A young girl dies on the streets, bringing into focus the relationships of those around her.
Come Softly
"Dahm, dahm, dahm doo dahm, doo ooby doo, dahm, dahm, dahm doo dahm, doo ooby doo, dahm, dahm...," floated through her head as she lay on the street, her life's blood rushing like a crimson river from the hole in her ascending aorta where a hollow point bullet had trespassed her body, leaving her open and vulnerable to the world around her.
"Come softly …" she whispered, wondering what was happening, why she was so high. She was floating, but with purpose. Something with the force of a vacuum was pulling her life force through a tunnel that had appeared when everything in the world around her collapsed just as the burning bullet ripped her physical body apart. She flew up a flight of stairs to the brilliant white light that glowed somewhere just beyond her reach, at the top of a pyramid that seemed to be filled with the glimmering radiance of all the stars she’d ever seen in all of her life. She lost herself in the dazzling glow of the divine light as she reached out for it, soaring upward, dizzy with the freedom of the magnificent light.
Onward she climbed toward the face of a woman who looked almost like her mother, shining with love for her, eyes pulling her with comfort. And then the face shifted to that of a man whose eyes were so clear they seemed to merge with a blue cloudless sky, shimmering in a rainbow aura that promised universal peace and love. Another shift and she saw faces she knew so well, but couldn’t place, the faces of all of her brothers and sisters, those with whom she shared the world around her. One face loomed nearer, so recognizable but lost in a jumble of thoughts, eyes that said he knew her well, and then his lips moved, forming words that drifted into her consciousness, wrapping themselves all around her, "...hear what I say...", and she suddenly recognized him as the man she’d helped off the street just the week before.
He'd been beaten by a gang of ruffians and left lying on a curb, bleeding and crying in utter despair. She didn't know his name, but she’d helped him up and escorted him to the homeless center, waiting with him, holding his hand, until a nurse appeared. She’d given him a ten dollar bill and a kiss on his dirty cheek as she whispered for him to be safe.
She didn't know how, but she could see before her very eyes that he hadn’t remained within the boundaries of safety. Without understanding how, she knew he’d left the world of the living since that night such a short time ago. He smiled knowingly at her, his eyes full of compassion and warmth, and then waved as she felt herself freed from the awesome force of gravity, her body suddenly flying through space, the wind from the passing ether caressing her body, healing her soul from every hurt she’d ever felt.
Below was a green forest, giant fir trees sparkling in the brilliant sunlight, green-blue shadows intersecting with hazy light as it filtered down though the boles of the trees, azure blue skies all around her, utter silence broken only by the sound of the wind rushing past her face. Then she heard, "...doo ooby doo, dahm, dahm...", and the forest opened up to reveal a meadow covered with daisies, phlox, black eyed Susan, and Queen Anne's lace, surrounded with tall trees dressed in spring green leaves.
She heard the sound of dog tags jingling and then the happy bark of Heezie, the dog she’d loved the first fourteen years of her life. The dog pushed off from the brightly colored earth with his stubby little legs and kissed her face with the joy that only a beloved pet can give. She leaned down to pet Heezie and kissed his dark, wet nose. The dog barked playfully and began running across the meadow toward a large group of people sitting comfortably beneath the trees, talking and laughing in an atmosphere that seemed like home.
And then she saw them, and her heart lurched with love. Instantly she was transported so that she stood under the trees in the arms of her parents who’d died in a car wreck when she was fifteen years old, leaving her alone in the world to fend for herself. For just an instant, the void she’d felt since the day they died was filled, and she felt their arms around her, felt their love as if it were pounding in her own heart, felt the warmth of their touch. She heard their voices telling her how much they loved her, and it filled her body and mind with an intense love that left her breathless. The other people under the trees circled like a kaleidoscope of faces she’d seen only in pictures on the mantle at her parents' home, all of them radiating love that she felt with her whole being.
The world began to spin as she felt a lightness of ecstatic joy wash over her from head to toe. Everything seemed to merge together until she was alone on a sea of joyful light, immersed in bliss, at one with everything she’d ever known or been. And then there was silence.
The river of blood flowing from her body slowed to a trickle like a dry desert stream and then died completely. Her body lay like a question mark in the midst of a dark crimson ocean, blood mixing with the dirt and oil of the street, its surface reflecting the blinking neon sign that hung on a nearby building. Her hair fanned out from her face like a diadem, its curls turning to ropes as it soaked up the bloody sea around and underneath it. The short tight skirt she was wearing had ridden up, revealing Victoria's Secret underwear with a Brazilian touch, her smooth shaven skin exposed for all to see in the midst of the sea of blood, her arms askew, her nipples visible through her blood-soaked transparent shirt, her body as vulnerable in its death throes as she had been in her sojourn through life after her parents’ death. A tear had traversed her face, leaving a clear path down her cheek, surrounded by the thick walls of gaudy make-up she'd hidden behind as she plied her trade in the street.
A young detective standing carefully outside of the circle of blood sighed as he stared at her young face, wishing he were anywhere else, anywhere other than yet another tawdry crime scene.
"Jesus Christ," he said as he glanced back at his partner. "Another hooker. Make sure you steer clear of the blood. No telling what's in it."
He looked over his shoulder, searching for the source of the haunting notes that floated all around him: "doo ooby doo, dahm, dahm."
"I wish somebody would turn off that radio," he muttered.
His older partner shook his head and said, "Let's canvas the area while we wait for forensics."
"Why? Don’t you ever ask yourself who cares about a lowlife skank on the streets? All we're really doing here is picking up garbage."
"Pull yourself together. It's our job."
"Okay, all right. But you know as well as I do that in a case like this … nobody's ever seen anything. It's a waste of our time, and if we’re honest about it, most of the people around here are probably glad or indifferent to the fact that she’s a goner."
A small crowd had gathered and stood watching the gruesome tableau of death by crime unfolding before them. One woman stood apart. She gestured to the detectives and they walked to her side.
"Yes, ma'am, did you know the deceased or see what happened?" the older detective asked respectfully.
The woman sniffed disdainfully and said, "I don't know her, but she's been selling her body on the corner near my store for the last few weeks. I've called the police dozens of times to get her and the others she associates with arrested or at least chased away. Not that anyone ever came and did anything about it."
"Manpower, ma'am, or the lack thereof anyway, sometimes plays into our ability to respond to complaints that aren’t … dire in nature. So do you know her name?"
"Of course not. I would never talk to someone like her." The woman shook her head vehemently and stared at the pool of blood as if transfixed.
She turned back to the detective and glared. “Oh, so you don’t think it’s ‘dire’ that the children of the good citizens who live on this street are forced to share this space, the streets where our children roam, with the likes of a whore like her?”
"Sorry, ma’am. Decisions like that are above my pay grade.”
“That’s an easy out,” the woman said, her voice rising with rage. “We’re taxpaying citizens, the ones who give the money that ends up in your paycheck. You think it’s right that you don’t come when we call … and then you’re here right away for trash like her.”
She turned back to the dead girl lying in the street, her eyes drawn to the scene like magnets to steel. She seemed engulfed in the curiosity of the living for the recently dead, almost thankful that someone she deemed undeserving of life was dead in the street. Her face conveyed that she was gratified the girl had gotten just what she deserved.
“I don’t mean any disrespect, ma’am, but I’m not a policy maker. If you’ve got complaints about how the department’s run, I urge you to go to your councilman. There are plenty of cops who’d love to respond to every call and get paid for it.”
“I just guess I’ll have to do that,” the woman said huffily.
“Well, if you think of anything, please let us know."
"Wait," the woman said. She looked from the dead body to the detective as if unsure of something. "I … don't know … she seemed like all of the rest, but …" She stopped as if she couldn't go on. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes, catching the interest of the seasoned detective.
A tall man approached the detectives, his hair flying wildly about his head, his clothing dirty and ragged, his fists balled at his side. He said, "I heard what she said to you … what she's not telling you is … that girl on the street is a hero. That's what she is … hooker or not. She had a kind heart. She took care of us all one time or another. And that bitch …"
The man paused as he wiped a tear from his eyes. Then he pointed at the woman, "She was unmerciful to that poor girl. Chased her out of her store more than once for no reason … just because of how she made her living."
The woman’s look of disdain collapsed. She wrapped her arms around her body and sobbed.
A young boy approached the woman and stood beside her, patting her shoulder and staring at her with compassion. The woman glanced his way and grabbed him. She hugged him close to her body and began rocking back and forth. The boy’s face turned red. He looked around, appearing to be embarrassed at the woman’s steely grip. He began struggling to pull himself away. When she wouldn’t let go, he gave up and patted her on the back.
The boy said softly, "Tell the policeman what she did."
The woman violently shook her head. “What … I already told him … she … destroyed the peace of this neighborhood …”
The ragged man turned to the detective and said, "I'll tell you what she did. She put her body in front of a bullet aimed at that scrawny brat there." He pointed at the boy. "Even though he and his grandmother treated her like dirt many times before ... chased her from the store … called her dirty names … even after all that abuse at their hands, she put herself in harm's way to save his young ass." He closed his eyes in pain. “She was a hero …”
"Wait a minute," the older detective said. "Who was pointing a gun at the kid?"
The woman narrowed her eyes. “It was an accident.”
The boy hung his head and said softly, "It was my … uncle. He told my grandma he'd shoot me if she didn't give him some money. That lady …” He pointed to the body on the ground. “She heard him say it when she was inside … in the store. Then he left, but when I came out of the store later … he pointed the gun at me like he was going to shoot and … that lady … she jumped in front of me . .. like she was trying to … protect me from him.”
The boy started walking toward the crime scene, but the detective stopped him.
“What happened next, son?” the detective said softly.
The boy continued to stare at the girl’s body as if mesmerized. “He laughed at her and called her … a name. Then he shot her. He looked crazy." He turned sad eyes to the detective and continued, “Is she dead?”
“I’m afraid she is.”
The woman stared blankly at the detective and said dully, "It's true . She saved my grandson's life."
The ragged man said derisively, "Yeah, but don't forget the part before she did that … the part when you took the broom and used it to push her out the front door."
The woman sobbed even more loudly and said, "She was a whore. I didn't want my grandson to see her kind …"
"Kind. That's right. That's what she was," the ragged man said, tears running down his face. “She’s been on the streets since she was fifteen years old. Ran away from a bad place where she was raped with regularity to try to make a better life for herself … and you can say what you want, but she made life better wherever she was. Just last week, she rescued one of my buddies from a bunch of street thugs. She was always doing nice things for people, for those of us who need a little kindness the most.”
The boy pulled away from his grandmother's frantic embrace and walked to the edge of the crimson pool. He stared at the dead body of the woman who’d saved his life and said, "Thank you, lady."
“Don’t call her a lady,” the grandmother shouted.
The boy stood motionless, staring at the girl’s face. He said, “No, Grandma, don’t you see? She saved my life. You always say that good women are ladies. She was a good woman … so she was a lady.”
In the air around the boy, the plaintive notes of the song continued to play, "doo ooby doo, dahm, dahm ..."
The boy felt someone kiss his cheek, and turned to see who it was. There was no one … just a burst of light that flared and then was gone. He smiled at his grandmother; his eyes filled admiration for the dead girl, and said solemnly, “She was a great lady.”
The grandmother sighed, thinking of her own daughter, remembering when her grandson came to live with her. His mother had traded her life for a crack pipe and a street name. Her precious child had become a victim of an addiction that drove her to sell herself to the highest bidder over and over until life on the streets finally ground out all of the light she’d ever had inside of her. She remembered the last time she’d seen her daughter, her hair thin and broken, her body like a stick figure, her face a mask of greedy lust for the dollars it would take for one more high. She remembered the fear she’d felt when her daughter laughed and said she’d take her son away with her if her mother failed to meet her demands for money. She’d happily placed a wad of cash in her daughter’s grasping hands to buy a little more time with the grandson she loved.
She felt a cold wind blowing from the drug ravaged jungle where her daughter died from a heroin overdose. Her stomach roiled as she remembered that she’d murdered her own child. She’s funded the overdose that killed her daughter. Even worse, she’d felt some jubilation that her daughter was gone and wouldn’t threaten the safety of her precious grandson. Then she remembered her daughter’s beautiful face glowing with the great promise that life held for her before the highway accident that broke so many of her bones and began her trip down the path to drug sickness, the same accident that had left the driver without injury, with no bad effect except the little pain in her neck that sometimes bothered her when the weather was cold and rainy. She smiled at the picture in her head of the girl she’d loved so much.
The grandmother said, “Perhaps she was.” She walked to the pool of blood and stood beside her grandson staring at the dead girl almost floating in the blood. Raindrops began to fall, splashing up from the puddle mixed with the blood. The temperature began to drop, and she winced as she felt the familiar pain in her neck stir with the weather change.
She smiled at the boy and said, “You’re right. She was a great lady, a very great lady.”
I almost stopped reading with the fantasized death of the girl that follows many accounts of near-death experience. And then, I started reading the rest of the story that peeled off bits and pieces of what had transpired and why people were thinking and acting the way they were.
This is a classic example of how a short story can influence people's attitudes towards others. Life is not all good guy/bad guy. There are shades of gray that affect every life. Like in the movie, Crash, tearing down stereotypes.
This is very interesting because next week I will begin working on a book (or story if it is short) of a sweet friend who left her home at 15 and a child behind become a prostitute, drug addict, convicted murderer and other crimes. Hopefully, her story… Her real story that she wants to tell… Will be as revealing and attitude changing as your fine one is.
Prime-Time Crime Time (600 pages) is a collection of 35 fictional crime/detective stories and the work is author Jay Dubya's 43rd published hardcover/paperback book.
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