The White Angel Murder

San Diego, California. Two years ago

The coppery stink of blood hung in the air like a strong perfume.

Jonathan Stanton felt the coolness of the linoleum in the kitchen against his back as his nostrils filled with the scent. His vision was blurry and only faint echoes rang in his ears but he knew there was no one near. He felt the calmness of the house now; the quiet. The gun was heavy against his hand but he didn’t feel he had the strength to lift it.

He glanced down and saw the dark black blood pouring out of him and onto the floor, spreading into a wide circle around him. He felt the dampness of his shirt as it clung to his ribs and the trickle of urine down his thighs as he lost control of his bladder. His vision was clouded past a couple of feet and he didn’t know what, or who, was there, but there was no movement. His head collapsed back and his eyes began to close.

Stay alive. Stay alive. Sleep is death.

But all he wanted to do was sleep. It would be a simple thing to do; like falling onto silken sheets and wrapping them around himself. The softness would kiss his skin and then, there would nothing. It would be so easy to do.

His eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, and darkness enveloped him.

A crash and then cold over his chest. His lids opened but his eyes had rolled back into his head and they began to twitch and flutter.

“He’s conscious!”

He felt lightness, a floating sensation, as if he began to hover and he thought of his mother. His sweet mother with the soft hands that smelled like lavender. She had passed too soon from breast cancer and he had watched her soft smile as it withered away in the hospital bed with the clean white sheets. She held his hand as much as possible those last few days and they would watch reruns of shows on television. He would tell her about his day and the mundane things that happened.

It’s trivial stuff, Ma.

No, she would reply. Nothing’s trivial, Sweetheart. You have to love all of it.

The next day, she couldn’t speak. And the day after that, her soul was lifted from her body like fog over a still river at sunrise.

“Wake up, Jon. Jon! Stay with me. Jon!”

A rushing gasp of warm air. He saw the sparkle of stars as the stretcher rattled to the ambulance out of the old house. The twirling blues and reds of the police cruisers caught his eye as he vomited blood and it spewed out of his nose.

“He’s bleeding out! I need an IV now. What’s his blood type?”

“No time. Grab a Type O bag and get it going. We’re losing him.”