The Road To Miracles

In the small bathroom, she shares with the mops and cleaning supplies, Cynthia Wilson sat in the darkness, loads the 9mm as her father taught her. She points the gun to her head, tears flowing, her body shivering from the pangs of hunger, as she hadn’t eaten all day, saying, “Well God, if you won’t get me out of hell, this 9mm will.” A loud crash pulls her thoughts back into the pain and reality of her life. Wiping her tears with the back of her left hand, nodding as her thoughts dipped into the direction of the noise, she said to herself, “They are fighting again.”

More loud sounds demand her attention, then a scream and what seems to be a gunshot.

Fear propels her up, the gun falling from her hand. She peeks out, shock pulled her back in. A masked man dress in black held on to her Aunt’s hair, his gun pointed to her head, blood running from her nose and mouth. She was begging for her life. Easing back into the bathroom, standing up on the toilet seat still in the darkness, she saw her two cousins laying on the floor, their faces away from her. They weren’t moving!

Her hand reaches out for the switch to turn the light on to find her 9mm, fear and instincts stop her as a voice said, ‘they don’t know you are here.’ ‘Damn’ she said softly. Feeling her way on the floor in the darkness for her gun, when another scream stops her.

Peeking out from the protective shield of darkness, she saw another masked man, his back to her, a few feet ahead, searching in the kitchen drawers for something.

His accomplice couldn’t see him from where he was, and none of them could see her.

Cynthia grabs the porcelain tank lid off the toilet, and slowly and quietly ease towards him like a lion going after his meal. Her father taught her, to disable your attacker from behind, go for the bone behind the ear, then the shin, ankle bone, or the elbow bone.

He spun around quickly, as she swings the tank lid hitting the side of his head. He slumps to the ground. The screams from her Aunt pleading for her life drowns out the sound his body made as it hit the floor.

Before he could recover, she hit him on his right ear, then on his right elbow as he lay motionless on his back, one ear listening to her Aunt pleading for her life. His gun was in his waist and she pulls it out.

Slowly she made short strides towards her Aunt Jackie, gun pointed at the other masked man. For a second, he was in shock when he saw her and eased the gun away from her Aunt’s head shouting, “Mike, where the &%$#%^& did you come . . ..”

She aimed like her father taught her and fired. He screamed dropping both her Aunt Jackie and his gun, flashing his hand which was bleeding. She eased towards him, as he backed away cursing, she said to her Aunt, “Call 911.”

He rushes towards his gun on the floor nearby. She fired again, sending his Glock far out of his reach. He turns and lounges towards her as her Aunt reaches for her cellphone, which was on the love seat a few feet away. Cynthia fired again shattering his right knee. He fell to the ground singing obscenities while grabbing his knee in pain. Bleeding, he relentlessly attempts to disarm her, “Go ahead, tempt fate,” she taunts.

The police came in minutes along with EMS. Her cousins were alive, but traumatized, and so was her Aunt.

It turns out that UPS had mistakenly delivered the box at 105 Rebekah Close, her Aunt’s home. Instead of 15 Rebekah Close, the right address. Calling UPS to let them know about the mistake, they told her to leave the package at the post office, which she did earlier. The box contained several kilos of heroin. They didn’t believe her. Mike, his accomplice was in the kitchen searching for tools of torture.

Both men were taken to the hospital. After the paramedics examined her Aunt and dressed the minor scratches she had. Her Aunt was asked to repeat everything, more than once.

The Sergeant turns to Cynthia in awe, then asks, “How old are you?”

“Eighteen years old.”

“Who taught you to shoot like that?”

“My father,” Cynthia answers.

The Sergeant stares at her with furled brows, and asks, “Who was he?”

“A former marine.”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Cynthia Wilson.”

“Tom Wilson is your father? The best marksman the US marine ever had. But . . . but . . . you are a girl.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Cynthia said.

“Well, sorry about your father’s death. You have captured two of the FBI most wanted and the $100,00.00 bounty on their heads.

Cynthia’s eyes widen, “What!”

“Yes, young lady, plus you will get the Mayor’s award for bravery. Since you are eighteen years old it comes with a full scholarship to a few of the best universities in the country. Your daddy would be so proud of you.”

Tears steal down Cynthia’s face as she backtracks to her life living with her Aunt and Uncle for the past three years since her father died. They were always fighting. They treated her badly and she prayed for a miracle and when it didn’t come, she thought killing herself was the best way to escape a life of pain. Miracle or not a better door was open to her. She planned on going through it’

Many of us prayed for miracles, and it comes in weird ways. We have no control over the route miracles take or the instruments it uses. But somebody always wins, and a few times, somebody loses.

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoyed it.