Home Invasion

by Lloyd B. Abrams

Several days earlier, I was reading in bed after midnight when I heard the sound of breaking glass. After a two-second delay, the alarm system began wailing. I ran downstairs to reset it. On its LED readout was FAULTED MAIN LEVEL. I inspected our windows and doors. A window in the dining room had been broken inward. Shattered glass littered the floor.

My wife Rona had shouted from upstairs, "Jer ... is everything okay?" I could imagine our sleepy-eyed kids gathered in her arms and our dog hiding next to our bed cowering from the alarm.

"Yeah, don't worry. It's nuthin. Everyone go back to sleep."

That afternoon, I had a glazier replace the window. But the alarm company rep said they'd need three or four days to schedule a service call.

The sound of breaking glass crept into a dream. I've always been a light sleeper. I awoke with a start.

I nudged, then shook awake my wife. "Huh ... what is it?"

I whispered, "Breaking glass again. Downstairs. Call nine-one-one."

She reached for the cordless as I slipped out of bed. I grabbed my flashlight. My heart was beating fast. I tiptoed to my closet. Felt way in the back for my shotgun case. Slid it out, removed the trigger guard. Nudged forward the safety. I'd installed a pistol grip for maneuverability and snugged the shotgun against my side. I took a few deep breaths and headed down.

The stairs were old and creaky. I hugged each one along its edge where it didn't squeak. I counted all fourteen as I descended.

When I got to the landing I pivoted. I sensed, more than heard, footsteps in the dining room. I racked the shotgun and yelled, "Freeze!"

There's nothing like the sound of a shotgun being racked. There's nothing like that sound to stop someone in their tracks. Anyone with half a brain, that is.

I flicked on the flashlight, held it up high with my left hand, my shotgun squeezed to my right side. Felt burning in my left wrist as a shot rang out. Dropped the flashlight but grasped the shotgun two-handed and fired waist high at the movement. Racked again. Tracked the shadow. Fired. Heard a scream. Then "No fire! ... I'm hurt. Please. No!" Moaning. Silence.

Double aught buckshot searing into flesh is agonizing, but the next one would've been a slug, which makes a hole a school bus could drive through. That's the way I loaded the shells into the magazine - buckshot, buckshot, slug, slug, then alternating. Nine shells in all.

I waited. Silently counted to five. Heard nothing except whimpering. I approached, hyper-alert, wary. I flipped up the dimmer switch for the chandelier. The guy was sprawled on the floor in a spreading pool of dark blood. He was reaching for the pistol he must've dropped. Moron. I kicked it away and then stood over him, pointing my shotgun down at him.

"Go ahead. Try it." Part of me wanted it to get it over with.

"Don't shoot, Mister."

"What the fuck you doin in my house?"

From upstairs, Rona: "What the hell's goin on down there?"

"Don't worry. I got everything covered."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Stay upstairs with the kids."

"Okay. The police are on the way."

Yeah, sure. While crime has dropped in many places, it's been up in our recession-plagued neighborhood. There've been a rash of burglaries and home invasions, and several people have been raped or shot. With the police force spread thin, I knew it would take a while. I'd have to keep this guy under control.

"You were here the other night, too. Right?"

"Whatcha mean?"

I kicked at his ribs. "The window. The same window. Broken."

The guy didn't answer. But it was the look he gave me. I knew it was him. I knew he had done it. Guy was smart. Planned ahead. Was maybe even watching our home. He knew to come back and try again. This was a really bad guy.

"Listen, asshole. You're in deep. Breaking and entering. Attempted burglary, with a deadly weapon. And firing the goddam gun. I pointed at the burn mark on my wrist. This is no simple misdemeanor."

"What you? Some kinda lawyer?"

"Nah. But I know enough. As they say, you goin away." And I laughed down at him.

Sirens pealed in the distance. He lunged at me, chopping at my leg. I almost lost my footing as I pulled the trigger. His chest exploded as he fell back.

My ears were ringing. Jeezus. I just killed the guy. Stupid bastard. What was he thinking? I was panting, took a deep breath. Kept standing over him. Kept shaking my head.

The sirens grew louder, then stopped. Flashing lights pulsated through the windows.

There was pounding on the door. I went to open it, holding the shotgun barrel up.

The police barged in pointing their handguns. I gestured towards the dining room. One cop snatched the shotgun from me, gave me a sour look, and held onto it.

"His pistol - it's on the floor in the corner," I said, pointing, and went to sit down on the couch.

Rona came running downstairs. Glanced around. Nodded at the officers. Stared into the dining room. Then plopped down next to me. Hissed, "You know you didn't have to kill him."

"Yes I did, Rona. I fuckin had to."

Rev 7 / March 4, 2010

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March, 2010…Copyright © 2010, Lloyd B. Abrams