Love, your stalker

Fourteen

I got a phone call at three a.m.

"Mrs. Phelps? Sorry to bother you."

I knew it was the same police officer that helped me the other night.

"No, no." I yawned. "I'm up? May I help you?"

"We found your kids."

*          *         *

I arrived at a old, rickety house on Elm Street. The paint on the shutters was peeling off and slowly falling to the ground like a feather, swishing back and forth. The color of the house was throw-up type of green that nobody likes, and the yard looked like a graveyard. Except without the gravestones.

I arrived in my grey car at four a.m. The place was crawling with police. They got out their firearms, ready to fire. Some had out bright flashlights and shining them into the broken windows of the rusty house. "Kirk, come out of the house with your hands up. We don't want to hurt you."

I knew it. It was Kirk.

The lights were on in the house, the television blared. I heard the front door click, then the nob turned to the left, slowly. The door opened, showing a tiny crack. Lacey and Harrison Jr. ran out to me, crying tears of joy. I gasped, and held out my arms for embrace. They sprinted away from the godforsaken house, their clothes were torn to shreds, their faces where bruised and bloodied.

"Mom! Mom!" they screamed. They ran into my arms and pushed their faces into my warm, winter coat, soaking it with tears.

"Oh. I'm so glad your OK." I kissed their foreheads and squeezed them, happy to see them. I touched their faces, I touched their swollen eyes and swollen lips. "What happened? But they didn't answer. My heart was sewed together with their love and their return home. My head was screwed on just right when I saw them. I could think clearly, see clearly and walk clearly. We walked to the cops together. "Thank you.Thank you so much." we said with deep gratitude.

The cop patted my back with a huge hand then took three other cops with him and went into the haunted house.

We started to walk back toward the car when we heard a ear-piercing, booming gun shot that echoed throughout the neighborhood.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

Four gunshots echoed.

*          *         *

Officer Flynn, the officer who lead the investigation, was killed yesterday in the line of duty, along with three of his brothers, as the police call their colleagues.

We arrived at the funeral for the four cops at noon, on 11th Street. Flowers were placed everywhere; on the coffins, in peoples hair, and in men's tuxes. They lowered the black coffins into the ground and took the big pile of dirt and covered the coffins; they were now at rest.

"I'm sorry for your loss." I said to a cop who stood next to me. It was female named Bobbie Brady. Her neat blond hair was put in a nice, circular bun. She wore no makeup, and she didn't need any. Her jawline was strong and secure, her beautiful green eyes were big and bright. I would say she was about in her early thirties or late twenties.

She showed a mouth full of metal braces. "Thank you. They were good people. It's a shame."

Not a single tear slipped down her face.