Happy Mother’s Day – Your loving adopted son.
My very first college essay.
Let me know what you think.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY – Your loving adopted son.
Sunday, three A.M., a full moon illuminates a forest
alive with night creatures. Their eyes aglow as if in wonderment as our
emergency beacons pierced their world. Only the sounds of our engine broke the
silence as we raced through the night. No need for the siren. We were ten miles
from nearest major road, fifteen from any community, and hadn’t seen another
vehicle since leaving the hospital garage.
My partner, a trainee, scanned the road ahead for
sign of our contact, while I wondered what we were rushing into. Our only information was a call received by
the dispatcher requesting an ambulance to an isolated rural area. The caller
did not reveal the nature of the emergency and his location directions were
vague. He said someone would meet us on the main highway. That made me nervous!
I decided to radio the dispatcher for police assistance. Unfortunately for us,
that meant a town constable at home in bed twenty miles away. On the plus side,
the dispatcher at the time was my wife.
As she still liked me back then, she decided to request assistance from
the Sheriff’s office and two other police departments from adjacent
Suddenly, headlights flashed in front of us. A
large, dark car pulled out from the shoulder of the road, its driver waving
frantically as he turned onto a narrow, gravel township road forming a dust
cloud between us.
Maintaining a safe distance back, we followed the
dust cloud at a slower speed allowing my partner time to note any landmarks he
could radio to the dispatcher.
Abruptly, the dust dissipated, revealing the dark
car with its mysterious driver stopped next to an open grassy area. A dirt drive wound its way up to what
appeared to be an old basement dwelling set a good eighty yards from the main
road. We stopped a few feet behind him. As I exited our rig in an attempt to approach
and question the driver, he silently pointed toward the dwelling then sped off
down the gravel road.
My attention turned to the dwelling. It was built
into a low knoll, had large front windows, and, thankfully, was well lit both
inside and out.
“Something is missing!” I whispered. “No vehicles, people,
dogs, or movement.”
Slowly we inched our way up the drive. When almost
parallel to the dwelling, it made a sharp right to an exterior wood frame,
enclosed stairway atop the knoll. There, in the glare of our floodlights, lay
the body of a woman. Dressed in a blood-stained, pale green nightgown, her head
turned away from us, she appeared to be sleeping, but it was an illusion. A
visible gunshot entry wound to the back of her head told a different story.
Immediately, my instincts and training took control.
“Shut off all our lights, give me the radio and get
your ass out of this rig now!” I yelled to my partner. “Hide in the woods
beyond the tree line!” Next thing I knew, he was running fast and low towards a
large pine tree.
I radioed the dispatcher, “We have a D.O.A with
G.S.W.! We need help fast!” *
Now, what do I do?
Sitting in a darkened ambulance, on a small rise next to an illuminated
earth home I was a sitting duck. If the shooter was still there, one well-aimed
bullet could have hit me or the large oxygen tank, and I’m history.
What if there are more victims inside? What if
they’re still alive? Call it brave or insane, I had to know. It was my job to
Flashlight in hand, I made my way through the
shadows to the stairwell. Standing to one side, I held it high above my head to
disguise my position and actual size as I peered through the door. Looking down
inside, I saw a single, bare bulb ceiling light, a child’s bicycle in a corner,
and a second body at the foot of the stairs. Like the woman’s, it was face down
in a pool of dark, clotted blood. It was a man with a gunshot exit wound in the
back of his head.
The bicycle – is there a child here?
Against all policy, I descended the stairs, stepped
over the man’s body, and entered the living room to a scene of rage and anger.
Furniture overturned appliances broken, dishes shattered, and personal items
everywhere but no child.
Cautiously I searched the remaining rooms. I saw a
lifestyle of modest income and means but no child or other bodies. I was
Retracing my path, I exited the house to call in
what I’d seen. As I reached the radio to give the dispatcher update, the dark
car returned. As if in slow motion, it appeared on the gravel road and turned
onto the grassy area in front of the dwelling.
Cutting my report short, I waited and watched. The
car stopped, and the headlights went dark. The only light was from the dwelling
and beautiful, setting full moon.
I could hear the radio in the ambulance. The
dispatcher telling me the closest police unit it still fifteen minutes from our
Estimating the distance from my position to the car
at forty yards, I realized I did not have a lot of options.
I saw one person, the driver si ing behind the wheel
staring at the house, seemingly ignoring me.
Was this a neighbor, friend, relative, curiosity
I had to know! I couldn’t be out here in the middle
of the wilderness trapped by my own fears.
Heart in throat, I walked to the car while keeping
my flashlight trained directly at his face.
I got within ten feet when he suddenly turned on the interior dome light
and looked at me. He was young, late teens, early twenties, long black hair,
average size, and scruffy appearing. He had a strange, peaceful look on his
face, a calmness as though his burdens were gone.
As I a attempted to talk to him, I
visually searched the interior of the car with my flashlight. He had no less
than eight guns and what appeared to be hundreds of rounds of ammunition strewn
over the seats. He asked me, “Are they dead?” I believe so.” I replied.
“Good!” he yelled as he slammed his foot onto the
gas pedal and sped through the grass to disappear down the gravel road.
There was a return to silence as a soft glow in the
east announced the rising of the sun.
It was going to be a beautiful Mother’s Day – for
12/23/2013 by Papanyk at Nykolai.Com