**Warning: violence and possible triggers for those who have suffered violence at another person’s hands. This is not a true story.  All persons in this story are fictitious. **

She wrapped her fingers around the cold cobalt form that fit so perfectly in her hand. They moved in slow motion, wrapping and tightening, her vision blurring making it look as though her fingers were melting and joining with the form which fit so well as though it too hugged her back.

Her fingers were like ice, as cold as the form in her hand while inside her blood pumped hot through her veins to the rhythm of the thumping of her heart in her chest.

She shook her head trying to dislodge the drumming and thumping reverberating in her skull. The blurring of her vision once again cleared though the throbbing in her head persisted.

Nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same again. Her hearing was extra acute as though it knew at any moment she might lose her vision and would need it to detect the threat looming.


The sound made her eardrums vibrate. It wasn’t loud. It was so silent a breath of air could have obliterated it. And yet she heard it as if it were the booming sound of a firecracker going off over her head.


Looking down she saw the crimson stain upon the hardwood floor. Her vision blurred again making it look as though the drop of blood was just a red stain upon the wood seeping into it feeding it the liquid of its life.


Another drop joined the rest, and soon another and another making the red stain grow and spread. She could feel another drop form and slide down the side of her face rushing to join with the rest, not wanting to be left behind. She shook her head again trying to clear her vision and felt the crimson drop release from her chin and fly through the air.


It left another crimson stain upon the wall not far away and she watched as it spread and then slowly slide as gravity grasped it in its clutches.

She raised her arm with the already soaked sleeve brushing it across her tender temple trying to slow the exodus of her life in liquid form all the while continuing to grasp the cold cobalt form in her hands, fingers locked in a death grip so tight her knuckles were turning white. She dare not let go or she knew she would never be able to grip it again.

Each time her heart thud in her chest, she felt another crimson drop slide down her face.

Cautious in her movements, each step was slow, methodical. Each step could be her last. The coolness of the wood floor seeped into the soles of her feet. Her long toes grasped onto the edge of a step as she silently descended the stairs.

He had left her thinking she was dead. She was sure of it. She had only been stunned, not even knocked out, but stunned enough to not move. She had retained enough consciousness to be aware of his movements and to hold her breath when he came to check on her. He had been satisfied enough that she wasn’t breathing. It was almost as if he were loath to touch her. He had started to reach out to her but stopped withdrawing and leaving. Leaving her to die if she were not already dead.

Waiting several minutes, she wasn’t sure how many, to make sure he was not coming back, she slowly worked her way to standing, then retrieving the item she now held onto with a grip so fierce no one would be able to break it.

She was strong and she knew how to use it.

He apparently had been in no hurry to leave, most likely because he thought her dead and beyond retaliation. He had been wrong.

She kept swiping at the blood, making sure it soaked into her shirt instead of splatting onto the floor, possibly alerting him to her presence. The blood had already soaked her sleeve and a good portion of the front of her shirt. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding a way to get to him without him knowing.

Turning the corner, slowly peering around it as she went, she was relieved to see he had his back turned toward the entrance. She wasted no time. She knew her house intimately. She had helped design it and then lived in it these past ten years. She could walk around in pitch dark and know exactly where she was. There was nothing in front of him that would alert him to her movement.

She knew precisely how close she had to be. As soon as her barefoot stepped onto the invisible X on the floor marking that precise spot, the step onto the spot was the beginning of the powerful swing which sent softballs over center field and over the fence for the home runs she was famous for.

Hitting his head, though a might higher than the normal position for the softball coming in over home plate, still had all the power her coiled body contained, and she heard the solid thud of the composite bat hitting against his skull. She knew she would never forget the feel of his skull giving way through the vibration in the bat.

He dropped like a lead weight whose string it had dangled from, had suddenly been cut.

Not letting go of the bat, she picked up the phone from the counter dialing 911.

As she spoke into the handset giving the location of her home, her mind went over the dreadful moment of her being woken by a hand clasped around her mouth. Once the address was given, she dropped the phone leaving it still connected.

She stood looking at the still form lying upon her kitchen floor all the while, beyond her control, she relived the past few hours as the sound of her blood SPLAT upon the floor at her feet.

It was all she heard besides the screams in her head, the pleas she had made, and begging for him to stop.

Eventually, she became aware there were others around her, someone had stepped into her vision, though blurred again at first she had been afraid he had somehow risen up from the floor. She jerked her head in surprise and started to swing the bat again. A soothing voice had finally penetrated between the gaps of her horrid thoughts while firm hands and arms kept her from being able to get her body into the proper position for a good solid swing.

Shaking her head again her vision finally cleared. Uniformed men and women were all around her. One took a blanket and wrapped it around her. She was grateful, for it hid the fact that all she had on was the bloodied shirt she had thrown on just before she had grabbed the bat.

She could hear the men and women talking around her in bits and pieces.

“…no way she could have done this.”

“yes, she could have…”

“don’t you know who she is?”

“… Pat Calahan.. famous for… softball player.”

The voices came closer as she shifted her focus on them to hear better.

“There is just no way she could have done this. That man’s skull is bashed in.” A deep male voice spoke.

“She did and she could have. No one has beaten her record in fast pitch softball and there are only a few men in the men’s league who can beat her.” chastised a female voice.

If she had not been in shock she would have laughed at the tone of the woman’s voice. She had heard it many times in her career. The disbelief of men and the support of the women. Some men just didn’t understand the physics behind hitting a ball with a bat. She did and she did it well.

They had escorted her out of the house and put her on the gurney. Or more like it she had collapsed on the gurney. She felt the darkness start to draw her towards it when the woman officer’s face appeared in front of hers and started to speak.

“Who is the man? Do you know him?”

She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to speak but she knew this was important. “Yes. Paul Marino.”

“How do you know him?”

“Old boyfriend. I dated him only a couple times and broke it off. Knew he was bad news.”

“Officer, we need to get her to the hospital. In case you can’t tell she is barely hanging on. You can talk to her there if she makes it.” The paramedics rushed her off as she let the darkness overtake her. She had done what she needed to do and now she could let go.


About Kate Spyder

I'm a creative individual finding her way in her writing. I enjoy expressing my deep thoughts through poetry and stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoy writing them.
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