~目~

Lisa didn't know what woke her up.

Most of the time when this happened in the middle of the night, she would check on Erik in his room, then go straight back to bed. But on her way back from her brother's room, she couldn't go back to her room. There was someone in the kitchen.

During the daytime, the hallways in the Traver's house were poorly lit since they were away from the windows that faced towards the east and the west. But at night, the hallways, the foyer, every nook and cranny were dark chambers of solitude that were inhospitable to even the faintest spark of light that dared venture into the black corridors of the halls. Even though it was darker than the inside of a tin can at the bottom of a well, Lisa stalked the remaining length of the corridor that led into the kitchen. She stepped quietly and carefully, not sure whether she was right about hearing a noise or a series of noises that seemed to come from the family dining room.

But then she heard it.

There was someone in the kitchen.

There was no light, for the exception of the glimmer of the moon rays filtering through the closed curtains. Lisa's heart was racing, plunging and thumping like a raft in a rapid when she peeked her head around the corner. Her eyes scanned the room.

The Travers' family oak dining table stood like a sentry in dim moonlight. The refrigerator hummed softly like a giant cat in the corner. The cabinets stared back at Lisa. But there was no figure, no broken glass, no sound of crunching footsteps.

No signs of an intruder.

But there were sounds of a different nature.

Lisa stuck her whole head out now, her ears catching faint clicks and fabric being brushed against linoleum. A sigh. A clatter, something metal, Lisa imagined. Then she knew.

She knew the instant before she saw the leg sticking out behind the kitchen island.

She knew before she heard the deep, muted gasps and sobs.

She was certain when she saw him.

First Lieutenant Don Travers.

Huddled.

Curled.

His face in the kitchen linoleum, his mouth sucking in shallow gasps of air.

His hands gripping a Beretta M9 pistol, the ridge of his nose rubbing up against the length of gun's barrel.

Up close, kneeling down, Lisa could see fat drops of tears pouring out of her father's eyes which were clamped shut. She didn't know whether to touch him, hug him, or shout. She didn't know what to do. All she could do was kneel down in fright and in terror and shock at her father grasping the pistol with both hands in a rigid death grip. Lisa stood up.

Then her father's eyes snapped open.

He spotted her standing over him, and in that brief split second before it happened, Lisa could see the pain piercing out of his eyes and into hers. For that momentary instant, she could almost feel the lightning that flashed in her father's eyes. But the moment was gone. First Lieutenant Don Travers reacted spontaneously. He pushed Lisa's legs out from under her, causing his daughter to crumple to the kitchen floor. She lay on her elbows as she watched in helpless terror as her father whipped up off the ground like a man possessed. He put his knee on her chest, his right hand wielding the pistol and bringing it level with her head, right in between her eyes. Lisa could smell the sweat from her father and the saliva sprinkling her cheeks as her father roared.

No words.

Just screaming.

Lisa screamed.

First Lieutenant Travers screamed.

"Dad! No!"

It was Erik. Erik was in the kitchen. Lisa stared in shock at her father's eyes boring hatred and malice into her. She knew what he was seeing. He wasn't seeing her tear stricken daughter. He wasn't seeing his kitchen floor.

He was seeing the enemy.

The enemy had snuck up on him in the night, and he would fight to the death defending himself.

Erik hadn't bothered to get in his wheelchair.

He had crawled all the way to the kitchen and he was now lunging at his dad. First Lieutenant Travers whirled around, knee still pivoted on his daughter on the kitchen floor, his pistol now centered on his eldest son. Erik stopped abruptly. He saw the weapon in his dad's hand. He saw the rage in his dad's eyes. He saw Lisa on the floor, crying, panting under the weight of her father's knee.

"Dad! For the love of God, stop!" Erik shouted over their father's heaves and grunts. Don Travers blinked hard, frowning. From her view on the floor, she could see Erik staring down the gun's barrel, and then switch to his father' eyes. Lisa then could see the gun shake, her dad's hand twitching in an intermittent tremor that began in his fingers. Then it spread. It spread across his hand, down his forearm and to his shoulders, a tiny seizure that rippled across Don Travers' body. Lisa could feel it in her dad's knee on her chest.

"It's me! Erik! Stop. . . this. . . now." Erik reasoned to his father for what seemed to be an eternity to Lisa. An eternity of listening to the heavy breathing of Don Travers. An age of looking at Erik staring down their raving father. A millennium feeling the decreasing pressure of her dad's knee on her chest. Then First Lieutenant Travers fell over. His back slapped wetly against the side of the kitchen island. Lisa rolled over onto her side, facing her father. She didn't try to get up. It was impossible. She didn't try to speak. She couldn't. She couldn't even cry. She just stared at her father, gaze into his dull, lifeless eyes that once held an aging man's youth and frivolity.
Lisa searched her father's red rimmed blazing blue eyes, looking for any sign of recognition. Any sign of the father she knew. Instead, Don Travers stared back, his mouth a small slit, drying spit crusting the left edge of his jaw. Erik hustled over to his father and snatched his pistol away, stone hard grip now gone, replaced with trembling, useless fingers.
Lisa curled into a ball and hugged her legs in a tight embrace.
Sitting down several feet away, Erik set down the pistol in his lap.

Lying against the kitchen island, First Lieutenant Don Travers stared at his daughter and listened to the sounds of her weeping.