Episode 22: Voices- The Wrong Family

Episode 22- Voices

She instinctively covered her little girl by wrapping her in arms. This wasn’t happening. A huge, wild-eyed man did not jump through their living room window. He was not standing in the shards of her newly installed two thousand dollar picture window. He was not raving in song and flailing a blunt object. Is that a rearview mirror? Who is Mustang Sally?

They recently moved to this neighborhood to avoid such instances. The real estate agent assured them of safety. Her husband crashed into the unloaded boxes in the corner. She hoped it wasn’t mother’s china; she skimped on bubble wrap and merely used newspaper. No one plans for these kinds of mishaps.

“Close your eyes baby, it’s going to be ok.” She whispered while stroking and patting her frail daughter’s little head. “Mommy will protect you. It’s going to be OK.” She believed her own words less than the event unfolding before her. A man was beating her husband to death with an errant car part. This wasn’t happening.

They whimpered softly as the crazed man continued smacking mercilessly on her husband’s kidneys. No, that was his spine. Moving up to his face, blood from his nose spattered on her favorite abstract painting adding angular stripes to the linier structure of the piece. Surrounding details vibrantly sprang from fear. A fine layer of dust on the mantle was missed by the maid last Thursday. Kelly’s hair smelled like strawberries. The water in the rose bouquet on the dining room table needed to be changed if they were to get an extra day of life. The grout on the foyer tiles was unusually dark. The orange cat delicately licked her paws; she saw the thin hairs wave above the thick in her fur. Those nails needed to be clipped, and she couldn’t make it to vet’s until next Tuesday. She hoped they’d all be alive next Tuesday.

“Mommy? Can we call the Police?”

Yes, call the Police. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Surreptitiously reaching into her back pocket for the cell phone, she quietly dialed 911. Leaving it open on the wooden floor to catch the sounds of screams would be enough to send uniformed Saviors. They would come.

She wanted to do something to save her husband. He fell onto the glass and sliced open his forearm. He was being beaten, badly, and too drained to fight back. He shouldn’t have tried to reason with the singing lunatic. He should have grabbed the fire poker and skewered the madman in the heart.

She could grab the fire poker.

The phone was open to the screams and pleading for help. Was she screaming?

“The Police are on the phone! WHO ARE YOU? Go away. What did we do?” Her arms still tightly wrapped around her daughter, she scooted until her back was against the fireplace. She was arms length from a weapon. He needed to turn away for a moment for her to make an attack.

Fuck the police coming strait from the underground
Young Brother…

Jenkins kicked the open phone into the kitchen and lurked toward the cowering woman still holding the rearview mirror.

I need a hero,
I’m coming up for a hero ‘till the end of the night
And he’s got to be strong and he’s got to be cool and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight
I need a hero!

With bloody smeared face open arms, he approached; his menacingly crooked smile juxtaposed his furiously tracking, unfocused eyes. Jenkins knelt down wrapping his arms softly around hers folding little Kelly into a bundle of corn chips. She cried and wriggled for escape. The mirror, covered in her husband’s blood, rested against her cheek.

She let the smelly crazy man hug them and reached back for the fire tools. Thank god she had unpacked this much. Her husband wanted to wait until winter leaving the unused tools in the garage, but she liked the way the equipment stood next to the fireplace. Certain things made a house a home; fire tools and toothbrush holders were paramount.

Poker in hand, held behind his back, she continued to hold and shake and sway with the two of them. Oddly purring noises came from him, but no words emanated other than in song. This wasn’t happening.

She smashed the metal rod against his back and recoiled screaming, “Get out! Get out! Get away from her!” He whimpered kitten like as tears dropped to her wooden floor. She brandished the weapon like a sword and drove him back hands raised in front of the broken window. His back illuminated by flashing police lights, loudspeakers dominated the air. Jenkins turned, open mouthed, to dozens of spinning red lights and uniformed men pointing guns.

Mamma they try and break me
The window burns to light the way back home
A light that warms no matter where they’ve gone
They’re off to find the hero of the day
But what if they should fall by someone’s wicked way?

“DROP YOUR WEAPON!”

Jenkins’ hands pointed to the sky, but he still held his precious mirror. He brought it close to his face and stared at his reflection asking his eyes how this happened. Where was Grant to explain? He was the hero. He saved Sally. He killed Smith.

Jenkins extended the mirror to the police as a gift. He wanted to ask for his reward. He wanted his paper signed by the mayor. He was a good citizen. He was answered by loud popping sounds and pain blooming in his shoulder and chest and stomach and leg.

The sky was so beautiful and the stars welcomed him home with song.

Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder….