Musings from
“Sweet Revenge”
By Brit
Hutch wasn’t sure if it was a long forgotten comfort that drew him into the small hospital chapel or the dimly lit room’s promise of solitude. As the blonde pushed open the oak door he was met by a quietness that enveloped his tattered heart like his grandmother’s down comforter would engulf the eight year old boy he once was.
The flickering amber light of candles cast his
shadow against the wooden pews as he made his way down the center aisle to the
front row and sat down heavily. The
unyielding wood felt oddly familiar against his tired back, bringing back
traces of memories from Sunday morning services and Bible school, and the
ghosts of smiling children singing songs of Christmas joy to a sea of family
and friends.
The weary man leaned forward until his elbows rested
on his knees, the strain of the last several hours masked as he lowered his
face into his hands. The numbness that
permeated his mind and heart since the shooting had acted as a buffer to
protect him from the reality of the situation and allowed him to function in
‘cop mode’, doing what had to be done in order to keep Starsky alive. Now that he was separated from his partner,
the adrenaline that had sustained him fled, leaving him entirely spent and
utterly devastated.
Hutch wearily raised his head and stared into his
hands. Blood was still crusted there,
drying into the crevices in small red-brown rivers. How can a man survive after
losing so much blood? What am I going
to do if I lose him? Why did this happen?
What am I going to do? Dear God, what am I going to do?
Hutch tore his tear-streaked gaze away from his
hands and looked up toward the single stained glass pane at the head to the
altar. An unadorned oak cross hung
before the colored glass. The stricken
man stared at the sign of suffering and redemption for a few moments, unaware
of the play of color the window painted upon his anguished face.
God? Can You… are You there? I… I don’t remember how to pray. I… please, please help me…help him.
I can’t… I don’t… I…
Please… save
him.
The weary man that pushed himself up off the pew
moved as if he were decades older than his thirty-some years. Slowly he made his way back down the aisle
and out of the gentle light, unaware that his prayer, a partner’s prayer, had
already been answered.
~Brit
10/27/00