Her Portrait

Steve Denton sat in the old wooden swing on his front porch watching the neighborhood children play a game of kick ball in the roadway. He was amused with all their energy, and sighed with the children when they retreated from their playing field to allow a vehicle passage.

Living in a small peaceful neighborhood had been part of Steve's dream; friendly neighbors, quiet moments spent on his porch, and a sense of belonging. He felt more at home here than he had anywhere in his entire life. With only part of his vision fulfilled, he hadn't found the companionship he so desperately longed for; someone to share his life and dreams with.

"Out!" A blonde-haired boy yelled to another child who stood on a paper plate base.

"I'm safe!" The other boy hollered in his own defense.

The childish disagreement brought Steve's attention back to the competitive game before him.

"Children," he whispered. "Maybe one day."

Steve picked up his sketchpad and began scribbling lines and shapes. He often found inspiration to draw in his surroundings, and had numerous pads of everyday life in his beloved community. He never gifted his pencil drawings to anyone because he cherished each one too much and could not conceive the thought of parting with them.

Steve continued to draw, making quick strokes with his pencil, and occasionally smudging the impressions with his finger. The children had become accustomed to him sitting on the porch watching them. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Steve as the aspiring lonely artist.

"Stupid bitch!"

Steve instantly groaned, dropping his pencil in his lap. "Not again."

"Please stop! I'm sorry!" A woman screamed.

Steve sadly watched as the children scurried off, finding a quieter place to play. He flipped his pad shut and turned his attention to his new neighbor's home.

"Damn," Steve mumbled. "Why me?" His quiet dream had been shattered by this couple moving in next door, just a hop and skip away from his own front porch.

The shouting and cussing had started the moment the couple moved in three weeks ago, and Steve was very angry that this was the third episode this week. He hadn't seen the young woman, but had seen the man on several occasions, leaving and returning with a case of cheap beer. Steve felt like he had profiled the young man correctly with his first impression; mean and arrogant.

The slamming of a vehicle door made him swivel around in his seat to get a better view. He watched the man start his truck and back out of his driveway hastily with total disregard to anything that might have been in his path. The truck roared down the street while smoke boiled from behind the rattletrap.

"Idiot," he muttered, making a mental note that next time he would call the law.

A snug stillness settled in the atmosphere as the distant sound of a mockingbird filled Steve's ears. Darkness was about to be upon the tiny community. Steve began gathering his things off the swing to retreat into the comfort of his home when he heard a faint sob. He walked to the end of his porch. The soft cries pierced his heart. He leaned against the vinyl of the house, holding on to the porch rail listening.

Steve's knees began aching, and he found himself sickened. An hour had slipped by, and the painful moans continued.

"What did he do to you?" he whispered in the night air.

He thought about calling an ambulance or even the police, but he really didn't want to get in anyone's business. 'It's her business. This mysterious stranger who cries into the night,' he thought. 'She should just leave.'

"Why doesn’t she?" he mumbled.

Silence surrounded him.

'I wonder what she is doing?'

The porch light suddenly flipped on, and Steve crouched down in the shadows on his porch peering through the spindles. He felt like he was spying as the screen door slowly opened. A young woman stepped out onto her own front porch with her arms wrapped around her slender body, embracing herself. She elegantly moved to the steps, taking a seat on the top one. Her long blonde hair shielded her face from his view, and it glistened like gold in the moonlight. Steve found himself content with secretly observing the mystery in front of him. With one quick motion of her hand, she swept her hair back revealing her delicate face.

This was not the woman he had pictured in his mind, hostile and repulsive. She was beautiful, and had a childlike innocence. She was much younger than he had imagined. She looked to be only in her mid twenties. Her whimpers made him quiver in shame because she had instantly become a real person to him not just an image in his head. She was real and watching her grieve angered him.

'How could a human being do this to another?'



Days went by and Steve faithfully sat in his porch swing with a pencil in hand. He didn't pay much attention to the children anymore who spent hours in front of his house playing. He was busy sketching his most treasured piece of work.

Several nights Steve sat cringing at the torturous sounds coming from his neighbor's house. He had called the police twice but the male of the house was gone by the time help arrived on both occasions. He grew disgusted with the cops who would just stand on the porch and talk to her through the screen door.

'Can’t they see she needs help? Help her!'

One late evening he caught her eye. It was a glorious moment for him. He had been watching her for a while now unnoticed. He was helping a small boy retrieve his baseball out of the rose bushes when he saw her standing in her yard. He shot her a wide smile and she gave him one back, shyly.

Every evening Steve worked on his sketch. He found it easy to draw from memory. The sight of her sitting on the porch steps that night with the moon casting a single beam upon her was etched in his memory as was the terrifying pain in her eyes. He constantly drew, taking great care to capture each and every detail.

Steve didn't draw during the 'episodes', as he began calling them. The thrashing, pounding, yelling and screaming disheartened him. He wondered how much longer she would survive such violent attacks. He wanted to help her. He fantasized about helping her. A feeling soon grew within him . . . love.

Months went by and he was disappointed that he had not caught her eye again. He lurked in the shadows, sometimes on the porch and sometimes through his window watching her. He was learning everything about her and her abusive husband. He had also finally found out their names, Bruce and Melissa Rigsby, only because he had stolen articles out of their mailbox while they slept.

Steve began keeping a journal recording discovered details about Bruce and Melissa. He even kept up with his own thoughts and of every 'episode'. He had acquired so much information that he felt he knew them as if they were family or characters in a demented sitcom he watched nightly. He had several pages on Bruce's short temper and alcoholism. He also had the man's daily schedule outlined. Steve despised him describing him often as worthless, and diabolical. There was one entry that called Bruce cunning. It described how Bruce was meticulous on where his fist slammed into her flesh and he often picked out her clothing to conceal any signs of his rage. Steve had only once seen signs of Bruce's fury on her face. Her black eye and swollen lips were an indication that Bruce had forgotten his own rules during the hysteria of the beating.



The night air had grown stale. Steve fearfully sat outside holding his beloved creation desperately searching for a solution. After tonight's extremely violent 'episode' he tearfully gazed into the charcoal depths of her eyes knowing another mark was not necessary. His work was done. There was nothing left for him to do. Her portrait was hauntingly beautiful. He strained his ears listening for Melissa's agonizing murmurs and silently wept with relief when he heard her.

He flipped to a blank page of his sketchpad, pondering another portrait when a grisly image took his breath away.

"No!" he hissed. "I will not immortalize her fate."

In his heart he knew what was soon to come. The 'episodes' had increased and so had their brutal intensity. Steve grabbed his journal briefly glancing over Bruce's schedule outline before scribing a new entry.



Bruce Rigsby stood in the parking lot of Fancy's Tavern slurring his cuss words at the old run down building. The last call for alcohol signaled the taverns early morning closing and he was infuriated by it. Still cursing, he staggered across the gravel lot, pausing briefly to unzip his pants. He clumsily urinated in the open before drunkenly stumbling to his truck. He flung the door opened, grabbed the wheel and pulled himself onto the seat. Reaching to start the truck he angrily began shouting when he didn't find his key in the ignition.

"Who in the hell took my fucking key?" he yelled out the window to a small crowd gathered by a parked car.

Bruce fumbled around in the cab of the truck searching for the key that he always left in the ignition. Thoroughly convinced it couldn't be found he turned to holler out the window again.

"Shit," he mumbled, realizing he was the only person left in the parking lot.

He opened the truck door and fell on the ground. Agitated, he picked himself up, swaying before grabbing the truck bed for support. A dark figure rose from the truck bed.

"What the...." Bruce mouthed right before excruciating pain overwhelmed him and blood spewed from a gaping wound to his head. His body crumbled to the ground from another forceful blow.




The media reported the bludgeon death of Bruce Rigsby for weeks. It was the most gruesome crime the small county had ever encountered. Police had no leads or suspects.

Melissa Rigsby had immediately been ruled out as a suspect because her neighbor, Steve Denton, had given her a concrete alibi. He was home enjoying the early morning air on his front porch writing in his journal and had seen her at the time the murder occurred. The sleepy little neighborhood had been shocked with the tragic death and embraced the new widow.

Throughout the entire ordeal, Steve Denton, continued to be a permanent fixture in his porch swing every evening. He sat quietly sketching a peaceful portrait of a lovely young woman with hopeful eyes, wondering when his love would softly smile at him again.