On some level I heard the ear piercing alarm of the fire alert. In my state of mind, I was confused by it, believing it a trick to lure me away from my objective.

My father appeared, a shadowed figure running in my direction. I was lying in wait, tucked behind an evergreen ready to blind side his approach. As he passed, the broom struck him without remorse. Over and over again the impact pelted his head. Even after he collapsed to the ground, I continued my attack. Blood was oozing from abrasions on his scalp, he had fallen unconscious.

I felt no guilt as my father lay helpless and I tossed the broom to the side. My life finally seemed to be cleaned up, cleaned up by the simple use of a kitchen broom.

Even though the house was relatively new, we had been experiencing some difficulties with the central heating system. Patrick had a friend, a heating contractor that was scheduled to come out to the house and have a look. Since the contractor's wife went into labor, he phoned to postpone the repair for a couple of days.

Until the system could be restored, Patrick had rigged a heater he had used on construction sites. We would allow it to project heat until bedtime and at that point, would click it off for safety reasons. It suited the purpose for keeping the house warm enough until morning. Patrick had explained that it could overheat and in truth he had warned me about keeping a close eye on the unit as a precaution.

In my confused state of mind I didn't realize the house was on fire, didn't smell the horrible stench of material, wood, and roofing ablaze. Somehow through it all, I had melded into the abused child. The abused child within the body of a woman who had finally stood up to her abusive father, regardless if he was alive or not.

Eventually Patrick regained consciousness, but by this time it was too late. Flames were spitting in all directions, all breathable oxygen eaten away, any hope for life within the burning structure no longer plausible.

Patrick slapped my face. "What did you do?" He accused. "You stupid ignorant, fool!"

It was in that moment that I realized, it was in that moment my mind would not accept....... I reinvented my world as the fire department arrived and began to douse the flames. Only things were destroyed within, mere objects, a lifetime of replaceable trinkets. Just clothes and such, nothing of significance... that's what I told myself, that's what my mind forced me to believe.

An ambulance concealed the view as the firefighters carried out the badly charred body of my innocent child. My only baby whose blue eyes managed to grip through my dismal existence and a spirit that offered salvation to my abused heart.

"Sharp!" I began to scream.

"Sharp! Oh forgive me Sharp! Forgive me!" I said collapsing to the ground in the present.

Sharp lifted me into his arms, he lifted me within his hold as if I were a fragile child. Twigs snapped under his feet along with clusters of leaves that had fallen in the Autumn gusts. We headed for the car in a feeble attempt to escape the realities of Clara's death.

As we rounded the corner to the driveway, Sharp gasped and I peered up frightened by the sight of Patrick aiming his hunting rifle.

"Didn't I warn you about running back to Sharp?" He asked in a bark similar to my father's.

Sharp slid me to my feet and shoved me behind him using his body to shield me from the danger.

"Just let us pass!" Sharp demanded.

"Just let you run off with Jessie." Patrick said correcting Clarence's statement.

"Did she tell you whose fault it was that your daughter burned up? Did she?"

Sharp shifted his weight.

Patrick began to plead his case as his voice cracked with emotion. "I would never have hurt the girl, never in a million years. She was a sweet little thing, carefree, precious. I wouldn't ever have considered hurting her."

I began to sob behind Sharp's back.

"It was all Jessie's doing, the death of Clara... all her fault! Let's see you look at her the same way now that you know the truth of it."

"Jessie would never have harmed Clara, she loved our child more than life itself." Sharp said in my defense.

"Oh." Patrick said chuckling in a wicked manner. "She didn't tell you then..."

"Stop it!" I muttered weakly from behind Sharp trying to cover my ears in a feeble attempt to muffle the conversation.

"What she doesn't want me to tell you is how she prevented me from saving your child. I tried to run into the house to carry the girl out, I did... I would never allow someone to die in such a way."

I could feel the rage shuttering through Sharp as his body began to tremble from the weight of Patrick's words.

"Jessie had a broom, a lousy dime store broom. She took it to me, hit me so brutally that I lost consciousness. Tell him Jessie, tell him how you screamed at me imagining that I was your father!"

"I....I...." I whimpered, trying to managed words that somehow wouldn't form.

"I want you to step away from her now Sharp. I want you to allow me to take her away from all of this. With one shot, everything will be fixed. Let her go home now Sharp, let her go home with Clara.. I promise I'll follow her not too far behind."

"You're insane!" Sharp spat.

"Just step away from her and you won't be hurt, I promise."

"He threatened to awaken Clara." I mustered in a weak voice. "She left her oversized stove and plastic dishes in the path of his workshop. Patrick tripped with lumber in his hands and it angered him. He was going to hurt her... I know he was, I know he was!"

"You hear that Sharp? She's trying to blame me now, I knew she would. She's such a coward, always playing the pitiful victim!"

Sharp began to edge us back. He shuffled us in reverse towards the side of the house.

"I took hold of Patrick's hair!" I said seeing it once again in my mind. "It felt wiry like that of a rabid terrier. I pulled with every ounce of strength that I could manage. I would not sit back like my own mother did! I would not pretend that none of it mattered. I stood up to him, I stood up to save Clara."

"No! You prevented me from making her pick up her things. Do you realize that had she been outside doing as I had wanted, she'd still be alive today?"

"You were going to hurt her!" I accused.

"NO. I was going to awaken her to pick up her toys."

When we rounded the corner of the house, Sharp yelled to me, "Run!"

Without turning back I hurried through the woods. Moments later two slices of sound rippled through the thickness of night. Gunshots.

I understood what had happened. Instinct told me that only one man was now standing. Which ever way it all turned out, I decided to return to the driveway to face reality.

If Sharp was killed, I would gladly lie down next to him accepting my fate. Putting aside tremendous fear, I sprinted through the forest and stopped just inches from the Camaro. Neither man was anywhere to be seen. I began to walk and my feet crunched on the casings, the remnants from the bullets.

The air was thick with tension and the sweet smell of blood mixed in with gun powder. I gazed around and felt the uncanny sense that I was the target in the sites of Patrick's gun. With instinct, I rounded the Camaro, it was then I noticed Sharp's bloody arm and his body slouched over the steering wheel.

I bit my lower lip preventing a shrill outburst. My love, the father of my child, my best friend in the world had been shot and obviously killed. Patrick, Patrick was the root of such despair in my life.

"I have nothing to fear, but death." I said standing upright.

Without hesitation, I rushed to the back of the house. On the ground near the patio I located my weapon of choice. The dollar store broom which I picked up for two dollars and seventy five cents. I was now empowered, ready to put all the abuse behind me once and for all. I had lost everything now and there was nothing else to loose.

With broom in hand I began to shout, "PATRICK! PATRICK Wilson!"

The forest remained silent in all directions.

"Mommy, help me!" I heard Clara wail. "Mommy please!"

"Clara?" I questioned with disbelief, my mind suddenly confused.

"My arm is stuck and it's twisting. HELP me!"

I rushed to the patio door and slid it open.

"Clara?" I questioned in nearly a whisper.

With broom in hand I entered the dark house. Everything was thick with tension and I could feel my heart beating in wild looping beats.

There was something stale inside the house, something that reeked like a mixture of sweat and blood.

"Clara?" I whispered again heading down the hallway. I approached her room. Using the handle of the broom I wedged the door open a crack. I peered inside and Patrick was hunkered down, a blonde child was within his embrace. A flicker of lightning illuminated the room and in that instant I realized the child was no child after all, but a life sized doll wearing some of Clara's charred clothing.

A small television was playing in the corner. It was the television and video system Patrick watched when he puttered in the workshop. Clara was on the monitor, the clip had panned as her arm was unstuck from the twisted chain. Clara was now giggling as I pushed her on the swing. The video was taken not too long ago. It was shot on the first warm day of spring when everything was beginning to spark alive.

"Get this!" I said as the camera zoomed in on me. I am laughing as I strut around wiggling my posterior in a silly way.

"The Belle of the Ball!" Patrick said zooming in on my face.

Clara hurried into the shot and I caught her as she jumped into my arms. I plastered her face with kisses and she giggled hysterically. She was loved, and I realized, above everything she was adored.

Patrick stood, holding the plastic version of Clara. "You need to get some sleep now my friend." He said placing her into a replica of her former bed.

"You say you'd like a story?"

"How about I tell you one about the prince who couldn't win the love of the princess?"

I began to edge myself back to the kitchen. Near the doorway, I pulled the telephone receiver and tapped the number 911. On the other end of the line the phone rang busy. In a quick sweep I disconnected then tried again.

This time an operator answered.

I dared not say anything, but left the receiver off the hook. When Clara was four, I had taught her the skill of phoning for help. Not knowing any better, she dialed 911 and we immediately hung up. Not ten minutes later, the sheriff was at the door trying to surmise the emergency. I understood how everything was automated and that a car would be sent regardless of explanation.

A moment later, Patrick entered the kitchen. The lights clicked on and his appearance was disheveled. He smiled at me in a warm manner.

"Clara's asleep. I believe she wore herself out playing today."

"That's good." I said eyeing the broom in my hand.

"Were you off sweeping the leaves from the patio again?"

"Yes, that's right Patrick."

"I'll need to clean the gutters tomorrow or we'll have water leaking through the ceiling once it snows."

"Do you have your ladder at home or did you leave it at a construction site?" I asked, attempting to keep him calm and the conversation normal.

"I think it's in the workshop. Maybe I ought to go out and check."

"No Patrick, I think it's getting ready to storm."
"I'll check in the morning then."

"Good idea." I whispered, still gripping the handle of the broomstick.

Patrick smiled sweetly at me.

"You know something we haven't done in a long time Jess?"

I shrugged my shoulders in response.

"We haven't danced together." Patrick's eyes began to well up. "You remember when we'd take a drive into Spencer to the VFW on Saturday nights?"

"Yes, it was when Clara was off and visiting with her father."

"Yes." Patrick responded.

"Dance with me now." Patrick said clicking the stereo on from behind.

"I don't know, it's rather late." I said terrified.

"Nonsense." He said pulling my hands into his as my broom thudded to the floor.

There we stood in the center of the kitchen, Patrick holding me in a gentle embrace, Sharp's blood splattered all over him. I had to use wit and skill in order to keep him at bay. Somehow I realized the next bullet had my name on it.

"This is nice, isn't it?" Patrick asked.

I nodded.

"You know Jessie, nothing really matters much to me anymore. Everything that I once thought important is just loads of bull. You know?"

"I understand how you could feel that way."

"I don't believe Sharp will be bothering us much from this point forward."
"No?" I said keeping my voice steady.

"I took care of it, just like I took care of that thing that happened with Clara, everything's fixed. Now we can get on with our lives without any obstacles in between. Just you, me and Clara... a perfect little family."

The song had switched from a slow ballad to a tune with a faster tempo. Patrick began to grin as he released my arm and twirled about. Sweat was pebbling from his forehead and his black shirt was saturated. If I didn't know any better I would imagine he had contracted the flu or something. His olive skin was now pale and with every dance step he seemed to weaken.

Patrick began to stagger as he stepped, stagger and wince in obvious pain.

On his third twirl I realized that it was not sweat saturating his shirt, but fresh blood from a gunshot, his blood.

"Patrick?" I managed horrified.

Patrick slithered to the floor as blood trailed from his mouth. The gunshot entry was directly through his center.

"Patrick!" I said finally seeing him as a person of vulnerability, not some monster like my father had been. I hunkered over him sliding my fingers to locate his pulse. It was so weak that it was nearly non-existent.

"Thanks for saving the last dance for me." He whispered as he breathed his final breath. I stood overwrought from the events as they occurred.

Sprinting through the front room, I headed outdoors and to the Camaro. I could hear sirens now, sirens approaching in the distance. Help was soon to arrive.

I flung open the car door and Sharp was gasping for air. He slid from the auto in an attempt to stand, but I told him to remain seated.

It was true, Sharp had been hit and there was a lot of blood streaming from his right arm, but aside from his arm being mangled, the rest of him was untouched.

"Where's Patrick?" Sharp asked, his eyes wide with concern.

"Don't you worry about Patrick, everything will be all right now."

"I'm loosing a lot of blood." Sharp admitted.

I pulled the leather belt from my waist and looped it around just above the bullet hole. The bleeding diminished and a few minutes later, the sheriff's squad car arrived.

As the deputy hurried in our direction, he radioed for an ambulance.

"There's a man inside, my husband... I'm afraid it's too late." The deputy gazed about, his face tight with stress. "Should I call for backup?"

I shook my head no.

"The violence is over." I said. "The violence is over and there is only room for peace in my world."

Sharp and I exchanged a glance. In that instant I realized that I had finally made it home. My home would ultimately be safe, loving, and hopeful. Yes, I found my place with a man named Clarence Sharp and I would never waiver away from the good in my life again.