No, not the one in D.C., but the one that was located at the end of my next-door neighbor's driveway. It was just there like any other bush, but you could say it took on a unique significance for me on a certain day in my childhood.
Chris lived next door. He was a little older than me, and he loved cats, which was common knowledge of course. But as I recall, he wasn't around when some of us were horsing around on his (or his parents', I should say) front lawn and adjacent sidewalk.
A car was coming up the road, and right at the time the bush was directly between me and the car, I heard a thump thump. It was kind of quiet right after that. I think one or two of my buddies were playing and didn't seem to notice anything strange. Realizing this, I felt an odd aloneness I'm sure I hadn't felt before. Without really putting two and two together, I gradually walked around the bush to see what might have transpired on the street. Before anything, the morbidity crept upon me while gazing at a cat's eye socket protruding a couple inches from its smashed head, which seemed neatly surrounded by a puddle of blood. The morbidity was soon accompanied by fascination as I stood there, just looking. I'm sure the others eventually came around and saw it, but I can't seem to remember that part. What it seemed like was the beginning of darkness; its embryonic seed, if you will; a sickness that said smoothly, automatically: more is on the way.
The true story of Cheryl Pierson Cuccio who made headlines in 1986 and her husband Rob Cuccio. Cheryl was abused sexually and physically and Rob died for 43 minutes on Cheryl's 43rd birthday.
