When I found her she was standing in the front yard, still
in her robe. Our neighbor, Mr.
Putterman, lay on the ground in front of her.
My mom was still screaming. She
was just standing there, arms at her side, her body stock still, screaming so
hard I thought her vocal cords would rip.
I ran to her, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her back,
away from Mr. Putterman.
“Oh God!” She howled. “His head! What happened to his head?”
“Mom, I…” I glanced over at Mr. Putterman, and it felt like
the air had been sucked out of me.
I hadn’t been able to
see him clearly before, the only way I had identified him was by his worn
cowboy boots, the same boots he had worn for as long as I could remember.
His face had collapsed at the center, and it appeared that
someone had taken something like a sledge hammer to his nose. Blood and gore caked the ground under him,
and his body was twitching weakly.
“What. Happened. To…” my mom was gasping. “What happened to
his head?”
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