Golden Touch Senior Housing
On Lafayette Street over on the West-side near the Went-fieldPark woods and nestled in greenery so well kept was the Golden Touch Senior Housing. It was the perfect place to live out your golden years.
Two crack heads desperately seeking cash decided to test that complex to see if there was gold in them darn hills. Apartment 2-A was a bust. Cindy Abrams had been shot in the head and stabbed repeatedly, several times in the chest, and there was a pillow near her husband’s head, marred by a large amount of gunshot residue. Even after he was shot his face was also covered by the same series of repeated stab wounds. After that they ransacked the apartment and only found eight dollars.
Apartment 2-B was next on their list. Karen Smith removed from a shelf in her closet directly in front of the bathroom a cigar case containing two thousand dollars, money that her daughter had collected for her so that she could help pay for hip surgery.
That amount of cash sent the crack heads into instant pandemonium. Darrin Smith cried out and flung himself forward trying to stop the gun from going off. As Karen collapsed, Darrin struggled forward, fighting to see, fighting to stay conscious despite watching his wife being shot in the head. Her blood completely covered his eyes, but he just had to get to her. One of the crack heads picked up a lamp and smashed it over his head, but that didn’t stop his forward movement. Fighting to stay conscious despite shock, fighting to move through the pain and the concussion that wanted to take control, he wanted to be next to his wife. The second crack head kick him in the ribs knocking him to the floor. There they started kicking him repeatedly while laughing uncontrollably. Darrin still moved forward ignoring his broken ribs; he was also fighting to breathe against the blood in his lungs. If he was going to die, it was going to be next to his dear wife of over sixty years.
Darrin bolted forward, wishing it was all a bad dream. He wanted to hold her, to reassure her that he was going to be with her forever, right beside her. Then reality would hit. He couldn’t get to her; his forward movement had stopped, almost as if he was waking from a second nightmare. He realized that he would no longer hold her; he would no longer sleep next to her. He wiped the blood away from his eyes and reached for her, but it was no use. He couldn’t get to her.
The crack heads were fighting over the money, and they hadn’t realized how long they spent in the apartment. Outside, in the darkness preceding dawn greed consumed them as the police stormed in with their state issued pistols drawn. A few neighbors peeked into the apartment in a curious morbid way.
Detective Peter O’Brien bent over Darrin’s body so that he could hear what the man had to say. Darrin felt as if his nightmare still lurked at the edge of the room. He had to relay a message and he would do it even if it took his last breath.
Agnes Milne who lived in apartment 3-B rushed into Darrin’s apartment screaming with her forearms extended, both palms covered with blood. Sensing an ugly dry cleaning bill, one of the uniforms stepped back and allowed her in.
“Karen and her husband are dead too,” she screamed.
“Get her out of here, and check that out,” O’Brien barked.
The two crack heads were cuffed and hauled away. The crime scene was being created and Detective Laura Kimber watched O’Brien drag Darrin’s body over to his wife and laid them together.
“You know that’s disturbing the crime scene,” she said.
Detective Peter O'Brien nodded, then turned and walked away.
© 2014 Frank Atanacio
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