“Wynonna hurry up!”

Mom hollers from the front corridor. Her feet stomp and a suitcase drags through the upstairs hallway, down the steps, and out the front door.

I rummage through my bedroom closet and toss random clothes into the open suitcase behind me.

“Okay, shirts, pants, sweaters, shoes… what am I missing?” I recite scanning the now messy bedroom.

Mom yells at me again.

I hear her stomp back into the house, grab another suitcase, and yank the front door shut. The house shakes. I grab my suitcase, dash out my bedroom, and scurry down the steps.

Dad paces around the living room.

His black dreads flop each time he peeks out the window and checks the black flip phone in his hand. Last time I saw him this frantic was when our childhood dog, Buster, somehow jumped over our backyard fence and went missing for two days.

It has been confirmed that, Marcus Blackwell, is the suspected Sedona killer famously known as “Stitch Man”.

A reporter interrupts my thoughts and a photo of my dad appears on the TV.

Police are now on their way to apprehend the suspect thanks to an anonymous tip they received early this morning.

Dad whips his phone at the TV shattering it. He plops into our brown leather couch and sighs. An object bulges out the bottom pocket of his grease stained overall. With eyes fixated on the ceiling, he reaches into it and pulls out his revolver. He notices me with his green eyes and tears drip past the dark freckles on his cheeks.

“Dad what are you—”

The car’s engine starts and two loud honks urge me to dart out the front door before finishing my sentence.

A cloud of dust approaches us from down the desert road—sirens wailing with it. Mom waves at me to hurry up from inside the dark grey minivan. I dash towards the car, pull open the trunk, and throw my suitcase inside.

“Are we leaving without Dad?” I yell from the trunk and shut it before jumping into the front seat. She ignores me, reverses the car, and speeds out the driveway. The veins on her hands pop as she grips the front steering wheel. We hit a pothole and she winces, rubbing her pregnant stomach with one hand.

“Mom—”

“That’s enough.” Mom snaps and glares at the rare view mirror.

Her eyes are swollen and her curly hair is scattered. She wipes her eyes and continues to bolt towards the cloud of dust in front of us. Six cop cars emerge from the smoke and bolt past us. They surround the lonely house behind us. I watch fully geared officers scurry out their vehicles and hide behind their doors with guns pointed at our house.

“Keep your eyes in front.” Mom says.

A single gunshot fires. I peek at the side view mirror and get a glimpse of my house before it disappears in the dust.

 

 

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This was a fun little project! I’ve been working on writing more fictional stories recently. It’s something I used to do but stopped for some reason. Glad to have this precious bug back. Hope you like it! 🙂

 

 

 

Photo: Pinterest

 

 

 

 

 

Pinterest Photo

 

Posted by:A'Isha Adams

Mind of a frantic poet. Ambition of an entrepreneur. The heart of an old soul.