“Click.”

The abrupt sound of a cocked pistol aroused her from her slumber. She opened her eyes to a dark silhouette hovering over her, an oppressive weight bearing heavily down on her.

“Puta! Pinche Vieja! This is the last time you’ll make a laughing mockery out of me!” snarled a man with a sinister voice, whose breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, mingled with the stench of sour sweat and cheap men’s cologne.

“boom-Boom, boom-Boom, boom-Boom, boom-Boom!” The deafening sound of her heartbeat, pounding in her ears, nearly prevented Vanessa from recognizing her ex-husband’s voice. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, Whore,” spewing his vile words in a slur.

Having endured years of beatings and infidelity, Vanessa finally mustered the courage to file for divorce. She asked herself many times, “What happened to us? Where did we go wrong?” Years back, the local community saw Ricardo and Vanessa as the quintessential high school sweethearts, living the fairytale dream. Schoolgirls looked up to Vanessa as their reigning Homecoming Queen, who as an honor student and varsity cheerleader, cheered in front of adoring fans, rooting for their favorite all-star football player, number twenty-two running back Ricardo Gutierrez. He established a cult following of crazed fans, idolizing their gladiator hero to crush the opposing teams. College football recruiters took notice of Ricardo’s athletic prowess as he scoured the fields with lightning speed, scoring one touchdown after another all the way to regional championship. College coaches enticed him with full scholarships, but too many parties led him to dead end consequences. Excessive drinking with his teammates resulted in Ricardo becoming an alcoholic, and subsequently, he lost all his scholarship offers. Whiskey in his coffee woke him up in the morning, and vodka in his orange juice put him to sleep at night. He couldn’t function without his special tonics, and his insatiable penchant for liquor eventually extinguished his drive and ambition to pursue his college dreams.

After high school graduation, Vanessa and Ricardo married and moved to Southmost, a predominately low-income, Hispanic community. During the beginning of their marriage, Ricardo’s urge to drink abated, and they spent time together, enjoying each other’s company as a happily married couple. However, growing dissatisfaction and frustration as a tire salesman at Lozano Tires Shop, along with regret and disappointment from his previous losses, prompted him to pick up the bottle again. He started coming home late at night from the pachanga parties he frequented with his drinking buddies. His nightly escapades led him to engage in illicit affairs, often with ladies of ill repute, and then soon after he came home, the beatings began. Vanessa realized alcohol changed him from a gallant knight to a vicious beast. Alcoholism was the rust that corroded his shining armor, and it obliterated their storybook, fairytale romance.

The final straw occurred the time he stumbled home in a drunken stupor at three o’clock in the morning after a one night stand and beat her to a bloody pulp when she was pregnant with their second son. She awoke to find herself lying on a bed in the intensive care unit, her mother holding her hand, tears streaming down her cheeks, while her father stood grimly beside her mother. “Mi hijita, mi hijita, sshh, sshh, sshh. We’re here. Don’t cry. Everything is okay,” reassured her mother, but everything was not okay. She looked down at her flattened belly and realized the son she had planned to name Tomas was gone. She nearly went insane with grief over the loss of her son that it took three nurses to pin her down while the doctor administered a strong sedative.

After that colossal calamity, she had had enough. Vanessa could no longer honor her marriage vows and decided to take action.

The final stroke of the gavel on the sound block released Vanessa from the bondage of tyranny, and she walked out of the courtroom a victorious woman. “Today marks the first day of my independence as a free woman,” acknowledged Vanessa as she stepped outside the courthouse on East Harrison.

An elderly woman in a loose-fitting, floral print dress, using a walker, shuffled timidly over to Vanessa and touched her arm. She said, “Pardon me, senorita, for touching you, but you have such beautiful eyes, and I don’t want to give you el ojo. Que Dios te bendiga.” Vanessa smiled and patted the old woman’s hand. “Thank you, senora. May God bless you too.” She crossed the street and walked to her Ford Explorer, got inside, and headed home.

Daniel, her toddler son, waited for his mother at his abuelita’s house while his grandmother busily prepared a dinner of pollo con calabaza, Vanessa’s favorite dish. Her mother, father, and Daniel celebrated her victory dinner with her in silence. No exchange of congratulatory words passed their lips during the meal, but a strong, tangible bond of love and support permeated the room so that no words seemed necessary.

Vanessa charted a map for her future. Well-aware she possessed exceptional skills in algebra, geometry, and calculus, she decided to major in accounting. She enrolled as a full-time student at the local university and welcomed the challenges her new life offered her. She would carve a name for herself within her community and earn the respect of her peers, but most importantly, she vowed to make her son proud of her.

The barrel-end of the gun jabbed her, nearly bruising the skin between her breasts. The sound of her son snoring peacefully and soundly in bed next to her, oblivious to his father’s threats, urged Vanessa to placate her ex-husband. “Ricardo, please stop to think what you are doing. Think about our son’s welfare. He needs his mother, and you would want your son to be proud of his father.”

Ricardo spat on her face and sneered, saliva dribbling down his chin, “One less whore on this filthy planet would significantly improve the quality of my son’s life.”

Pinned down against her will, Vanessa fought to control her emotions. She feared anything she said would incite him to full-blown violence. Her primary concern was to secure her son’s safety. She didn’t know what to do and felt herself cornered into a stalemate.

“Bang!” The gun went off; the sound of the explosion jolted her son awake, and he burst into a high-pitched squall.

Vanessa looked at her ex-husband in astonishment, thankful that he fired from a blank cartridge. Had he fired a real bullet, she would have been dead on the spot. “Cabron! Get off of me and get out of my house!” She shoved him off, and then turned to comfort her baby, but as she turned toward him, she saw a dark, massive stain spreading rapidly on the bed sheets.

A gurgling sound arose in the midst of all the chaos. She looked down and saw blood gushing out of her chest, cascading down her nightgown. The bullet penetrated clean through her body. It grazed her left lung, narrowly missed her heart, and exited her upper back.

She reached for the phone on the nightstand, but Ricardo intercepted and yanked the phone off the wall. Somehow, she staggered out the bedroom and headed toward the living room.

“If I can get to the phone and call 911 . . .” Her mind drifted. The ten paces to the phone felt more like ten yards of a football field. “If I can make it . . . ,” she mumbled under labored breaths. Her head swirled, along with the room. The blood rose to her throat, threatening to choke her. Her lungs filling fast with her own blood, she knew it would only be moments before death beckoned at her door.

Right before Vanessa reached the living room phone, Ricardo grabbed it and with full force threw it on the floor, stomping on it with his boots and crushing it into a million pieces. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring back help,” he said as he ran out the door and never returned.

Unable to sustain her weight, she collapsed to the floor, her chest heaving like an accordion out of control. Waves of panic gripped her, followed by a release of immense peace as she felt herself floating . . . floating . . .  drifting. The surrounding room began to fade, dim, and then plunge into total darkness.

From a far, far, distance, she saw a tiny speck of light, almost unperceivable. Suddenly, an inexplicable force propelled her toward that light at breakneck speed. The closer she got, the faster she moved, and the brighter the light appeared. As she reached the threshold of this brilliant light, an all-consuming energy of love in its purest form engulfed her. She had never experienced love of this magnitude. She reached to cross, but an invisible hand held her back. A tiny voice, almost inaudible, cried out to her, “Mommy, Mommy!” Although every fiber of her being yearned to immerse itself into the light, she couldn’t leave her son alone in that cruel, dark, unforgiving world. The next instant, a vacuum-like force sucked her back through the dark tunnel, and within what seemed like seconds, she landed with a loud “THUMP!”

The force and impact of returning to her body jump-started her heart and jolted her back to consciousness. She opened her eyes, finding herself still lying on the floor. From indescribable love to indescribable pain, she came back for her son. She saw Daniel lying on the floor next to her, hiccupping in his sleep with tear-stained cheeks, holding his velvety-soft, green and white, polka dot blanket, and sucking his thumb at intervals. “Bless your little heart, my son. I love you, Daniel. I love you so much!”

She had no idea how long she had been lying there. Had it been a few minutes or a few hours? Her eighteen-month-old son had climbed down from her bed and waddled over to find her unconscious and unable to wake her up. “He must have cried himself to sleep. My poor baby!”

At the stroke of six, the clock on the living room wall chimed, serving as a reminder that time stood still for no one, but for Vanessa, time was of the essence. She needed medical attention now and she needed it fast, but alone with her son and without a phone, how could she call for help?

Claps of thunder pealed in the nearby distance, followed shortly by bright streaks of lightning, penetrating the dark, ominous sky. She heard the storm brewing, and within minutes, rain pelted against the rooftop.

Like a combat soldier, crawling cautiously under rows of tripwire, Vanessa inched her way slowly toward the front door that had been left open. “It’s six o’clock. The Martinezes are awake. They’re early risers, and right about now, Luisa is preparing the coffee and breakfast for Ernesto,” thought Vanessa.

With no other recourse, Vanessa crossed the doorway, careful to close the door behind her to prevent her son from going outside into the storm once he woke up. Before the door closed completely, she took one last lingering look at her son, not knowing if she would ever see him again. Heaving a great sigh, she crawled outside into the open darkness. She gritted her teeth and winced in agony as she descended the wet, slippery, porch steps, slamming down hard onto the pavement that lacerated her arms and legs, her body covered with scratches and bruises. The rain continued to pour relentlessly. She crept onto the lawn, marred by many protruding rocks between the two houses, the rain splattering on her back and cleansing off some of the blood that had begun to coagulate.

The perforating, chest wound set her ablaze with scorching heat, and the smell of burnt skin nauseated her. Vanessa wailed, “Oh, Lord! Is this it? Is this how I am going to die?” An angry clash of thunder rumbled through the heavens, and dark foreboding clouds loomed over her. She remembered, a week ago, her mother telling her, “Vanessa, don’t spend any money on your brother. Let him buy the Homecoming mum for his date.” She responded, “Mama, why not? If I die, I can’t take this money with me.” A few days later, her mother advised, “Vanessa, don’t spend your money buying clothes for Juanito. Let your sister buy them.” Again, she said, “Mama, why not? He’s my six year old nephew, and he needs clothes for school. Besides, if I die, I can’t take any money with me.” She recalled soon after, a prevailing atmosphere of doom hovered over her.

The jagged rocks on the lawn scraped against her body, and the wet grass brushed against her skin as she forged on forward through the rain, like a wounded lioness limping through the dense jungle. Visions of her childhood flashed before her eyes. “Tag, you’re it!” squealed one of the cousins with glee. “No, no, you’re it!” giggled Vanessa. Her cousin Sylvia shouted, “Ok, Simon says, ‘Take three steps forward and two steps back.’” She heard her cousin Cecilio yelling, “Olly, olly, oxen free! Come out, come out wherever you are,” and one by one, all of the children came out of their secret hiding places. She saw herself with her cousins Rosie and Blanca, playing hopscotch for hours at a time on the sun-baked sidewalk and using colored chalk to outline the squares.

Up ahead not more than ten feet away, Vanessa saw with impaired vision a blurry outline of the Martinezes’ back door. Its proximity spurred her onward, and she positioned her body to move as if she were swimming the American crawl, striving to win the race of her life. She heard Angelita’s voice pleading, “Vanessa, please go with me to see the curandera. I don’t want to go alone. I’m sure after she reads my fortune, she’ll read yours.” Vanessa and Angelita had been best friends since the first grade, and over the years, they shared their innermost secrets. Concerned about family problems, Angelita decided to consult with a curandera. Vanessa, however, didn’t trust curanderas, but she wanted to accompany her friend. “Someone close to you is about to face death,” warned the curandera. Angelita assumed, “It must be my grandmother, who suffers from Alzheimer’s.” Vanessa had long wanted out of a marriage from an abusive man she knew would never set her free, so she asked the curandera, “Will I be divorced from my husband?” The curandera examined the tarot cards and responded, “I see you lying on a hospital bed and your husband facing serious legal problems.”

The muffled sounds of a conversation, coming from the Martinezes’ back door snapped Vanessa’s attention back to the present moment. The fresh-brewed aroma of coffee and the sizzling sound of bacon assailed her. One more thrust forward, and her fingers touched the screen door. She tried with all her might to knock loud enough to get their attention but only made scratching sounds on the screen. A thin, raspy, whisper escaped her parched lips but fell on deaf ears.

“Listen to this, viejita. It says here in the paper another home invasion, right off of Ruben Torres Blvd. It’s the third one in town this month. Two masked men broke into the house while the family was having dinner. Imagine that!” said Ernesto.

“Aye, viejito. Madre mia!” said Luisa, making the sign of the cross. “I don’t believe it. This used to be a small town where everyone knew each other, and we could leave our doors unlocked at night. Now, we have to lock them during the day and even then, no guarantee. What is this world coming to when we are not safe and protected in our own homes?” asked an alarmed Luisa.

“I’d like to see them try breaking into our home, and when they do, I’ve got a nice little surprise waiting for them at the other end of my .38 Special,” boasted Ernesto with assurance as he pointed his trigger finger at an imaginary target and went, “Bang!”

As the husband and wife babbled on, Vanessa desperately tried to get their attention. She made futile attempts to knock hard but only made more scratching sounds against the screen door.

“Mi querida. You’ve got to stop feeding that damned stray cat. I hear him scratching the screen door again,” said Ernesto without lifting his face from the newspaper.

“I know, I know, Papito, but haven’t you noticed? Since he’s been around, no more rat population,” nodded Luisa, wiping the extra masa off her hands by rubbing them on her apron. “Another tortilla?”

“Si, mi amor. This time, really pack it in with the papas con huevo,” said Ernesto, sipping from his coffee mug.

The scratching sound continued.

“Alright, gordito, as soon as I throw some scraps to el gatito,” she said, turning around toward the kitchen door and calling out to the cat, “Hang on to your calzones, Mr. Terminator. I expect to see more ratones targeted for termination today after you’ve finished your almuerzo,” she said as she pushed the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “The door seems to be stuck.” She grunted as she pushed the door again, and then in exasperation, she said, “No need to worry about a home invasion here when the pinche door doesn’t even open.”

Vanessa cried out in a soft whisper, “Help me!”

“Madre de Dios! Ernesto, come here quickly!” exclaimed Luisa.

Hearing the urgency in her voice, Ernesto bounded from his chair and ran to the door, peering outside to see a woman lying motionless on the ground. “Hijo de su, it’s our neighbor Vanessa! Hang on, Vanessa. I’m coming for you!” Ernesto feared, pushing the screen door against her body would cause her more injury, so he said, “Luisa, get me some blankets and call 911. I’ll have to go through the front door and around the house to reach her.”

“Right!” responded Luisa, bumping into each other as they scurried off in different directions. Luisa quickly returned, giving Ernesto several dry, warm blankets before he scampered out the front door. Luisa picked up the phone and frantically dialed 911. “Hello? This is Luisa Martinez at 2205 Tulipan. Send an ambulance quick! What? No, it’s not for me. Do I sound like someone injured? A screeching parrot?! What do you mean calm down? My neighbor Vanessa Gutierrez is lying outside our back porch, barely hanging on by a thread, so tell them to hightail it here, pronto!”

Fearing that Vanessa might have injured her vertebrae, Ernesto decided against moving her, so he wrapped the blankets securely around her to keep her warm and tried to shield her from the rain. “Vanessa, dear, stay with me. The ambulance is on its way.”

In an attempt to speak, Vanessa struggled to lift up her head, but Ernesto held her down gently. “What is it dear? What are you trying to tell me?” He lowered himself and heard Vanessa whisper, “Ri, Ri . . . car . . . do.” The shrill sound of an approaching siren disrupted the quiet neighborhoods.

~  ~  ~

“Come one, come all – to Lacks Madness Moonlight Sale! Thursday and Friday nights only, sale ends at midnight – ten–percent off on everything you see on the showroom floors – twenty–percent off on household appliances and accessories. Take advantage of these great bargain prices you won’t find anywhere else. Come and visit us today at Lacks, your fine-quality furniture store!”

“That pesky lady again, always talking about marked down prices that they mark up higher than retail,” Vanessa muttered groggily to herself when she heard the lady in the commercial with the effervescent voice. The anesthesia began to wear off after the nurses settled her into a private ICU room at Valley Baptist Hospital. She underwent several hours of surgery, and now, she found herself waking up to the Lacks lady, pitching another annoying TV commercial that the station aired every single day during the local morning news.

Vanessa opened her eyes for the first time since she lost consciousness on the Martinezes’ back porch. A labyrinth of machines, wires, cords, and tubes hooked up to her. She looked around to find herself alone in the hospital room. A round, wall clock across the room read 12:05 p.m., a brown, leather recliner stood next to her bed, yellow, chintz curtains decorated a window off to her right, and a 32” screen TV mounted high on the wall in front of her. Someone had apparently turned it on. She had no recollection how she got here and worried if her son was safe with family.

“This is a Chanel 5 exclusive news-breaking report. Twenty-four year old Vanessa Gutierrez of Brownsville was pronounced dead from an inflicted gunshot wound this morning inside her home at 2200 Tulipan after paramedics attempted to resuscitate her from an alleged domestic violence assault and attempted homicide. The person of interest is believed to be twenty-five year old Ricardo Gutierrez, ex-husband of the deceased, who is currently at large, armed, and dangerous. He was last seen by eyewitnesses, crossing the Brownsville Gateway Bridge early this morning. If you have any information about his whereabouts, please contact the Brownsville Police Department at . . .”

Dumbfounded, Vanessa looked around and wondered which planet she jumped on. “Am I dead, or am I alive?  Am I in some kind of parallel world, maybe inside a Twilight Zone time warp – trapped in another dimension?” She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

The door swung open, and a petite, Philippine nurse walked in, dressed in a crisp, white nurse’s uniform, holding a pen and a clipboard. She stopped at the foot of the bed and picked up Vanessa’s medical chart, meticulously checking each item on the list. Feigning sleep but peaking between closed eyelids, Vanessa kept a vigilant eye on the nurse and held her breath. “I’m not a ghost. I’m not a ghost. Oh, please, Lord, let her see me, I’m not a ghost,” she chanted to herself.

Five minutes elapsed while the nurse, believing the patient to be asleep, continued absorbing all the data. After a thorough check, the nurse returned the chart. She looked up, turned, and pivoted around the corner of the bed toward the patient. Vanessa lay immobilized, still holding her breath, unable to move or utter a sound. “Here she comes – now for the moment of truth,” thought Vanessa apprehensively. At the head of the bed, the nurse stopped. She turned and attended to the machines, adjusting knobs, dials, meters, and gadgets. Several more minutes passed.

“The suspense is practically killing me, if I’m not already dead! If I have to wait one more minute, I’ll find myself inside a morgue instead of a hospital!” Vanessa squirmed in anguish.

“And how are we doing today, Ms. Gutierrez?” asked the nurse, flashing a radiant smile.

“What?”

“It’s time to take your temperature, Missy,” said the nurse, holding up the thermometer.

“You see me? You, you actually see me, so I’m alive?” asked Vanessa.

“All vital signs from the machines indicate you are still very much alive, Ms. Gutierrez.”

“So I’m not going to wake up from a dream and find out I’m dead?”

“Not on my watch, you’re not,” said the nurse with conviction, inserting the thermometer in Vanessa’s mouth.

~ ~ ~

 Hushed tones of whispers and murmurs stirred Vanessa awake from a fitful night’s sleep. She opened her eyes to see her bed surrounded by half a dozen men and women, dressed in white blazers and stethoscopes. They appeared engrossed by a man in the middle of the group, holding up an x-ray chart and explaining to his colleagues, “We can see from this x-ray that the patient sustained a hard-contact wound from the .22 magnum. If she had been shot from a distance, the bullet would have ricocheted inside her body like a pinball machine. The body has a remarkable ability to heal itself from a critical injury, so by the time she reached the hospital, the hemorrhaging had already stopped. EMS inserted an intercostal drain with suction . . .”

After a brief discussion of the patient’s case, his colleagues affirmed his assessment and treatment of the injury. They congratulated him on his success.

“Not at all, ladies and gentlemen. Without the teamwork effort from my staff, none of this would have been possible,” insisted Dr. James Cavazos, chief cardiothoracic surgeon at Valley Baptist Hospital. “But more important, much credit and praise goes to our star patient, Ms. Gutierrez, whose courage and stamina made it possible for her to pull through with an amazing recovery.”

Everyone nodded in agreement and turned to face the patient. They applauded her with congratulations and waited politely as if they half-expected her to stand up, decked out in her hospital garb, and deliver a “Thank you” speech for winning an Academy Award for “Best Actress in a Leading Role.”

A week had passed now since the incident, and Vanessa had been taken out of ICU and transferred to a regular hospital room. Daniel had been staying with her parents while she convalesced. Dr. Cavazos approached her, cupped her hands in his, and asked, “How are you feeling this morning, Vanessa?”

“Okay, Doctor.”

“Atta girl, you’ll be up and running in no time,” he said, smiling as he examined her. “You must realize you’re recovery is nothing short of miraculous. Take a look at this x-ray. The bullet that hit you somehow bypassed your vital organs. If that bullet had travelled a little to the right or to the left, the outcome would have been quite different. The chances of anyone’s surviving a bullet from that trajectory are one in a million! You took a miracle bullet!”

“I’m still mystified by all that’s happened, Doctor. No words can ever express my gratitude for saving my life.”

“God must have a very special plan for you. He’s giving you a second chance at life, so embrace it with open arms and make the most of it. Now that you are out of ICU, you have a little visitor waiting outside who is eager to see you.” At that moment, the door opened, and little Daniel came running in shouting, “Mommy, Mommy!” followed a few steps behind by Grandma and Grandpa.

In the waiting area sat Luisa and Ernesto Martinez, one holding a bouquet of assorted flowers and the other carrying a bag of fresh-baked empanadas. “I can’t remember if Vanessa prefers the pumpkin or sweet potato empanadas,” wondered Luisa. “What’s the difference? They both taste the same to me,” remarked Ernesto. “Are you off your rocker? You’re comparing a squash to a potato. That’s sacrilege. If the Rio Grande Empanada Association ever gets wind of this, they’ll have my baking license revoked and ban you from every panaderia in the Valley,” retorted Luisa.

Lurking outside in the shadows stood a familiar figure, whose breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. Dark, sinister thoughts clouded his mind, “If I can’t have her, then I’ll see to it that no one else will!” The thought elevated his mood. He took a long drag from his cigarette and flicked its ashes on the flower petals from a nearby hibiscus bush.  He then took a swig of spirits from a flask he held in his other hand. He closed his eyes, his head slightly swaying from side to side, enraptured by an imaginary tune, strumming inside his head. His lips curved upward into a smile, and then he began whistling softly. He bided his time for the right moment to strike, unaware that fifty feet away, sitting inside a car in the hospital parking lot, an undercover agent watched him methodically through the lens of his high-powered rifle.