St-Louis

     “Son of a bitch!” 
     The four words echo through apartment.  The sound of glass shattering over a cheap tiled floor follows.   
     “Get up!” 
     Silence.
     “GET up!”
     Silence.
     “Fucking bitch!”
     Silence.
     The sound of wood colliding with bone.
     “Get the FUCK UP!” 
     Silence.
     “Get up you fucking son of a bit—”
     The voice stops in mid-sentence.  The sound of denim stirring is faint but distinct—the sound of someone crouching down.  A subtle echo of wood on tiles runs through the place.  A second later, heavy boots slam from tiles to wood to carpeting.  A door swings open and slams shut.
     There are no sounds in the apartment anymore.  Nothing stirs.  And then, faintly, a whimper—soft and impossible low.  A spattering sound.  Coughing.  A moan.  A cry. 
     “Keith?”  The voice is small, hurt, terrified.  The one word holds so much emotion.  That one word—a name—carries devastation and death.
     White tiles splattered with blood.  The baseball bat—St-Louis—lies beside a purple and blue forearm.  Two pale eyes look around the room from the floor.  The right eye closes as warm blood trickles around it.  A gash along a pale forehead, which disappears into the soft copper hair—swells and glistens with deep, thick red blood.
     “…Mom…”  The word is small and scared—pleading for help of some form.
     She moves her legs.  The pain isn’t even there anymore.  Nothing is.  She can’t feel anything below her hips.  That scares her.  She fights to move her legs—she can’t feel them move.  She tries to look at them, to see them move, but when her neck muscles pull, fire explodes into her head.
     Her eyes roll back suddenly.  The world becomes very grey, and then very dark.  She feels her hand brush against the hard wood of the baseball bat.                The last thing she’s aware of is the blood painted on her fingers—the blood coating the bat—and the cold in her chest.