to the quiet solitude of my morning commute. Prior to ten am, I could count on Alex resting peacefully- not a care in the world. Ordinarily, the morning I cherished quiet solitude. On a "normal" day, this would go off without a hitch, but occasionally my routine would be sharply jolted by a shove or a slap. On this morning, I was lucky enough to avoid another forceful blast to the face, but unlucky enough to require ten pounds of foundation applied to my left cheekbone; I had become rather skilled in covering the war wounds.</span> </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"> One can only forgive the unforgivable so often. I was ready. It had been almost four years. I was nearing the cathartic finale, I felt it penetrate the inner depths of my soul. It was almost over, finally over... I stood eagerly at the precipice of a future filled with hope and happiness. A future filled with one dead Alex. A future filled with one happy me. A future filled with one less prick. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;">Now I only faced one task.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%" align="LEFT"><br /></p>Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-76380593946174094572011-08-26T10:33:00.022-04:002011-08-27T19:42:03.258-04:00Because payback is a stone cold bitch, with a nine inch strap on.<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" >Ok folks, here is the foreword of my book, "Dead Beats"... I will be posting additional chapters. As I have already mentioned -for those of you paying attention- I am 80 pages in and beginning chapter six... editing and revisions abound. I am sharing this for now, chapter one to follow shortly.comments are welcome, good, bad, ugly or indifferent.ciao ~b
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<br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" >D</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" >ead Beats</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" >
<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" >by: Bridgett </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;" >Nicolace</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" > - Bird</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" >
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<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic; font-family:courier new;" >"<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Honestly ma'am, this was the worst case of assault I have seen in ten </span>years." ~Officer James Stys</span>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpmU41mM3eRg7JLEuuzIL1Ibjbk1y12_wDlD3pWQGUJ1CgOLowsVCO_k7Xv8qmLm5q20SDgkaurrdUdWASOaIX-5V8wg4ex4w6c5UCKMH48sVoWgr2LpkwU59QL9AsTh3Fmh9KLp2ia3A_/s1600/Scan+2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpmU41mM3eRg7JLEuuzIL1Ibjbk1y12_wDlD3pWQGUJ1CgOLowsVCO_k7Xv8qmLm5q20SDgkaurrdUdWASOaIX-5V8wg4ex4w6c5UCKMH48sVoWgr2LpkwU59QL9AsTh3Fmh9KLp2ia3A_/s320/Scan+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645173162023653746" border="0" /></a>
<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:11pt;"><b>Foreword.</b></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Not a day went by I didn't feel the searing burn of regret permeate my senses, like a freshly hot iron pressed firmly against one pulsating exposed nerve. The sharp pangs of regret continued to resonate in the very depths of my shattered spirit; for every time my face had met the hard bone of his closed fist or when the heel of his foot abruptly slammed me head first to the floor. A regret that would leave a stark shadowy footprint in what seemed like an incurably broken heart. </span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > I would regret not calling the police for every infraction against my well being and then ailing pride. I would regret having tolerated the intolerable behaviors, and having accepted an apology in lieu of forever dispelling his poisonous presence. Foolishly I remained for almost four years enduring the unacceptable behaviors of this small man; as I was continuously spoon fed his pitiful pleas to change. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTggOfuEib_BYVMNrR4j4_MrKbF7JdcTr9tHS3rOc43Khmrek550JOF21kQbWgOC0WzEi6w7p7YWvUKhnGoURjFtoNPakzRYo4AufZN53BuOaxhCkajwzA07rLW9RkUpj2Yk14kkwcIeSz/s1600/Scan+5.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTggOfuEib_BYVMNrR4j4_MrKbF7JdcTr9tHS3rOc43Khmrek550JOF21kQbWgOC0WzEi6w7p7YWvUKhnGoURjFtoNPakzRYo4AufZN53BuOaxhCkajwzA07rLW9RkUpj2Yk14kkwcIeSz/s320/Scan+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645173322070513506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" >I still regret he is a free. I regret that today he does not occupy a pen of steel bars, where he belongs. The humiliation and shame covered me like a thickly caked charcoal shawl...Until now.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> Once upon a psychotic time, I desperately yearned that he be six feet under; solving the pesky divorce debacle. Thankfully, now on these pages I may craft the wonderful thoughts I could only embrace in my dreams. My wonderfully sordid daydreams filled with images of his body's rancid smatterings meeting its final destination against a rocky terrain or being violently thrust in an overzealous wood chipper. Obscure and rather troubling thoughts</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">which I now bring to life, if only for a brief moment in the vivid world of my reader's imagination
<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > The truth of the matter is, long after I have spun my tales of debauchery, I will continue to eagerly turn to the obituaries hoping to see his name. This cathartic finale would be a lasting antiseptic salve for my soul. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > My story is developed under the veil of a fictional work. However, most of what happens to the main character along with the other characters - in terms of mental and physical abuse- is in fact truth. In many respects, these stories paint a picture of my past and writing this has granted me an indescribable measure of new found serenity. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
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<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-arvr96UCNvEATVE3ed84V3uKW04ZOYIEP7wrlC-fcSAYJMiDg0M5k4gbwoZdHIkzs03eTQcLhbTzv2gyCq7uDABky3Ys1snmsYzX-IfXrNV_rRCenW6RkpuGgR9LNwhf1wxhDuID24M/s1600/Scan+6.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-arvr96UCNvEATVE3ed84V3uKW04ZOYIEP7wrlC-fcSAYJMiDg0M5k4gbwoZdHIkzs03eTQcLhbTzv2gyCq7uDABky3Ys1snmsYzX-IfXrNV_rRCenW6RkpuGgR9LNwhf1wxhDuID24M/s320/Scan+6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645173552344682098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" >This story is not written to garner a pitiful sense of empathy, but to turn something that was horrifying into something that is likely to entertain. Although, I don't care for labels nor did I ever personally care for the label of “victim”, I hope that if someone who wears this particular label -inconspicuously or otherwise- may read my book and endeavor to make change happen in their life. If this label is surreptitiously concealed in quiet despair, there can never be a change for the better. I know this all too well. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > Speaking of “labels” or titles, I am proud of a few. I am a mother, a wife and a lawyer. The last being a title I am proud to have achieved but not a profession I choose to engage. This brings me to my final reason for writing my sordid little tale. Amongst my proudest accomplishments include raising my three sons -a work in progress-, finding and marrying my amazing husband and passing the bar exam...the first time. Although, not soon after I passed the bar exam, I discovered -rather quickly- how much I loathed the semantics of lawyering. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > In fact, for the most part I find the entire profession to be rather dreadful. For reasons that most would expect to hear, including but not limited to the bureaucracy driven procedures which drive the mechanisms of “justice”. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > With that said, I do not develop the main character of my book as a lawyer, but as a police officer. For two reasons, the first reason being police work is just cool, or at least I think so. What other job in the known universe are you able to carry a gun and chase around bad guys? Oh, and get free coffee? It's sheer unadulterated utopia, I tell you. Also, one paramount inspiration for my tale is Dexter, due in part for the ironic nature of how we love him so; however, while there are similarities my story has several distinctions. The main character murders only one particular kind of person – wife beaters- and they get what is justly deserved. Period.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > Yet another distinguishing feature, is that all the fictional victims endure truths of my past. Everyone of my unfortunate fictional victims will abide tiny tid-bits of insanity that I had endured in my marriage. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > Lastly, once I finally publish I would prefer not to put people to sleep with the minutia that is lawyering. Rest assured lawyering is far less glamorous than it appears on TV. As many of you know, it is far more likely to settle a case or arrange a plea bargain rather than go to trial. They say 'truth is stranger than fiction', but it can also be incredibly boring. Plus, lawyering shows on prime time make me want to throw up in my mouth. Why write a book about it? No thank you. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBo2GbY2HUxCQPxTXSk5d0ch8hbcFoNQ1n_QrIK8MMmliwTlch0nZbE6J9feN2EWcG1J_VXd5s6XVB0JhRjVbct7Q-euJx2JkliHiEtWLJAOEhPVKjFBGfJ11SXTsEtCgyeTiSPUYUo7Eq/s1600/Scan.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBo2GbY2HUxCQPxTXSk5d0ch8hbcFoNQ1n_QrIK8MMmliwTlch0nZbE6J9feN2EWcG1J_VXd5s6XVB0JhRjVbct7Q-euJx2JkliHiEtWLJAOEhPVKjFBGfJ11SXTsEtCgyeTiSPUYUo7Eq/s320/Scan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645516905395319586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" >Admittedly, I think the foundation of our system sounds good in theory; the Constitution of the United States of America. -While, I am not looking to spark a heated debate about a person's political views or the like.- However, I think many of us can agree for instance, that at times doctrines which are designed to keep important evidence out of the courtroom, at times allows persons who by all accounts should be behind bars are free to roam the streets. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > Many procedural safeguards that are designed to protect our people allow for what most of us would call a miscarriage of justice. Bearing this in mind, what is best? To establish no precedence or guideline? Understandably, this is not the answer. It is as many of us say and most of us believe, our freedom is not free. In other words, to afford protection to all, the price is that some may walk free when clearly they should not. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > When you are sworn in to practice law, they proudly proclaim at your swearing in that you will always be a lawyer. Something no one can ever take from you; as if it is an unconditional brand on your hide. If that is true, as an officer of the court I am perpetually bound to uphold the U.S. Constitution and to respect the laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. But deep within the murky depths of my mind, visions of cruel vengeance dance in my head; for all whom justice was once ill served. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > Ask yourself the question, is it really enough punishment for these horrifying “human beings” to live amongst us in shame? Or do they deserve more? </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > It is hard for the mind to wander aimlessly into a maelstrom of conceivable tragedy. A loved one falling victim to the clutches of a predator, rapist, abuser or otherwise. As mothers we consume ourselves daily with worry about a simple fall down the stairs or the like; never mind a life altering tragedy. I would like to believe I would allow our system to dole out justice should the unthinkable occur. Men or women who strike their spouse are predators as well, they merely have a different prey. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > Understandably, I have a passionate distaste for wife beaters or abusers of any kind. While I do not condone murder, something about it seems to intrigue the human brain. So I don't feel alone in my fascination with this morbid side of humanity. It has fascinated me since I was a little girl. -Beaming with pride- just name a serial killer, I can tell you all about em'. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" > I am certain this makes me odd, and for those who know me seem to embrace the quality, so for now.... I will keep it just the same. I have always marched to the beat of my own drum, and for that I will never solely practice law; mindlessly marching to our judicial system's staccato beat. My story brings you into my macabre daydream of murder and vigilante justice. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT">
<br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" align="LEFT"><span style="font-family:Courier, Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;font-size:85%;" >Payback sure is a fucking bitch. Enjoy.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" align="LEFT">
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<br /></p> Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2444678451646575290.post-43371400550489758972011-08-23T12:46:00.022-04:002011-08-24T09:48:47.676-04:00is this thing on...hello!! -check, check-<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13YYd__lKhb5DQY4A6Ms17wFRPSfwvK4L3bxLj855AiaWfe1NL3iDUg4dECsv_62_baIxwO9N4qwaaL8oeahg7K1EB_d76Sdjv4SDpUBd85XeHIAkkgzYcoA4ohjB8BzzjwO4ilfhODFF/s1600/peachflower.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh13YYd__lKhb5DQY4A6Ms17wFRPSfwvK4L3bxLj855AiaWfe1NL3iDUg4dECsv_62_baIxwO9N4qwaaL8oeahg7K1EB_d76Sdjv4SDpUBd85XeHIAkkgzYcoA4ohjB8BzzjwO4ilfhODFF/s320/peachflower.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644126466340938594" border="0" /></a>
<br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;">Testing!!! TESTING! Yes it has happened, brace yourselves; I have managed to create myself a lil' blog action. In between diaper changes, <strike> drinking wine</strike> baking and cleaning, I have managed to find time in my week. -i feel so modern now- For several reasons, at the top of the list, with a bullet, is sheer boredom. Secondly, I like to write, no strike that I LOVE to write.
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<br />I thought to myself, "Bridgett this could be the perfect medium to release the inner most thoughts that fuel the cogs of <strike>my genius mind</strike> my brain."
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<br />The other reason is primarily to annoy with my borderline psychotic rants; that and I have been writing a book for about three months... give or take. Then one day it occurred to me - ::light bulb::- I should share some random excerpts to gain perspective on my work. The idea is, I post and you comment, mostly nice stuff would be good.
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<br />For now I am approximately 80ish pages into the book; I know it doesn't sound like much but I feel as though I have accomplished a feat akin to scaling Mount Everest with the daily domestic duties that beckon me. So humor me won't you? They say it's quality over quantity. ::sigh:: It is a passion of mine, but alas a monumental undertaking. One of which I pray has a decent outcome.
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<br />Shortly, I plan to submit the manuscript to a few publishers I have already selected. Notwithstanding the response I may or may not receive, I think I may continue to publish as an eBook. We shall see, I guess. Which brings me to another reason for creating this blog, I just starting looking into artists who may design a cover for me; since my proverbial "talent" ends with writing. Let's leave it at that shall we? So if any of my readers know someone or if you are an artist and would be willing to help me with this endeavor, I would like to speak with you. I am, of course, willing to pay; should we come to a reasonable price.
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<br />Enough about that, I wanted to tell you a little something about my wonderful family; and share a little glimpse of my swirling torrent of lunacy. My name is Bridgett, I am <strike>35ish</strike> a proud mother of three boys. I am a lawyer/stay at home mom. I went through about ten years of college to become a lawyer only to realize how much I loathe the profession. Although from my years of academia and teaching, I was thankfully able to fine tune my writing. Therefore, it wasn't all for not and that's how I look at it. This perspective prevents me from randomly lashing out irrationally.
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<br />I went to college for ten years, yes you read that right. Ten lousy rotten years and what I have to show for it, four degrees that are now collecting dust in my "horderesque" type basement. Except for the big fancy one that hangs on my wall -that one says "Doctor". That's just fancy schmancy talk for overpriced dickhead. I have a degree in computer science but I can't figure out how to turn that bastard widget button -------> into an image file. Blast!!!!
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<br />Truth of the matter is, law school was fun. It was much like a cult and I swear upon admission you lose about ten percent of your forward thinking brain matter. Yet, we are supposed to be the great legal minds of our country? The irony would astound you, as study groups would nearly break out into fist fights over hypothetical fact patterns and which appropriate rule of law applies; grown adults would bicker like junior high students about matters such as, "Did you give so and so my study guide, how dare you!!"
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<br />Regrettably, I must admit, however, that I would rather re-do law school a hundred times than attempt another full time swing at the practice. I am happy to take on cases part-time, but anything more than that would bring on frontal lobe brain hemorrhaging accompanied by foaming at the mouth and numb appendages. So I figured, why not write? It's what I love. Here I am, and there that is -in a nutshell-.
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<br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">My offspring includes:</span></span>
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<br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyJW1aHU8fnpj2JBJRbW0ronRJbFQZLcIBPYxw2jPLlU2L_ZvSjmwq7yZ2NDNo5NlXVlARgtyKh5Z5fdgR9OmhUEDHzqrhN9ASiIcFu7lNAFxUZirFCKdPYKe56BzHzJCXcgpJqJlj_6v/s1600/DSC00220.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyJW1aHU8fnpj2JBJRbW0ronRJbFQZLcIBPYxw2jPLlU2L_ZvSjmwq7yZ2NDNo5NlXVlARgtyKh5Z5fdgR9OmhUEDHzqrhN9ASiIcFu7lNAFxUZirFCKdPYKe56BzHzJCXcgpJqJlj_6v/s320/DSC00220.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644102774236123442" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Myles Zappa - Revision #1 - 06.13.99. </span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Myles middle name is Zappa -as in Frank Zappa- </span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">because he was born during one of my "finding myself" moments in time</span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> . Oddly it suits him, but honestly not one of my best judgments in parenthood.</span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> I was twenty something, so sue me. We are all morons in our twenties.....seriously. I can say that with confidence since I survived mine; by some stroke of a miracle. Myles is a comedian and he makes me belly laugh often, and for this trait I am thankful.
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<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMBQKgEVfGn3UplcCZZg4FC8KjmtXMQQ-o_WIaktnUtZBgBQRlAiJrPrhvi9mTGyGZH17AHllIGqSeV1grfY17eyvZciB-eKI0Mj3MJjKABVGpy1w3NPhuA7ST8q2602wIqs9VIH66K0ME/s1600/DSC01290.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMBQKgEVfGn3UplcCZZg4FC8KjmtXMQQ-o_WIaktnUtZBgBQRlAiJrPrhvi9mTGyGZH17AHllIGqSeV1grfY17eyvZciB-eKI0Mj3MJjKABVGpy1w3NPhuA7ST8q2602wIqs9VIH66K0ME/s320/DSC01290.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644111386742357682" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Jacob (a.k.a the Cob) - Revision #2 - 02.12.03. The Cob is my red headed imp, he is literally a smaller version of me. I am surprised he doesn't have </span><strike style="font-family: lucida grande;">permanent slap marks</strike><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> gentle stroke-like patterns surrounding his mouth for all the times he has said the word "whatevs". He is extremely strong willed and stubborn headed. At times this may be a great trait upon entering adulthood, but not when you are eight years old and attend Catholic school. Oh Cob, what am I going to do with you, I do love him so.</span>
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sOb2_BX-sMPzoL7kvfS8bx0zpMS2-1PLk-iyBHXarhZCYpq5f_IEfQkqsIgmGka9BcWxMgwIDy_DNmx8GaPv1JXNAYpbkzY-FiGO-ryjQ4nSzJraP3th9uBCnuv-IZcr9-_hvyQeEnRL/s1600/sombrero3.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sOb2_BX-sMPzoL7kvfS8bx0zpMS2-1PLk-iyBHXarhZCYpq5f_IEfQkqsIgmGka9BcWxMgwIDy_DNmx8GaPv1JXNAYpbkzY-FiGO-ryjQ4nSzJraP3th9uBCnuv-IZcr9-_hvyQeEnRL/s320/sombrero3.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644112336582827618" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Jameson - Revision #3 - 09.11.10. Jameson is my youngest son and I have to admit, his adorableness overwhelms me daily. I am what most psychiatrists would call, "obsessed"...ahemmm. I mean clearly he is the most adorable baby in modern day existence. On a daily basis I continue to be perplexed as to how no one else sees this!?</span>
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<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmvEfsjVd3iqfIZ2QoZkSHKPAIBURZw4RYGQUNcOi77-oqa2rkkKmT5TEMOu9WpB0o25Qdn3C7O0-iz0nBpp-4lRh84m1d8Y6e46x7VhKiEwOcTg0WnwcAcxPIuMYE9_elDjMSYvxi2h0/s1600/hb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmvEfsjVd3iqfIZ2QoZkSHKPAIBURZw4RYGQUNcOi77-oqa2rkkKmT5TEMOu9WpB0o25Qdn3C7O0-iz0nBpp-4lRh84m1d8Y6e46x7VhKiEwOcTg0WnwcAcxPIuMYE9_elDjMSYvxi2h0/s320/hb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644116185120024434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">T</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">his is my husband, Mr. James Bird, and he is the most amazing man alive. Ladies, you are out of luck because I snagged him off the market for good on June 11th, 2011. Na na na na na!! Jim is a saint because he listens to my daily rantings. You folks are lucky enough to only passively read my thoughts, this poor guy LIVES it everyday. Imagine that, imagine the mental fortitude of that very undertaking. This is what I am talking about here, people. the.man.is.a.saint.period.</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Plus he has a </span><strike style="font-family: lucida grande;">giant penis</strike><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"> great heart, and is willing to do anything for friends or family. He is my best friend and I would not be half the person I am today without him. He will forever be a part of me. -end sappy rantings-</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">This is our little clan. Posting more soon. Follow me if you like, more to come.</span>
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<br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">ciao ~b</span>
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<br />Legally Brunettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17591302405783582275noreply@blogger.com0