WHAT'S LEFT TO THE SHADOWS

Someone was going to die today. Too bad it wasn’t the person who deserved it.

When the brief slid across my desk, it left a chill that clung to me like cheap whiskey. Something was off the moment I saw the name: Richardson. It came around too often, like a bad penny that refused to vanish. Men like him—stupid, brutal—they never learned. Always choosing their fists over their words. It was a dance I knew too well, and their names surfaced more than I cared to count.

Violence had a rhythm. A slow, sinister beat that played out in alleyways, in dim-lit apartments, and behind the closed doors of quiet suburban homes. Houses with white picket fences hiding more secrets than smiles. Richardson fit the mold like a cheap suit—too dumb to think, too dangerous to ignore. The file painted him as just another domestic storm, one that would blow through and leave destruction in its wake. But this time, it wasn’t just the wife nursing bruises. This time, the boy got caught in the crossfire.

Midnight rolled in with a silence thick enough to choke on. I perched in a tree across the small lake outside their home. Even from here, the stench of whiskey clung to him, like he had bathed in the stuff. It made you wonder if a man could drink that much and still feel the burn. But that’s the thing about men like him—they only feel it when it’s too late.

He stumbled into the house, and I knew the show was about to start. The yelling hit first, sharp as broken glass, then the cursing, each word more venomous than the last. Poor Carol. She tried to love him, tried to mend something shattered long before her time. But men like him didn’t deserve love. Didn’t know what to do with it if it stared them in the face.

Every blow landed like an echo, rippling through the air, sinking into my skin. I could feel the sting, the bruises blooming beneath my coat. I moved closer to the window, near enough to watch the horror unfold. There she was, crumpled on the floor, pleading with him not to do it. The .38 was pressed against her chest, and the kid—Sam—screamed for him to stop. Poor boy.

That’s when I felt it—the burn deep in my chest, the kind you can’t ignore. This was going to end badly.

As fast as the violence started, Sam bolted, running like a scared rabbit, and the beast of a man chased after him. But my eyes stayed on Carol. She was there, but not really. Not anymore. I stepped inside and leaned down next to her. Her brown eyes, still wide with fear, met mine.

“It’s okay now,” I whispered, brushing my lips against her forehead. Slowly, she began to fade, vanishing like a breath of cold air.

I turned toward the night. Too bad for the kid. But with a father like that, I knew I’d be seeing him again soon.

Anna Dearing is a writer based in Atlanta, balancing life as a full-time mother while finishing her college degree after a ten-year break. Her work often draws inspiration from her personal experiences and everyday life. When she’s not writing or studying, Anna enjoys drawing, playing video games, and attending conventions. This is her first publication in a literary magazine.