Word Count: 354
He’s the guy next door. Lived there for as long as you can remember. Was about thirteen or fourteen, you think, when his family moved in. Nice people, stuck to themselves but were there if you needed a hand. The father was a decade or more older than you and your husband. The wife was short, pudgy, with springy red hair. Pleasant, always smiling. They were normal, just normal, and so, you thought, was their kid.
They died, let’s see, about seven years ago now. She first, from a cancer that ran through her in six months or less. He from a heart attack a few months later. The kid still lived with them, still lives there now. Never married, but keeps the place up nearly as nicely as they did. Though you never see him much anymore.
As a matter of fact, the last time was during the freak storm in the winter. He helped your husband snowblow the walk and the driveways. You asked him in for hot chocolate when they had finished but he drank it standing outside on the porch.
It’s hard to make the connection between this young man and the guy on the news who they say just killed at least thirteen people. Injured twenty-something more. The youngest, a six year-old girl found dead next to her mother at the scene. Still holding a blood spattered Barbie doll. It doesn’t seem real.
There’s nothing you can do except shudder. Make the sign of the cross for those who have died. For their families, their pain plainly seen in the videos they’ve been running all day. It’s hard to imagine, hard to accept, and you pray the victims are not one of your neighbors too.
You get up and check all the windows, make sure you’ve locked all the doors. There are police cars and vans lining the street, still you can’t help the fear and you jump when the furnace turns on. And just before bed, after the eleven o’clock news, you draw all the shades and hope that they catch the guy next door soon.
sadly happens like this all too often these days
If only the evil in people were visible, like horns.