Dora

Victoria held the washcloth tightly in her hand and wiped away any remaining fur and flesh from the inside of the ancient microwave, blood coating her smooth skin. The pungent smell of bleach attacked her nose and a slight irony scent assaulted her stomach muscles. The bucket next to her was half full of water, now stained red.
“The smell will be in here for days.” She held the cloth out in front of her, a look of disgust covering her face. She shoved it into the dark water, air bubbles rising to the surface. Grabbing the metal handle of the bucket, she lifted it up to the newly installed porcelain sink and watched the red water spiral into the garbage disposal. Absent-mindedly, she flipped on the switch and listened as any chunks in the water were ground into a fine paste.
The newspaper that she had read earlier that morning lay on the counter in front of her, and fresh bloody thumb prints covered the first page. She reread the article that she had been distracted by, the startling front page headline not quite as startling as the short, one column article on the third page:

Local Man Found Dead in Nursing Home
by: Marcus Longville
–On March 31, 2003, at 10:15 AM, Head Nurse Julia Whitman of Hawthorne Heights Nursing Home found five-year resident James Marshall dead
in his hospital bed.
“He’d asphyxiated himself by tying a plastic bag around his neck, and when I found him, it was too late,” Whitman testified to local authorities.
Marshall had been on suicide watch for two of the five years at Hawthorne
Heights, and had stolen the bag from one of the janitor carts. Nurses were scheduled to look in on him every fifteen minutes to make sure he had no intentions of attempting suicide. Whitman was performing one of the said routine checks, but Marshall had tied the bag around his head mere seconds after the preceding check.
Funeral preparations are currently under way, as Marshall leaves behind his wife, Marge, three children, seven grandchildren, and one great-grandchild.

Victoria walked to the sink and opened the window over it, hoping the smells would be
forced out of the kitchen. The whole house smelled hot, dirty. Victoria felt the walls closing in on her, and all around her, the white walls turned liquid red. She ran out of the house, falling to the ground, clutching her throat.


Dora woke up the next morning, slightly chilled from the crisp fall breeze blowing
through the window she had opened the night before. She stood, feeling the aches and pains of her eighty year old body, and gingerly stepped into her small bathroom, where she put on her
oversized bathrobe.
Since retiring from her full-time teaching job of forty-five years, Dora had developed a
daily routine. Today, she would make herself breakfast, pull some weeds in the garden that was
nearly ready to harvest, and go to the church to help prepare for the fall festival later that week.
As she walked into her kitchen, she was overpowered by the smell of bleach filling her
nostrils. She gasped as she saw the state her kitchen was in–complete disarray. The microwave
door was open, the inside light burnt out. Red marks covered her usually spotless white counters,
and all but one section of the newspaper was ripped apart and dyed a reddish-black color.
Someone’s here, Dora thought, wildly looking around. Unable to move her legs, Dora
sank to the ground, dazed and panicky. Her ability to breathe was leaving her, and black dots covered her eyes as her torso began to sway from side to side. Her hand slapped the counter in an attempt to support herself. She felt her cheek hit the cold linoleum, and just before her eyes closed, she saw it hanging from the refrigerator–a long golden cat’s tail.

Dora’s stomach heaved as she came to, her line of sight parallel to the floor below her. Her head rested in the bend of her arm, and she was too exhausted to lift herself. She inhaled sharply as her eyes registered the deep red paint on her nails, reminding her of the blood
covering her counter tops and coating her microwave. She slowly rose to her feet, willing herself not to look but to just walk out.
“Reginald...Reginald?” The call came as a soft whisper, Dora’s voice cracking as she
searched for her pet. “Come here, Reginald....Reginald ? ” She was growing hysterical, unable to calm herself.
Dora grabbed the phone off the wall, her shaking fingers taking extra time to find the
buttons she needed.
“Hawthorne police department.” The woman’s voice was calm, smooth, and at another time would have been soothing.
“Help me I need help ”
“Ma’am, I need you to tell me...”
“Someone was in my house. My cat–my little Reginald...”Dora’s voice refused to cooperate as her breathing became more and more uneven and her throat tightened.
“All right, ma’am. I need your address and name, and I need you to calm down so I can
help you better. As soon as you give me the address, I can patch it over to the police, and they’ll be right out there.”
Dora tried to compose herself. Her address was all jumbled in her head, her panic producing a mass amount of confusion. “6925....6592....6295 Ashton Lane in Hawthorne. Hurry, please Dora...my name is Dora.”
“Ok, Dora. The police are on their way. Can you tell me what’s happened?”
“I don’t know. There’s...blood and-and newspaper everywhere.”
“Blood and newspaper? Ok, do you know who’s blood it is?”
“My cat, Reginald...it’s–I think it’s his blood.” Sobs filled the space in between Dora’s words, and she lapsed back into complete panic. “Someone was here. Someone killed my cat ”
“Dora, take a deep breath in and just relax. Is someone with you right now?”
“I’m alone, all alone...”
“OK, try to keep yourself calm. The police will be there soon, and they will help you out. Where in the house is the blood?”
“My–my kitchen. It’s all over my counters and in my microwave and my sink’s all brown.”
“How long were you in the kitchen?”
“I’m not sure how long I was in there....I blacked out for awhile...maybe five, six minutes?”
“Did you touch anything in the kitchen when you found it?”
“I have some on my hands...from when I fell.” Dora could feel herself calming, her body and mind reacting as she slowly came off of her adrenaline high. A deep loneliness settled over her as she realized all that had happened. “My cat What’ll I do without him?
“Just wait for the police. They’ll be there soon. It will be fine.”
The sound of sirens filled Dora’s ears as she tossed the phone onto the desk, and ran to her window. A police car whipped into her driveway, pulled up as far as it could, and a young officer jumped out, running to the front door. A fire truck and ambulance followed closely
behind the police car, both vehicles choosing parking spots next to the curb.
Dora rushed to the front door, pulling it open for the officer. He rushed through the door,
acknowledging Dora with a slight nod, and then headed in the direction that her small, shaking
finger was pointing. She tried to follow behind him, but was surrounded by a small mob, calmly
assaulting her with questions: “How do you feel”; “Are you dizzy”; “Do you feel nauseated, have a headache, anything?” Dora tried her best to make sense of the questions, to answer, but
struggling to locate her voice, sank into a chair. The group dissipated, a lone EMT standing over her, worry lines etched into his forehead. His cold hand brushed her shoulder as he stepped around the rocking chair, and kneeled before her.
“Now, Dora,” he began in a soft voice, “I just need to ask you a few questions to see how you are doing, okay? Make sure you are honest with me, and everything will be all right.”
Dora glanced up, her eyes brimming with tears as she looked at the young man. “I don’t–Why would–I can’t understand why someone would do this...I’ve never hurt anyone...R-Reginald certainly never has. What’s going on?” Dora’s vision became blurry, and she let her
head fall into the palm of her hands. She heard the man leave, and felt his presence when he
returned with an ice pack.
“You’ve got quite the bruise developing...Does it hurt? Do you know how it got there?”
“I passed out–when I saw my kitchen...”
“Does anything else hurt? You need to let me know so I can help you better.”
“No, noth-nothing else hurts.” The sobs were returning, and as hard as she tried, Dora
could not suppress them. “Why...I don’t even know why.”

The police officer made his way confidently through the small crowd gathered outside of the gas station across the street from Dora’s house. Most of the onlookers tried to make
themselves look busy, trying to hide their obvious interest.
Officer Benning walked up to the counter. The young woman behind the counter smiled
blankly at him, knowing what was coming next, but trying to avoid it.
“Gas for you, sir?” She reached behind her, grabbing the old pair of binoculars so she
could read out how much he owed her.
“No...”Benning studied the name tag pinned to the girl’s dark blue uniform, “Ashley. I just need to ask a couple of questions.”
“I knew it...Dang...I was hoping I’d be off work before you got over here,” Ashley laughed nervously, embarrassed that she had put her thoughts into words.
Benning chuckled. “Oh, I would’ve just come after you at home. Don’t worry about it, though. I just need to get some information. Do you have an idea of how many people have
stopped here today?”
“Well, it’s only about nine o’clock. We had the morning rush, you know all of about ten
people, from around six thirty to about eight o’clock. Since then, it’s been mostly dead. A couple
was in here right before all the cops, I mean, right before you guys showed up.”
“Do you remember anything about the couple?”
“They were normal. I’m guessing newly-weds. They had out-of-state plates, and had been talking about going to see the woman’s parents. I think I heard them say something about
telling her parents about the baby...so, I’m going to be smart here, I think she is pregnant.”
“Do you always pay this much attention to your customers?”
“No, not normally, but they had teased me about our old gas pumps. They seemed
really nice, so I was kind of interested in their conversation.”
Benning glanced at the small notebook in his hand and returned to his questioning. “Do you remember what state their plates were from?”
“Umm...Idaho, I think...but I’m not sure...sorry.”
“Thanks for your help, Ashley. That’s all I need for now, but I may need to ask you a few more questions later.”
“Yeah, no big deal. It’s too bad you didn’t buy any gas, though. The owner’s could really use the money.” Ashley scribbled her number onto the back of a flyer advertising a Bluegrass show the following weekend. She shoved it into Officer Benning’s hand, waved good-bye and went back to sitting and staring out the window as he walked out.
“Folks, just go home. There’s really not much to see, and you’ll learn nothing standing out here. Go home and watch the five o’clock news. Thank you,” Benning stressed the last sentence, winking at a little girl in the back of a new 1990 Ford Station Wagon. He walked
quickly across the street and into the old woman’s home, discovering her, once again, a crying mess.
“Ma’am,” he leaned over, gently whispering, “I need you to come back to the station with me. We can talk about the incident there. My guys will stay back here and check things out.
Don’t worry.”
Benning’s heart nearly broke as Dora looked up at him, her eyes massive and looking very confused. “I can’t leave just yet. I’d really like to wait until my house is in order.” Dora saw the stern look in the young officer’s eyes, and resigned herself to the fact that he was not going to let her free. “But please tell your men to be careful. Some of the plants in there are very delicate.”
Dora took his arm as he helped up from the chair, and she allowed him to support a surprising amount of her weight. It took her awhile to ease into the front of his squad car, and after she had settled in, Benning ran around to the other side, buckled himself in, and then backed out of her steep concrete driveway.


Dora walked into the church three days later, her simple black dress similar to those of the other women filling the foyer. The bruise on her forehead had developed into a large yellow-green lump, and her short gray curls could not even begin to hide it.
“Hello, Dora. How are you doing?” Dora turned to see Missy Newton standing before her.
“Hello, Missy.” Dora smiled and lightly shook the hand that Missy offered to her.
“Don’t worry about your dinner tonight. The kids and I are working on a nice meal for you. I heard about what happened at your house, but you don’t need to worry about a thing. The church is watching out for you.” Missy smiled at Dora just before she was tugged away by her three year old daughter.
Dora walked up to the woman standing by the guest book. “Marge, how are you feeling?” Dora could hear her words dripping with the simulated sympathy, but had no way to remedy it.
“I don’t know. Shocked, I guess. I didn’t even know James felt like he needed to take his own life. How would I know, though?” Marge was not even talking to Dora anymore. Her words were soft and reflective; no response was desired.
“How could you not know? You’re his wife.” Marge’s head snapped up. Dora wish she could have hidden her thoughts, instead of speaking them so harshly. “Marge, I’m sorry. I had no right to pry–“
”No, Dora. You’re right. You two obviously hadn’t talked much in the past fifty years. So much has changed.”
Dora was uncomfortable now. Her past with James Marshall was one she had not talked about in years, and she liked it that way. She had not even talked to Marge in those years. She needed to get out of this conversation quickly.
“There is a dinner at my house after the funeral for James’ close friends. I think you should come.” Marge spoke as a single tear rolled down her cheek.
“I had better not. The doctors said that I, um, should be careful for the next couple days of how much I do. They said my body has been particularly taxed. Thank you, though. I’ll be praying for you.” Dora turned and walked away as fast as she could. She may not have talked to James in years, but she had kept track of him. She knew that he and Marge had found themselves unhappy, but afraid of divorce. Their twenty-five year separation had been no secret from her. And that separation had induced no sympathy in her. The woman who had stolen her fiancé deserved the separation, and probably more.

Victoria had loved killing the cat, and the adrenaline that came along with it. Getting it into the microwave had been interesting until she had figured out how to cut off the cat’s tail so the door would close. She just wished she could have seen the old lady’s reaction. Oh, well.
She had liked it so much, and now she had to do it again because the old woman at the
funeral parlor had known her, had asked her questions, and had somehow connected Victoria to
her past. Between fits of tears, the old woman, Marge was her name, had told Victoria of her
failed marriage, the twenty-five year separation, the fear of sin in divorce. But the whole time
Marge was telling her this, Victoria had the feeling that she was supposed to already know how the story went. She didn’t, though. She knew the very ending: how Marge’s husband, suffering
from the same feelings of failure as Marge, had tied a garbage bag around his neck and died. Now, after twenty-five years of not seeing him, Marge had to see him again, with all of the life out of eyes.
Marge had scared Victoria, all of her questions and the expectant look in her eyes as she asked them. Victoria knew it would not work, and Marge’s death was the only way to solve it.


Victoria’s light footsteps hardly made a sound as she stepped across the antique, wooden
floors. She watched as the old, mourning woman pulled the black hat from her head, and
removed the black sash from her waist. Marge glanced up quickly, catching Victoria’s reflection in the massive mirror, and started.
“Dora, dear, I hadn’t realized you were here. I thought you weren’t coming.” The fake smile plastered on Marge’s face grated on Victoria’s nerves, and the way that the woman had brushed aside her true feelings made what Victoria was about to do all the easier.
“I’m not Dora. Don’t call me that, old woman. You lost your mind with your husband, and you know it ” Victoria took a menacing step towards Marge, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks as her heart beat quickened and the adrenaline began to pump.
As Victoria stepped forward, Marge laughed nervously, a hand fluttering to her throat,
and then grasping for the heavy, hand-held silver mirror laying on the table. “This isn’t very funny. I don’t know what you want, but this isn’t the right time for a practical joke ”
Victoria charged forward, grabbing the mirror from Marge’s hand and smashing it over her gray hair.
Marge’s body crumpled as the heavy mirror made contact with her skull. Victoria stood over her, a smug grin beginning to spread across her face. She pulled a knife from her purse on the floor and marveled at its glistening blade. Blood was beginning to cause Marge’s curls to mat and a small trail created a pool just below her left ear. Suddenly, Victoria saw Marge’s hand move and force herself up. Victoria stood, silently, as she watched Marge stand, hunched over, as small shards of glass fell from her hair.
“Please...don’t...” The plea was little more than a breath formed into words, and Victoria, not in the least bit eager to show mercy, stepped nearer to the old woman, the knife poised to kill. Marge’s feet shuffled toward the door, her eyes wide. One hand covered the gash on her head, trying to stop the bleeding, while the other reached out behind her, struggling to find the door knob. Marge slowly edged the door open and turned to run out of the room. She was not fast enough for Victoria, though. The blade slipped into her back, slicing through her stomach.
Victoria pulled the blade violently out of the flesh and raised the knife to attack the frail skin once again. Fully arrogant in her ability to carry out such an horrific act, Victoria took a moment to pause. In that second, Marge covered her wound, now out-weighing the laceration in her head, and gasped as she took a wide step around the young woman before her. She pulled herself
across her bed, grasping the white downy duvet. She turned to see the thick trail of blood following her. She was almost to the window, almost near enough to open it, to call for help, to jump.
A sharp pain coursed through her body as she felt the blade’s tip break into the space between two ribs, and puncture her lung. The wind was sucked out of her, and she lost all
strength. She breathed her final breath, and her weight fell completely onto the knife. Victoria slid her palm under the old woman’s body, jerking the knife from the gaping wound, and carelessly tossing the body across the bed next to her.

The part that Victoria liked the least was the clean-up. She did not know why she did it, but she did, and she hated it. She paced Marge’s bedroom, silently admonishing herself for the mess she had made. The cat had been so much cleaner, the mess contained for the most part to
the kitchen counters and the microwave. But Marge had put up more of a fight than Victoria had
expected. Long, thick trails of blood led around the room, over the bed and across the massive rug. Splotches of red marred the once perfect white paint on the bedroom walls, and the lamp on
the bedside table was overturned, the lightbulb glass crunching under Victoria’s feet.

Weary from the afternoon’s events, she leaned against the bloody bedpost, rubbing a
handkerchief over the blade that she had used on Marge’s stomach. Victoria had expected the
blow from the mirror to knock the old woman out so that she could easily the slip the knife into her stomach and then leave. Too bad the old bat was stronger than Victoria had anticipated. She turned to look at the dead woman, grabbed the broken mirror and left.

Victoria stood on the sidewalk in front of the cat lady’s house. Her eyes wandered across the deep red paint on the Victorian style home, and saw the ivy begin to form its tangled mess
over the brick chimney on the side of the house. She searched for any signs of a new pet, trying to discover what kind of pain the death of the old woman’s pet had caused. Finding no evidence
in the outer reaches of the house, she walked over the cracked concrete sidewalk, tripping over the edge of one of the concrete slabs. She pushed open the thick front door, a petite, wrought iron sunflower door-knocker brightening up the otherwise solemn door.
“Oh,” Victoria gasped as she was greeted by the old woman.
“Can I help you, miss? You know, you could knock instead of just barging in.”
Stern eyes peered over square reading glasses, and Victoria struggled for a response. “Umm, yes, I know. I’m very sorry. I’d assumed that no one would be home...”
“And so you also assumed that you could enter freely? Oh, well, what is done is done. Did you need something?” Before allowing Victoria into the foyer of her home, Dora waved a hand to the young woman pushing the stroller across the street.
“I know who killed her...and your cat. I-I wanted...it had to be done...” Victoria was startled by the words flowing from her own mouth, and she tried to cover it with her hand as they
began to pour from her soul. “That old lady knew too much...she was dangerous and hurtful and mean. She had to die.”
Dora swatted the hand from Victoria’s mouth and squeezed her tiny wrist with all the strength in her aging body. Unsure of how to respond, Dora dragged Victoria through her home, intending to grab the phone and call the police. Victoria regained her strength, however, and
jerked her hand out of Dora’s weak grasp, a fire with an unknown source blazing her young eyes. “Don’t touch me ” The warning came as a low growl, Victoria’s voice dropping several octaves and barely audible. “Don’t ever touch me again ” This time it was louder, with the strength of tens of voices. The decorative plates on Dora’s walls shook as Victoria shoved her against back, the flat of the old woman’s head smacking harshly against the plaster wall. A shriek escaped from the wrinkled lips, and Victoria promptly produced a palm to place over the mouth, smothering any chance Dora had to cry for help.
“Now you know too much, too. You will be the last, I promise. Hah What does it matter to you? You will be dead.” Victoria hurled Dora across the room, and watched as she flew into the stones surrounding the fireplace.

Victoria awoke next to the fireplace and looked down, seeing the red paint on her freshly manicured nails cracked and the skin on her hands wrinkled and bloody. Her vision was fuzzy
and one eye was covered in a thick red mess, making sight through that eye impossible. She shouted out in pain as she tried to pull herself up and noticed the bone cracked and nearly poking through her skin, pointed outward at a near forty-five degree angle from the remainder of the
bone. A wave of nausea swept through her body and she felt the bile begin to creep up her throat. Taking a deep breath in to try to calm her stomach, Victoria felt the pain from multiple cracked ribs and winced. A second wave of nausea hit, this one taking over. She had no choice but to mar the thick carpet surrounding her. Victoria doubled over, took one last breath, and died.


Officer Benning walked across the hospital waiting room to the young woman sitting in the green, barely padded chair. “Ma’am, I know you’ve already been through a lot, but I need you to answer some questions while everything is fresh in your mind.”
She glanced up slowly, wiped away the tears streaking her cheeks, and then sat up straight in her chair. “I’m sorry, Officer. I don’t think I’ll be of any help. All I did was pick up the phone and–“
”I’m sorry, but with all do respect ma’am, right now, anything will help. Now, my name’s Officer Benning. Don’t worry, we’ll just start nice and easy. What’s your name?”
“Karen Miller.”
“And how long have you lived on Ashton Lane?”
“Only about a year and a half. My husband and I moved there shortly before we found out I was pregnant with my baby girl.” Karen leaned over the stroller on her right side, smiling down at the infant inside.
“Why did you call the police?”
“I heard some screaming coming from Dora’s house. She’s so old, I thought that someone might have broken in and tried to steal something. I was just worried, that’s all.”
“Had you seen anything that would suggest a break in? Has anything happened lately that might make you think that?” “Well, I don’t know. I was out pushing Nicki in her stroller, and I saw Dora standing out on her front porch. She looked concerned. I think she was talking to herself. I don’t know. I’m sorry, officer, but I really don’t know what else to tell you.”
Ignoring her last comment, Benning pushed her to continue answering the questions. “When were you out walking? Did you hear what Dora was saying, or did you maybe catch the look on her face?”
“It must have been around 12:15. I had walked to the grocery store for some fruit and was just getting back. I was across the street. I could just hear her voice, not really catch her words. She was talking at a normal volume, though, like how I’m talking to you now.”
“Okay, so you walked past around 12:15, and placed the call to the department at,” Benning glanced down at the notes in his hand, before saying, “12:48. Thirty three minutes later. Have you ever seen or heard her talking to herself like that before?”
“No. I mean, everyone talks to themselves every once in awhile. Maybe she didn’t know I was there until I was right across the street from her.”
“So, she knew you were there? How do you know that?”
“She waved at me really quick, and then stepped inside her house. It was kind of funny. She stepped inside and left the door open for a second...you know, how you do when you’re letting someone in?”
“Did she look like she was expecting you to come in, maybe she was waiting for you. Or did she just close the door after a while?”
“She shut it after those few seconds.” Karen paused for a moment, her eyes beginning to fill again. “Is she okay? I didn’t even get to see her before she got here. Did she get hurt? Oh, God, I should go see her. She must be so confused...”
Officer Benning leaned down, holding Karen’s hand lightly, and looking into her eyes. “Karen, Dora’s not okay. She’s on life support right now until we can reach her family and find out if we can take her off. But Karen, you did good. There was nothing that you could have done.”
Karen gasped, a hand covering her open mouth, her shoulders shaking and sobs escaping her throat. Benning patted her hand, unsure of what else to do. He glanced around. A mother and her young son sat across the room from them. The boy had a large cut just over his eyebrow, and his mother was trying to cover it with a Kleenex. Benning saw both of their eyes shift quickly to
Karen, and then back to the magazine in the boy’s lap, feigning interest in the article on a frog’s anatomy.
Karen was beginning to settle down, consciously settling her breathing. “I-I don’t think she has anyone else.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite here you.”
“I don’t think she has anyone else in her family. I’ve never seen her leave on any holiday, and she never has anyone over for them. She spent last Thanksgiving with us. What happened?”
“I’m sorry, Karen, I don’t know yet. But you have helped so much. I’m going to need you to come to the station with me, just for some extra questioning. You can follow me in your van, since you have a child’s–“
”Can I see her first? I don’t want her to be alone.”
“She doesn’t even know that she’s alone. Your presence won’t make a difference.” As soon as the words had been said, Benning knew he was going to meet up with some fierce resistance.
“I need to see her, Officer. Please. She can’t be alone now, even if she won’t know the difference. She’s already been alone too long.”
Accepting that the woman was distraught, hurt, and confused, Benning sighed in resignation, and turned to ask an orderly to lead them to her room.
“Are you sure you want to see her?” The young orderly was hesitant as he led them to the door. “Try to prepare yourself out here for what’s in there. She looks pretty bad. I’ll wait out here in case you need anything.”
“Thank you.” Karen nodded at the young man, her thanks hardly audible.
She started to walk through the door, but Benning pulled her back. “Karen, let me go in first. I’ve already seen her, and I want you to be able to collect yourself.”
Karen stepped slowly behind the tall officer in front of her, and took a deep breath in. She gasped as she moved from behind the man, and black dots began to cover her eyes as she swayed for a few seconds. She felt strong hands on her shoulders as she was led to a chair across the room. “Are you okay? You can leave now if you want.”
“No, I’m fine. I can’t let her be here alone.” Karen stood slowly, her face white and her eyes unfocused. Fresh tears streaked down her face, re-wetting the dried trails of mascara
The old woman laid in the bed, a tiny body taking up only a fraction of the space provided for it. It was hardly a body that Karen saw, though. Instead it was a torn and mangled mess of flesh, not human at all. Her right eye was closed, but bulging more than was normal. Her left eye was surrounded by a black bruise that looked it had been developing for days. Sections of hair were missing, the scalp stitched shut where it had once been ripped and open. The neck was bloody, and the clothing covering her chest was torn, revealing deep lacerations. Both arms were horribly scraped, the right covered in what had become dark purple bruises. Sheets were
covering the remaining portion of the body, but Karen could see the bulge produced from the broken bone.
“Why haven’t they f-fixed that?” Karen pointed at the leg, and blinked repeatedly, trying to erase the reality before her face.
“She was already gone when she got here. She’s on life support just until they find some family to call and confirm that they can take her off. They’ve decided to leave her so that an
autopsy can maybe provide some more information. I think we’d better go and get you some water. Then we can head over to the station.”
“I can’t leave. She needs me.”
“Staying won’t help, Karen. If we get over to that station soon, though, and maybe get some questions answered, we can help her a lot. You have to say good-bye.”
Karen recognized the truth in the officer’s words, turned, and left.

Dora was taken off of life support two days after Karen’s visit, and was buried three days after that. After suffering from the barrage of deaths in their small town, the citizens of Hawthorne tried to piece everything back together. Dora’s home was remodeled and sold, without a word of her violent death ever mentioned to the new owners. Marge and James’ children came to visit their graves a few times in the first year after their deaths, but then limited their visits just to times when they felt especially low. Dora’s funeral was a small one, and her headstone was always bare of flowers or notes. In her death, Dora had but one companion–the personality that she had created and which had ultimately killed her.