The Beat of My Heart

I am once again in the enchanted orchard of my dream world. I do not belong to this ethereal world, yet I am powerless to interrupt that which binds me here. I cannot awaken myself and other’s attempts thus far have proven unsuccessful.

I do not know how long I have been confined to this plane. I can remember a time when I was not stuck here, when this place was a pleasant diversion from a hectic life of school, work and children. This place is familiar to me, but only in snippets of dreams from childhood and daydreams of my adult life. Where I belong is a far different place full of people and buildings that sprout from cement streets to conquer the skies. There are automobiles there and planes defying gravity coursing through the sky. I miss the noise and energy of that place. I no longer want for quiet, I have had my fill.

The women dancing gaily, entwining themselves into each other. It is hard to tell where one sister begins and the next one ends. They are a trio of matched maidens, each a mirror image of the next. They are as fresh as the spring they celebrate, their rosy cheeks bright against the ivory of their skin. The golden red of their hair tangles down to the delicate curve of their lower back. Their dresses are simple, gauze-like, snow-white wraps barely covering their womanly curves. I watch them now, as I have since I came to the orchard, but they do not notice me. For as long as I have been here they have not seen me, or if they have seen they have not acknowledged my presence. I wonder if I appear as a ghost to them, for that is how I feel about myself.

My appearance in this orchard has gone largely unnoticed by its inhabitants. The gardener, a woman dressed in the same fauna she tends, has seen me. She knows I am here, yet has made no attempt at conversation. Once I received a simple nod of her head, and the upturned corners of her lips. Since that time there has been little in the order of recognition.

The other party who has seen me in the orchard is a young man. He spoke to me upon my arrival and since that time I have sought him out. His name is Michael and he is a hero. I have heard many stories of his adventures, some from him but many I knew as a child. He was my favorite hero growing up. His coal hair and almond eyes were etched upon my brain when I was yet a toddler. He still wears the scarlet cloak, which the king of Xandre gave to him upon the slaying of the great green dragon, draped around his muscular body. His sword still dangles, ever ready on his hip.

It seems to me that time does not pass in the orchard. The trees are always full of fruit, the weather always spring. This seems such a contradiction to my mind, but sits well in my heart. The fruit does not rot, and is sweet beyond mention. And still I long for a bearing. A simple sign to show the passing of time; sunset, sunrise, sleep, wake, anything but this unchanging calm. Even as the maidens dance and the gardener tends there is nothing to indicate a schedule to their movements. The plants grow seemingly over night. If a tree is felled another replaces it in an instant. Years are seconds, minutes are hours and I am losing my mind to the unending spring. Michael is no help; he does not understand my longing for time. Sleep when you are tired; eat when you hunger is the advice I get from him.

When last I saw him I asked for a new story, one that would explain my situation to me. “What do you mean?” Michael asked.

“Tell me why I am here. I want to know why I am stuck in this orchard, surrounded by people who will not converse with me. Why can’t I leave and how long must I stay?”

Michael sighed; he knew this question had been on my mind for a while. “I will tell you the story, but I will tell it only once and after that we must never speak on the subject again, for it will only bring pain to the peace we have found here.”

He came to me and spread his cloak on the moss-covered ground. I sat down and he joined me there. “Do you see those dancing maidens?” he began. “They are dancing to the rhythm of your heart. If one of them falters, your heart will falter; if one of them stops your heart will also. This is why they do not stop to chat. We call them Hope, Love and Faith. Each one is necessary for the rhythm to continue and without each the heart will cease.”

I watched the maidens then, in their silent dance. The constant beat of their feet upon the earth touched me. I lifted my hand to my chest and felt the beat there also. The same beat, steady and strong. I prayed they did not falter.

“The gardener, we call her Patience, is here to tend you.” Michael continued. “She is maintaining the forest as a temple. It is your body and the breeze running through it, your soul. You see there are few weeds here and that is good, but there are also few flowers and that is something that needs work. The weeds are doubts, woes and other ailments affecting the body. They begin small, but if they are not taken care of they will overtake even the tallest tree. Flowers are the “goods”, thoughts, words, deeds, anything that promotes the wellness of the body through selflessness.”

“I am here as your protector. I guard against the evil you would do to yourself and that which would be done to you. It is why I will not let you leave the orchard, until I know the danger is gone.” Michael stopped.

I looked at him, my eyes wide. How could this be true? Had I unknowingly placed myself in danger? Why do I need a protector, has something so heinous happened to me? I needed to know the answers to my questions, but Michael was not saying any more on the subject. His lips were now sealed and try as I might he would speak to me no more on the subject.

Action needed to be taken, but how? I needed to get away, back to my reality. I did not want to be trapped in the orchard any longer. I decided to make a break for the clearing just beyond the border of the trees. I did not think on the consequences of escape. As I ran the maidens sped up their dance. The faster they went the more wild they became and as I reached the last line of trees, Faith faltered. As I cleared the wood Hope tripped and with her I went down. My last vision was Love dancing with abandon, tears shining in her eyes, her sisters fallen to the ground weeping.

I had escaped, but there was nothing beyond the orchard and I was truly alone.

The Cat Collector

We arrived at the removal site early that morning. It was an old clapboard house that had once been bright yellow, the paint was peeling to reveal the graying wood beneath. The front window was dressed in tattered sheers and there were several cats lounging on the sill inside. I opened the door to my white ASPCA van, climbed out and greeted the rest of my team. Johnson and Lou climbed out of the second van as Michael and Miranda emerged from the third. We met on the front lawn, and began to don our protective suits.

“I hate gearing up like this,” said Michael. “I always feel like I am heading into a war zone with this stuff on.”

“Believe me; you will be thankful you have the suit, once we get inside. I was here on Tuesday to set this up and that house should be condemned,” I told him. “What’s worse is the guy still lives in there.”

Once we had our white plastic suits, gloves, goggles and breathing masks on we made our way to the front step, each carrying either a humane “live catch” trap or a pile of flat carrier boxes. The smell of ammonia emanated from the house. I rang the doorbell and we had only waited for a moment when the door opened and the owner, Frank Jackson, appeared. He was a slight man in his early forties who looked as though he had been dragged through life thus far. Frank’s thinning hair was a dirty grey, thick with grease and coated in dust. His scraggly beard grew in sparse patches across his jaw line and surrounded his mouth. His constant smoking drew attention to the cracks in his lips and to the particular manila shade of his teeth and his fingernails.

“Come in, come in.” He welcomed us, as if we were guests visiting for pleasure.

We crossed the threshold into the living room where dozens of cats were lounging on every inch of flat space available. Once they noticed we had invaded their territory there was a furious flurry of cats racing for the best hiding spots.

“Hi, Frank,” I said. “You do know we are here to collect your cats today, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he said. “I would have called you sooner, but things just kept piling up. You know how that is don’t you?” He shrugged his skinny shoulders and smiled apologetically. He bent down to pick up a large, sleek, smoky grey cat, who had been rubbing against his legs. “This is Misty,” he said introducing us to the cat. “She is my favorite. She looks like the stray kitten I gave my wife, Betty. We called the kitten Smoky, she was the start of it all, the one responsible for these little beasts. I never knew one cat could cause so much damage.” He put the cat down and it scooted across the living room floor, climbed the sheers and perched itself precariously on the curtain rod.

“Well, let’s get moving,” I told everyone, “The sooner we get started the sooner we are finished. Jackson, you and Lou start upstairs, Michael, Miranda you guys can start setting the traps up in here and I will hit the kitchen.” Our mission was to catch and transport the multitude of cats in Frank’s house to the shelter. There they would be examined by the veterinarians and we would rescue the ones we could and provide relief for the ones we couldn’t save.

The inside of the house was an utter disaster. The floors were covered in a muck of urine and feces, inches thick. The air was poisonous ammonia from the fermentation of urine. Every surface in the house was covered in a thick blanket of soft downy hair. Frank followed me into the kitchen where the ammonia was joined by the smell of rotting food. A sink full of dirty dishes contained a constant drip supplying what little water seemed to be available for the animals. There was dry cat food piled in the corner and a large black tom sat atop the pile, guarding it from the hungry hordes who dared approach.

“That’s Fat Albert, Frank said, pointing at the black cat. “Isn’t he beautiful?” I nodded. I was beginning to worry that Frank might be a problem once we actually began to take the animals away.

Frank walked over to Fat Albert and began talking to him and scratching him behind the ears. I opened a can of cat food and set the first trap of the day. While I waited for one of the cats to wander into the trap I heard a plaintive mewing from one of the cupboards.

Nestled in the corner of a cabinet with the door hanging from one hinge I found a litter of newborn kittens, a day or two old at the most. Their hairless, blind bodies were lying on a blanket of hair. There were eight in the nest, one piled on top of the next. I gently reached in and removed each kitten, placing them in one of the carrier boxes I had brought with me. There was no mother cat close and no way for me to tell which cat in the house was the rightful parent. I took the box full of babies and set them out on the lawn so they could be loaded into a van and taken to the shelter, perhaps to be saved, perhaps not.

Frank followed me out to the lawn. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to find their mama first?” He seemed genuinely upset that these kittens were being taken and their mother was not with them.

“I can’t tell which cat in there is the mother; maybe we will find her later and reunite them at the shelter.” I told him.

Frank began to cry. “It’s not fair,” he said. “It’s just not fair to take babies away from their mother. That’s why there are so many of them you know, I just couldn’t bear to take Smokey’s babies away from her. They were the only company I had after my wife died.”

“Sorry to hear about that Frank, but there isn’t much I can do about it now. I have to get back to work.” I turned and left Frank standing on the front lawn, crying over the box of orphaned kittens.

We worked all morning, collecting the cats. Many were feral; they would rush around the room, frantically searching for the exit if approached by anyone. The best way to catch them was to set the “live catch” trap with a bit food. Once the cat entered the trap a door would drop down behind them and they were caught. The tricky part was removing them from the trap and putting them into the white collection boxes without being scratched. Lou excelled at removing the wild ones from the traps, so we just stayed out of his way whenever we heard the snap of another trap door shutting. Others, mostly the older cats, were tame and walked right up to us. Miranda began collecting these, treating them to little bits of cheese as they purred loudly in her arms and went complacently into the white boxes.

The carrier boxes piled up on the lawn until there was no longer room for any more. Miranda began loading the boxes into the back of a van. Frank, who had disappeared after his crying jag on the lawn, came out to help her. He made sure the box with the litter of kittens was one of the first in the van.

“My wife was run over by a van,” Frank said to me as he watched Miranda pull away. “She had just found out the in-vetro had worked. She called me at work all excited about the news, said she was walking to the convenience store for a newspaper. The next thing I know is the police are calling me to tell me she was dead.”

Frank turned to look at me, and then he looked at his house. “She would have been so disappointed in me for letting this happen.” Tears began streaming from his eyes again.

“Frank, why don’t you go pull yourself together? You can’t do anything more and I will let you know when we are finished,” I told him. His tears were grating on me. We were only halfway through a grueling day of gathering his collection of cats. The number of boxes on the front lawn alone was over a hundred and there were still more animals hiding in the house. The mass of lives affected by his inability to take the responsibility of getting one little kitten fixed infuriated me.

As the day wore on we continued our work removing the cats from the house. The tame older cats were now all outside and the others hid from us wherever they could fit, rafters, closets, furniture, they were everywhere. When we thought we had the situation under control one of us would walk into a room and be greeted by dozens of shining yellow eyes peeking out from the dark corners, watching our every move.

Finally about six that evening the last cat was loaded into its carrier. Michael tallied the animals and reported that we had removed over two hundred cats and kittens from the house. We were exhausted and still there was more to do. We had to load all the animals into the vans and take them to the shelter. We began to load the boxes into the vehicles when I saw Frank watching us from an upstairs window. I told the team they could take off as soon as all the vans were loaded, and then I went up to talk to Frank.

Frank was sitting in a small upstairs bedroom. I was shocked to when I entered it to find there was no evidence of the chaos of the rest of the house in this little room. It was decorated as a nursery. Against one wall was a crib with a mobile of Noah’s ark hung over the pastel checked sheets. The changing table was stocked with all the baby essentials, the top covered in photographs of Frank and his wife. In the corner lay a sleeping bag and a small pile of Frank’s possessions, reality intruding on the fantasy of what could have been.

Frank was sitting on a rocking chair, facing the window. He took a deep drag from his cigarette and as he slowly exhaled I saw the thick blue-grey smoke dancing through the air, shinning where the light from the window caressed it.

“It looks like a graveyard out there. All of those white boxes lined up, they look like tombstones.”

“Some of them might as well be,” I said. “You know some of them will have to be euthanized, don’t you?”

“I hoped you could save most of them,” he said. “They are good cats you know, I just couldn’t take care of them anymore.”

“From the looks of it you haven’t been able to take care of them for quite a while.”

“True, true,” he said. Frank paused a moment and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. He lit another cigarette and stared off into the twilight sky, lost in a memory he didn’t want to share with me. “Well, it’s too late to change any of it now isn’t it?”

“Why?” I asked him, “Why did it have to come to this? If you had just taken the damn kitten down to the shelter and had the thing spayed none of this would be happening.”

“I couldn’t do that. Betty and I had tried so hard to get pregnant, when she found out the cat was expecting she was so excited. She died before that first litter was born and I didn’t have the heart to get rid of any of them. From that one litter I ended up with five more females and one male,” Frank said. He looked at me sheepishly and then averted his eyes once more. “You know what happened next, don’t you? That cat kept getting herself knocked up and then the kittens got old enough to have their own litters. Before I knew it I was surrounded.”

I watched his cigarette smoke dancing in the stale air, while I tried to imagine the depths of depression he must have gone through to let things get this out of control. I tried to think of Frank as the man in those pictures on the table, successful, happy, married, loved, but the image that kept coming back to me was this sad, broken man rocking as he watched his only companions being loaded up and taken away.

“Stormy died last summer,” Frank added. “I found her dead at the bottom of the stairs. I buried her underneath Mrs. Mantilla’s lilac bush, the same exact place I found her as a stray kitten. After that I just gave up, and let the cats take over the house, everywhere but this room. Now it just seems so empty.”

We watched as the last of the boxes were loaded into the back of my van. “I had better get going,” I said.

He nodded, “Yeah, its getting late.” He got up and escorted me through the now deserted house one last time. As we emerged from the house the sun was setting, bright orange and yellow across the darkening purple sky.

“Do you think I could keep just one?” He asked, a wisp of hope daring to enter his eyes. He was finally realizing when I left that night he would be truly alone.

“No, I’m sorry you can’t.”

He winced as I slammed the back door of the van shut on the cats and watched me climb into the driver side door. As I drove away, I could see him standing on the lawn watching me leave.




39

Freedom From Sin

Lizbeth held Sinclair’s head to her breast as his last labored breaths escaped his dry, cracked lips. When his last breath was drawn she began to weep uncontrollably, her tears interrupting the blood that had already begun to clot on his forehead. At long last the sobbing had worn her out and she slept, still cradling her beloved in her arms.

It was a few hours later when she awoke. Before she opened her eyes she knew the events of the previous night had actually happened. The acrid smell of blood was all around her, smothering her senses. She could feel the weight of her dead lover lying across her lap; she still clutched his head to her breast. Lizbeth opened her swollen eyes and forced herself into reality.

Lizbeth shifted Sinclair’s body to the side and gently slid from beneath its weight. Her muscles were cramped from the way in which she had slept; her clothes were stiff with blood. Her jeans stuck to her thighs as if pasted to her skin by some awful brown glue that stank of death. The white blouse she had been wearing was now grotesque rust.

“What have I done?” She thought to herself. Her hand rested softly on the back of Sinclair’s misshapen head as her fingers absently played with his blood caked locks. His eyes were still open. Those beautiful eyes, the color of aquamarine sea glass, smooth and perfect from years of being polished by sand and sea. His eyes were what she held responsible for all this trouble, the same eyes which were now staring, a death gaze into her own living ones.

She dare not close those eyes, now more like sea glass than ever before, no matter how disturbing they were. Those eyes still held power over her, even in death.

If escape had mattered to Lizbeth, she would have gathered her things and ran, but all that truly mattered to her was gone. She would wait to be discovered, lying next to the body of her dead lover and let the chips fall where they may. She wondered what people would say, what they would think once her story was told. Would they care she had loved him? Would they believe he had loved her despite the vibrant blue-greens and yellow-browns of the bruises displayed over her body?

It hadn’t always been like this. The first time she had seen Sinclair she was fourteen, just blooming into a woman. She had cursed her mother for the mousy blond hair and freckles which were prominently displayed across her tiny nose and cheeks. Had someone only looked at her face she may have appeared ten or twelve, but her body was that of a woman. Her breasts were high and full, their curves matched that of her hips, creating a perfect hourglass.

Sinclair had appeared that summer with a friend of her mother’s. A golden god is how Lizbeth described him to her friends. He looked just like the rock and roll singers displayed on every wall of Lizbeth’s room. His black leather pants were tight enough to see everything he had to offer. Most often he didn’t wear a shirt, so his long blond locks danced across the bare skin of his back and chest. He didn’t ignore her like the other men who came to visit her mom did. His smile lit her days and his eyes haunted her. It was the eyes that made her trust in his words and actions. His eyes melted the hearts of women and drew everyone to him.

On her fifteenth birthday Sinclair surprised her with tickets to a concert. He was taking her on a real date and she was so proud she almost burst as she rushed up the stairs to get ready. A few minutes later they were out the door, just her and Sinclair on their way like a real couple.
Lizbeth was so excited about the date she didn’t realize until they had been on the road for a while that they weren’t anywhere near the arena where the concert was being held. “Aren’t we goin’ the wrong way?”

“You just sit back and relax.” Sinclair gave her a smile, white and toothy.

She smiled back, not really caring where they were going, only caring she was with him. She had fantasized about him all summer and here it was, her opportunity to insure her first experience with sex was one which she would never forget.

After what seemed like hours, Sinclair pulled into a cheap motel. The butterflies in her stomach were beating their wings faster than they ever had before. She stood behind him as he fumbled with the motel room key. When he finally opened the door he scooped her into his arms and carried her over the threshold. They spent that whole night making love. He taught her things she never dreamed could possibly feel so good. His eyes penetrated into her soul at every turn. She had to keep her own closed lest she be consumed by the power in his eyes. Little did she know it was too late to escape them, she was hooked on Sin and would never be the same.
Sinclair woke her early the next morning. “Get up and get ready, we gotta be on the road by eight.”

“Ummhumm”, Lizbeth moaned as she reached up and put the pillow over her head.

“I said get up!” Sinclair shouted as he pulled all the blankets from the bed, leaving Lizbeth lying exposed.

“Hey!” Lizbeth protested and then stopped cold as she looked into Sinclair’s face. Bright red spots shone against his pale skin, his aquamarine eyes were no longer the clear sea glass, but now stormy and challenging. Best just to do what he wants, she thought to herself. I can always sleep in the car.

They checked out of the motel and were on the road at 7:56 by the clock on the car’s radio. Lizbeth rested her head on the window and promptly began to doze as Sinclair drove. She had assumed they were on their way back home, but when she woke up an hour or so later they were parked at a little diner.

Sinclair ushered her into the diner and picked a booth way in the back of the room. He sat facing the entrance, while Lizbeth had a lovely view of the bathroom doors.

“We’re in some trouble here.” Sinclair said.

“Trouble, what do you mean?” Lizbeth asked.

“You got a choice to make girly and you gotta make it now.”

“What choice? What are you talking about?”

“What we done last night, that is illegal. If I take you home your momma will have me arrested.”
“Illegal? Arrested? Momma wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, she would. Your momma, she don’t stand for anyone messin with you, no matter what you believe.”

“So what’s the choice?”

“You gotta pick. Do you wanna stay with me or you wanna run home to your momma?”

Lizbeth looked down at the yellowing Formica table top. There were cigarette burns marring its scratched surface. “What do you want me to do?” She whispered.

“Shit, girly. I want you to stay. There wouldn’t be no choice otherwise.”

Lizbeth closed her eyes and tried to picture her mom right at that moment. Was she worried, did she realize Lizbeth wasn’t home from the concert yet? In her mind’s eye Lizbeth saw her mother, not worried about her daughter, not even knowing she was missing. She saw her mother lying in bed, half naked with a man’s arm wrapped around her waist, both of them sleeping blissfully. “I’ll stay,” she said, “I’ll stay.”

The life that began with that snap decision in the diner was one Lizbeth could never have imagined. She was so flattered that Sinclair would risk jail or a life on the run just to be with her, she would follow wherever he led.

They were in a roach infested motel somewhere in the middle of Texas the first time he hit her. She had been complaining about the bugs, the heat, the trip, everything and Sinclair just popped her upside the head.

“Shut up!” He screamed. “Shut your fucking trap!”

Lizbeth held her hand to her ear, feeling the warm flush of the blood rising to the surface. The tears began to fill her eyes as she stared at him, glaring and waiting for an apology. That is the way it always worked with the guys who hit her mom, a slap or hurt followed by a quick apology and make up sex.

“Quit staring at me you bitch, or I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Sinclair spat at her, his fingers already clenching into a threat.

Lizbeth turned away from him, and walked to the sink at the far side of the room. She looked into the mirror hanging above the sink, the outline of Sinclair’s hand clearly visible. Lizbeth turned on the cold water, cupped her hands under the stream and filled them. She splashed the water on her face to cool the burn and turned off the faucet. She patted the grimy once-white towel against her face and checked the mirror again. The mark was still there, not as pronounced but still clearly visible. She turned back to face the room, saw that Sinclair was watching television and sat down next to him to watch it too.

After getting hit that first time Lizbeth stepped lightly, but it was never light enough. Almost daily there was another mark left somewhere on her body. Lizbeth learned to accept this treatment as a penance for Sinclair’s love. She must endure pain in order to bask in his radiance; he was still her golden rock god with the sea glass eyes.

The money ran out in Las Vegas, the land of glitz, glamour and broken dreams. It seemed fitting this is where Lizbeth lost the last of her innocence. Sinclair gambled the last of their money, trying to turn a hundred bucks into thousands. Somehow it was Lizbeth’s fault thirty-three didn’t come up on the roulette wheel. As always though, Sinclair had a way for Lizbeth to fix her mistake, all she had to do was make some money and luckily he knew how she could.
It was the first time he sold her to another man. A friend of his with a penchant for young girls was very interested in spending a little cash to fulfill his desires. Lizbeth was terrified when Sinclair brought this old, fat man into their room. The man looked at her with hungry eyes; as if he were a wolf who hadn’t eaten in weeks and she was a feast laid out before him. Sinclair shook his hand, took his money and left Lizbeth in the room with this stranger. When he returned an hour or so later the fat man had finished his business and was on his way out the door.

“Excellent, excellent, call me next time you are in town.” He tossed one last leering glance at Lizbeth and walked away.

“Go take a shower, you little whore.”

Lizbeth got up and walked into the bathroom, confused and betrayed. How could Sinclair love her and make her be with that man? And why was he acting so mean now, hadn’t she done what he wanted her to? She started the shower and stepped into the hot water. It scalded her as she scrubbed furiously trying to take away the touch and smell of the stranger. She emerged from the shower pink, ragged and a little bloody from the strenuous scrubbing. Sinclair produced a thick terrycloth robe, compliments of the motel, and wrapped it around Lizbeth’s bruised and battered body. He held her close to him, her wet hair lying across his chest. “See, that wasn’t so bad.” He whispered. “Next time will be easier.”

Next time? Lizbeth winced at the thought of that man returning, of any man ever touching her that way again, even Sinclair.

Of course as the days passed she forgave Sinclair. She convinced herself what happened had been only out of necessity and that it would never happen again. Unfortunately that was not to be the case.

They had been on the run for two and a half years when Lizbeth got pregnant. She knew it was Sinclair’s baby, even though he was still arranging “dates” for her. Lizbeth was thrilled to be pregnant. She hoped that once the baby was here Sinclair would see her as the mother of his child, as a person worthy of respect not as his property to pimp out whenever he wanted. She would be 18 before its birth and they would finally able to settle into a normal life. As soon as the home pregnancy test confirmed its positive result she rushed to tell Sinclair. His face was emotionless. A calm which disturbed Lizbeth, she had expected anger, joy, disbelief, anything but nothing.

“I’ll make you an appointment then.” Sinclair said as he leaned over and picked up the phone from the bedside table. After a quick conversation with the receptionist he replaced the receiver, set the phone back on the nightstand and told Lizbeth, “Get ready, the appointment is in an hour.”

They drove to what appeared to be a run-down clinic. The red brick building stood dwarfed all around by high rise apartment buildings. A chain-link fence guarded the building with the only gate facing the front door of the clinic. Through the front doors there was a registration desk, and a little waiting area filled with hard plastic chairs. Sinclair told Lizbeth to sit down there and he would register her. Lizbeth looked around the waiting room. In the corner was a young black girl, staring at her feet. An older woman, Lizbeth guessed her mother, sat beside her, her eyes looking forward, but at what Lizbeth couldn’t guess because the wall in front of her was blank. There was another girl across the room, wrapped in a blanket and shivering. Her eyes shone with tears as she patiently watched the window, seemingly waiting for someone to pick her up.
Sinclair came over to the chairs and sat down next to her. “It will take a few minutes for the Doc to set up and then he will come and get you.”

“Don’t you want to come in too?” Lizbeth asked, her eyes shining with the prospect of motherhood.

“Why do I wanna see this?”

“What do you mean; it’s your baby too.”

“In about 30 minutes there ain’t gonna be a baby.” Sinclair said emphasizing every word as he spoke it.

“What? Your not serious! I want this baby!”

“You’ll get rid of this kid or I’ll get rid of you.” Sinclair looked at her; those eyes she had once loved so desperately were cold. He lifted up the front of his shirt just enough for her to see the butt of his new pistol.

It was in that moment their fates were sealed. The doctor came out and called Lizbeth’s name. Sinclair shoved her shoulder, pushing her from the chair. She shuffled behind the doctor as she followed him down the hall.

The procedure was quick, and since it was early in the pregnancy, fairly painless, physically. As the doctor finished, all Lizbeth could think of was the baby girl, the one with freckles across the bridge of her nose and the eyes the color of aquamarine sea glass, smoothed by sand and sea.

Sinclair drove them back to the motel. He parked his butt back on the bed and began watching a police drama on the TV. Lizbeth went into the bathroom and vomited. How could she have done this? Someone so innocent, so pure, created of love to be tossed away like that was too much for Lizbeth to comprehend. She opened the bathroom door and saw Sinclair lying on the bed, no longer her golden god deserving adoration, but now she saw him as he truly was, a monster, a stealer of souls. He was sleeping; his snoring could be heard over the sirens on the television. The pistol he had threatened her with was now lying on the night stand next to the phone.
She picked up the gun, and felt the weight of it pulling at her arm, dragging it down to her side. She steadied it with her other hand and squeezed the trigger. The shot woke Sinclair. He jumped out of bed and started a stream of cuss words that died on his lips, as Lizbeth squeezed the trigger again, this time the bullet found flesh. The air around Sinclair seemed to explode with a spray of blood and gray matter. The bullet had gone through his forehead, and out the back of his skull. He dropped to the floor, and she could hear him gasping for breath. She thought about a finishing bullet and then recanted.

Lizbeth set the gun down on the night stand, exactly where she had found it. Sinclair lay on the beige carpet, the blood spreading slowly from his wound. Lizbeth walked over to him and looked down into his eyes. He was dying and the aquamarine sea glass eyes were pleading with her, they were afraid. She slid down the wall, and gathered Sinclair’s body to her, resting his head upon her breast. She clung to him desperately wanting to take back the bullet. Lizbeth wished for the strength to put one in her own body, to join Sinclair in death. But Lizbeth was weak, a woman without spirit, forced to live on while her heart died with Sinclair’s last breaths.