Innocent

June. Sweltering summer. Six months into the New Year; six months until another began.

The rugged edge of New York City was deserted except for white lights shining down on black asphalt. A woman who seemed to be borne of the bright light and her three children were the only people to be seen turning the corner and ducking out of the world into the subway station that particular midnight. Two of her children were of preschool age; the third was a swaddled infant asleep on her shoulder. Simple observation could conclude that this was a loving family, but, as reality never coincides with assumption, all three children were the unfortunate result of pleasurable evenings with nameless men.

They descended the moldy concrete stairs leading to the subway station below. It was surprisingly well lit. Baffling, thought the woman, that the government would pay for electricity to illuminate a place of such filth. The mental insult quickly left her mind, however, as she realized that she would be able to watch her mistakes better in the blinding light.

She took a seat on a bench and checked her watch. 12:07 AM. The subway was to come in three minutes. With no magazine or novel to read, she decided to simply sit in the deafening quiet of the empty station.

Just then she heard footsteps: old shoes slapping the station stairs. The approaching person was revealed in portions: first, white tennis shoes, then gray pants, a purple t-shirt, dark arms

The woman tensed. Feeling her body constrict, the baby awoke, looking up at his mother with innocent blue eyes. How could such a beauty come from such a bad action?

The man was only three steps away from reaching the ground when he took off his sun-bleached hat in a polite gesture.

"Buenos dias, Senora," said the stranger.

The woman looked away.

The man continued down the steps and soon reached the bottom. In no time, he had narrowed the gap between himself and the woman. He sat down on the bench next to her so that he was no more than three feet away from her.

Her heart raced. Every pore on her body poured forth nervous sweat, and she felt her throat tighten.

This dirty man will rape me and kill me, thought the woman. I am dying tonight. This rancid man will kill me.

"Aye, Senora. Los ninos son sus hijos? Son ninos bonitos, Senora. Ninos bonitos."

The woman knew no Spanish. His Puerto Rican tongue did not help her any.

Hes cursing me, she thought. Hes cursing my skin and calling me crude names, and after he kills me, hell kill the children; they were witnesses.

"Que es la problema, Senora? Tiene miedo? Oh, no, no, no. Soy un muchacho muy gentil. Soy un amigo." He spoke so sympathetic.

The baby giggled in sheer delight. His mother shrunk away in fear.

"Cree en el Senor?"

The woman reached into her pocket and gripped her small handgun.

"Aye. Yo no creo que usted cree en el Senor," the man said to the small space that remained between him and the woman, whose shaking hand held fast to the black savior in her pocket.

Finally, she spoke. "Leave me alone. This is your only warning."

"Senora, yo no hablo ingles, pero..." He reached into his worn pocket.

Hes going to kill me! thought the woman. Surely he was searching his pocket for a knife.

The woman ripped the gun free from its snug enclosure in her own pocket. Without a moment's hesitation, she emptied the cartridge into the Puerto Rican's chest.

The stranger stared blankly up at her, a Bible in his cold, clean hand.