8th Street Blood & Tears

He took my wife, who boasted the belly of our 8-month-old Reign, and loaded the gun with a click. Running it from Reign's heart, up to hers, then back down again, he deviously grinned trying to decide which victim to kill first. The clock ticked. Ticked. Ticked.

All of this because she refused to be his prisoner again. She would not get in the van. He had all the money from the bank. He had the diamonds from her left hand, neck, and ears. He had everyone's attention. He didn't have her anymore.

Although her kind brown eyes and "I love you's" were once his, he hit and he threw and he attacked for seventeen years until she ran. She ran from her apartment with no shoes on. She ran across town and past dozens of people who did not even think to ask if she was okay, their stares were enough. She ran right into me on 8th street, tears staining her cheeks and blood dripping down her legs onto the pavement. She lay on that pavement in a ball. She held her feet to her chest. She yelled, "I'm sorry." That girl's broken body needed to be saved, and from that moment I knew there was nobody who could save her better than I.

I spent the past seven years fixing the brokenness. Every long sleepless night, early morning therapy visit, and medical bill was worth it for her, my Annie. A marriage, a miscarriage, and much motivation later, here we were, standing in front of the same man that haunts her nights and days since they started twenty-four years ago. Her father and whiskey, best friends since birth, showed their friendship has only grown in the past two thousand five hundred fifty-five days since Annie had last seen him. And now the iconic duo stood in front of her again...

She was a strong woman now: hips broad, heels high, and lips that curled when she smiled, which was seldom. Her dream of being a mother was less than a month away. All she wanted was to give her children the life she never had. Sometimes, she let me read her spiral-bounded blue journal, which she called an escape from reality. She had been writing notes to her kids since she was twelve. She wrote about all of the adventures she planned to take them on, how much she loved them, and how she planned to share her past with them. She thought of this as she murmured, "Dad, please go away." She then placed her hand carefully on her stomach, avoiding eye contact with this stranger that she once recognized as her father. Tick. Tick. Tick. The other couple in the bank and the three bankers began to sob. For every sniffle her father heard, he shot. "Come live with me Annie, I need you. You and your mother can't both leave me," he screamed. She tried to remember her mother. All she knew was that her mother and she shared the same brown eyes and curled lips and that she ran away when Annie was two. Through all of this, Annie did not break. She further proved to herself that she was better than him by simply stating, "No, please leave." His eyes began to water as his face reddened, a sight that often kept Annie up at night. She both painted and explained this sight in her spiral-bounded blue journal and to me through talking in tears many times before, but I had never seen it with my own eyes. She stepped back just in time for his tantrum. Throwing the whiskey bottles at the floor, glass scattered and invaded every person's body in the form of small shards. Yelps in pain caused more shots until it was silent again. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Until that moment, I didn't dare move. It was now just the four of our hearts still beating: Annie, her dad, Reign, and myself. He drew her closer and shot at her toes to prove he "was not joking." In fact, "If she did not get in that van within the next minute, she would be just as dead as the three bankers and the couple." She then screamed in pain, for her toes now began to empty onto the floor. That was enough watching for me. I jumped in front of my girls. He pulled the trigger. Tick. tick. tick.

The world went silent from the blasting noise of the gun. I felt my own body begin to empty onto the white and black marble floor of the bank on 8th street. I collapsed like a lifeless doll. Annie shouted and hobbled over to kneel by my side as well as she could, for her large belly and lack of three toes limited her mobility. She picked up my head and told me that I was going to be okay, even though we both knew that was far from true. My eyes then closed as I focused on breathing. Just like my therapist told me: in... out... in... out. I looked up just in time to see my girls get dragged into his van. Annie punched and kicked and sobbed, even when she realized she had now two shots to her body. The moment that van door slammed shut was when she realized Reign was gone and I was gone, so she gave up. She lay there, tears streaming down her cheeks and blood pooling all around her. She stayed silent.

I gasped for air, trying to use every bit of strength to crawl to the van and save my Annie. Instead, tick. tick. tick.

I was all alone in that bank on 8th street. The sirens now began, but they were all too late. All at once, my eyes closed and reopened painlessly as I traveled towards the sky, where I observed the van drive down 8th street, take a left onto Bryant Ave, and enter the interstate. Her father chuckled. His favorite song turned on the radio. He picked up his whiskey bottle, chugged a few sips from it, and used it as a microphone, singing, "And I think to myself... What a wonderful world."