The door to the back yard blew off the hinges and hit the floor with a bang.
Three shots were fired at the same time, one loud bang in high definition.
The guy with the gun hit the floor.
I hit the floor.
John Kincaid, our local detective, came in the front with a gun in his hand. Tim was on his heels, so close they cast one shadow.
Our lawn care guy, Chris, stood in the back door, with a gun in his hand.
The guy on the floor groaned and began to cry.
I wet my pants.
Just a little bit.
~ ~ ~
Can I just say I am modest, shy, quiet and unassuming? Or I used to be. After the past months I was beginning to reconsider.
I was assaulted in the public park.
A couple I didn’t know tried to drown me.
A college kid attacked me.
My house was broken into.
My truck was vandalized.
I broke a guy’s face with a chair.
And now this – gunshots.
In my kitchen.
Tim didn’t slow down. He plowed past John, stepped over the guy on the ground and dropped to his knees in front of me.
Muse are you hit? Talk to me, babe. Come on! Talk to me!