The sound of the gunshots rang out as clear as church bells on Sunday morning.  And, like a kite against the summer sky, they sailed through the air before landing in the heart.  My heart exploded and my stomach churned.  My sister was next to me, her shaky hands leaving smudges on the windowsill, small salty drops falling down her face.  We watched. We waited.
       

Earlier that morning, I watched the cars zip by and I waited.  Waited to see my mother’s car join the line of parents coming to pick up their children from Sunday school.  My sister was next to me.  We waited to go home.  Home to where we were safe from Sunday school teachers lecturing us.  Safe from the worksheets and workbooks.  Safe from snack that had expired four months ago.  Home to where we were safe from the guitar that played hymns and most importantly, safe the lady who played it, singing along in her high, shrill voice that pierced the ear like a bullet. 
        

As our silver car rolled into the driveway, I noticed a second car parked in the garage reminding me that dad was home today.  I made a mental note to make sure to practice piano since my dad was strict about such things.  I skipped into the house, hung up my coat, and came over to greet my father with the day’s events.  It wasn’t long until my sister and mother had joined us.  We jabbered excitedly about the game we played at recess, the new words in our workbook, and the twins being sent to the principal’s office for fighting again.  My dad asked us if we had heard the gunshots as we were driving home.
       

I was too startled by his remark and the casualty with which it was delivered to notice my mother exchange a glance with him.  I began to back up until I was pressed against our stainless-steel refrigerator, the closest thing to bulletproof that I could find.  In my shocked, shaky state I spotted the black silhouette.  It stood like a statue, back facing us, arm extended out, gun in hand, standing in our backyard.  I shrieked.
       

BANG, the gunshot sounded.  With wobbly legs, my sister and I hurriedly stumbled up the stairs.  We scampered to my bedroom.  The two of us huddled around my window through which we could see the backyard, obstructed only slightly by the birthday cake, presents, and balloons drawn on in window paint.  My sister and I crouched down below my bench seat, occasionally peering up like Whack-A-Moles, to see what was happening.  BANG.  I heard more than I saw.  I could hear the squeak of a door on an old hinge coming from below us and knew instinctively that it came from the mudroom.  I listened, I waited.  There was a pluck of a coat coming off its hook, a rustle of clothes and a shuffle of shoes.  Another door squeaked open, then clanged shut with a bang.  I watched in horror as my mother walked outside, walked out towards the deadly sharpshooter. BANG, another shot. 
       

I was scared stiff.  I was shaking, my stomach was churning, my mind was racing, and I felt I was living all of my worst fears.  BANG. I couldn’t understand why my mother was walking towards this intimidating shape armed with a deadly weapon.  It had not, for an instant, escaped my notice that gun rhymes with run for a reason.  But my mother noticed another detail-the letters across the woman’s jacket that spelled out police.  BANG. Another gunshot sounded. 

There were two other officers in the yard and they came over to talk to my mother.  It looked like the saddest party I had ever seen, a group of people, cloaked in black, gathered together, talking in serious tones.  My mom talked with the officers for a long time before coming back indoors.  Meanwhile, more gunshots sounded.
       

I counted nine in total, seven to that bulletproof heart and two fatal shots to the head, before the men came to take the body away.  I watched.  I waited.  My sister stood beside me.  We watched together as the men slowly hoisted the corps, enveloped by a six foot black body bag, onto a gurney.  The men struggled under the weight of the body as they took it around to the front yard, then to the road.  Somberly, the men loaded it into a dark truck that looked all too similar to the one that caused this tragedy.  We watched it fade from view, the words ‘Humane Society’ growing smaller as it carried the deer away.