WITNESS
Mel Waldman
She witnessed a murder. When she got out of the elevator, she saw him shoot the fifteen-year-old girl once in the face, blowing a huge hole in her skull, almost decapitating her. The girl was gone before she hit the lobby floor.
He looked down at the corpse and then turned toward the familiar witness. “Hello,” he said, smiling sardonically. With the slick gun hanging loosely in his right hand, he pointed his left forefinger at her and said: “Bang! Bang!” He laughed uproariously. Then he strutted off, leaving her behind, standing erect like a marble statue, perhaps in shock, in a private secret place, trying to understand, but never quite fathoming the violence she had witnessed, nor why she was still alive.
The victim had been a neighbor. And the killer was her ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t let her go. He knew where the witness, who had just turned eighteen, lived and worked. She was marked for death. But first, he’d terrorize her.
Later, the police arrived. Detached, she reported what had happened in less than a minute. The next day, she spent time at the police station and gave a complete report. But she left out her emotional terror and shock. She was offered police protection. She accepted it. Yet she knew he’d get to her. She knew.
She worked at the medical center on Burnside Avenue in the southwest Bronx. For a few weeks, she transferred to the Walton Avenue site and entered therapy with me. Therapy’s usually a slow process. And she had suffered from an acute stress reaction possibly leading to PTSD (Posttraumatic Stress Disorder). Still, she seemed to respond to therapy.
He did not show up at the Burnside or Walton Avenue site. Perhaps, the streets had swallowed him up. Maybe he had left the Bronx or New York. The police continued to watch her apartment building and the medical center. Nothing happened. Then she vanished too. The police never found her, nor him.
I see her face and hear her voice every day. Her name is Anna. Five years have passed, but she’s embedded in my brain. And I must confess, she’s in my soul too (if it exists).
I see her beautiful face-dark brown eyes, full lips, and long jet black hair. Even in terror, she sometimes smiled. When she felt hopeful, in a poignant moment, she grew a big, wide smile that filled me up with faith.
Although I see her face of terror too and her trembling body and voice, sometimes I hear her voice of innocence, as soft and lovely as a peacock’s feather.
I suppose it’s a false innocence. I mean, she witnessed and experienced hell. Then she came to me for help. We had only a few sessions. I hope I helped her in some small way.
She touched me with her courage and allowed me to feel her pain. In fact, she passed it on to me. Emotional pain is contagious, you see.
The killer vanished and so did my patient. But Anna left me a gift-the joy of knowing her.
She’s inside me and I’m inside the belly of the beast, which swallowed me five years ago in the southwest Bronx. It’s dark in here. Very dark.
