When Deborah saw her husband first get hit by the blonde-haired officer, she gasped but her attention was quickly deterred by the approaching young, vile, ne'er-do-well cop. That sick look still on his face as he came closer and closer. She wanted to go help Daniel but she knew she'd be caught, and she didn't want to be caught.

Whispering softly to her love, she cried out, "I'm sorry, honey."

She then took off running behind her house. The young officer followed right behind her, sprinting her down. Deborah hopped over a low white fence that cordoned off their backyard from others, running across another's. The determined policeman hopped right over it, too, keeping just three steps behind her. The two ran across the green grass savanna, the blue lion after its colored gazelle prey.

Deborah was surprised by her ability to run. She felt like she would never run out of energy. She had kept fit before with walks and jogs, but this felt like she had been running across the city and back to get this kind of pique conditioning. Not sure what had given her this boost, but at this point, she was thankful for it.

It still wasn't enough though as she crossed her sixth backyard and the cop tackled her to ground. She careened into the grass and yelped with fear. Flipping over on her back, pushing her attacker away, she screamed, "Help! Help me!"

She looked around to see if anyone was seeing this and saw several people looking on. All white, all dismissive. They closed their curtains and turned away. Like her husband, she was all alone.

The cop groaned and grunted as he struggled with her hands. He actually got a good grasp on her gown and nearly ripped it off, screaming down at her, "Goddamn it, nigger bitch!"

That was when Deborah got a timely, mighty hard slap in on the white cop. He faltered to the ground and began to whine a bit. Deborah wasn't sure if she had surprised him or hurt him? Either way, she was going to take this opportunity and run. She got back to her feet and dashed off, running as fast as she could on her new legs.

Dashing into the road, she was nearly gobbled up by a 1953 Buick Roadmaster, making her collapse in fear, gasping at the sky-blue, chrome-toothed monstrosity. It's engine revved at her like a mad beast and made her scamper to her feet, running away from the automotive horror. She glanced back as the car drove off with an old, rich looking white man in the driver seat, clad in a black fedora and a silver mustache.

"Mr. Gaunt?" Deborah questioned.

The wounded fuzz was still far behind her. She kept running. Her legs still full of energy.

She reached the main gate and climbed over it and out of the community her and Daniel had spent many wondrous, drunken, uninhibited nights together. She looked back and didn't see the officer coming after her. More than that, she was wondering if this would be the last time she would ever see the gated suburbs again.

Slowly starting to run again, Deborah sprinted in a random direction. She had no idea where she was going, or how she was going to get there, but anywhere had to be better than this nightmare her life had turned into - or, so she thought.

After about a couple of miles, and some sorrowful glances at expensive houses that reminded her of the one she abandoned, she now found herself in a part of the city she knew all too well. The business district. Lumbering, tall, white buildings surrounded her.

They gawked down at her like chalk-skinned sentinels, whereas before they had been part of the background, now, they seemed to stare at her. Ready to vomit milky white on her, threatening to turn her back to her previous self. She didn't know why she was so scared of that, but she was. Trying to boldly walk on, she began to slow and get the shivers. Not only did the buildings seem to leer at her, but so did the people. White, well-fed, ostentatious people. They snapped glances at her, shocked she was walking amongst them. Others looked at her with hateful, vile, judgmental glares from burning eyes of deceit and prejudice. In fact, Deborah wondered what stopped them from pulling her off the sidewalk and beating her into a bloody pulp. She supposed that they figured it wasn't worth it, going through the hassle of getting a slap on the wrist from law enforcement.

If it wasn't for her recognizing a quasi-diner across the way, she still would have been lost in the sea of discrimination. The eatery was one that her and Daniel had gone to every once and awhile. It was a small building that was made up to look like a small town diner on the outside, but on the inside it was a pricey façade that served vegetarian burgers and small amounts of steaks. It was a high-class restaurant for the food connoisseur that wished for a more low-budget experience with a bill they were use to.

Deborah smiled, knowing what was just a block down the road, caddy-cornered to it: Daniel's bank. She ran for it with a feeling of safety growing inside of her. It only blossomed when she finally saw the sign. The parking lot with the golden sign, welcoming everyone to: Harloett & Babel Banking

It really was a sight for sore eyes.

She crossed the parking lot with a few cars parked. A blue Bentley which she recognized as Shirley's. She was the branch manger's secretary. A humble, good-natured blonde with daddy's, her husband's, and the branch manger's money to blow.

Next to it was a deep red Chrysler Imperial. That had to be Brock Hadler's. The branch's one-of-two loan specialists. He was a man with fine tastes and deep pockets. (There was usually money in there somewhere.)

Next to that was a sport's car she remembered very well. That hunter-green Ford Thunderbird convertible with white-wall tires and chrome-lined fins was hard to miss. The branch manger's, Charlie Baxter. (There were some others parked in the back, but she figured those were mostly customers.)

Charlie would help her. He had to. She had nowhere else to go. He was the last man on Earth that could possibly do anything to aid her.

Before walking into the bank, Deborah fixed her hair - what she could - and composed herself. She strode into the bank through the front doors like she owned the place. Something she had done a hundred times before. The familiar mahogany met her, shined to an almost reflective surface, columns on either side towered to the right and left of her. The bank teller cages were only twenty feet away with the smell of lemon scented cleaner that wafted through the building.

To her immediate right was a security guard. (There were usually two of them. It was low hours so only one was needed.) A pudgy, elderly gentlemen also by the name of Charlie. All Deborah knew about him was that he had been in the army during WW1 and had served with a company of riflemen during that time. He had a wife he wasn't too fond of talking about with two kids.

She walked right past him with a, "Hey, Charlie."

He awkwardly waved at her, wondering where he knew this colored lady from. She wasn't a bad looking sort, rather attractive, all things considered.

"How's the wife and kids?" Deborah nonchalantly tacked on.

Blinking with utter confusion that she seemed to know him somehow, Charlie got up and tried to follow her discreetly.

Deborah knew she was being followed but she shrugged it off, what she could of it. This wasn't the first time a white man in uniform had followed her today.

As she walked, she crossed by two offices. One was a nice looking office with a well-built blonde man that looked like he could tear out of his suit if he wanted to. This was Brock Hadler. She thought about asking him for help but he wouldn't understand, not like Charlie was going to be any different, but he was a better friend and a more serious person under pressure.

The other office was small and crammed to the walls with paperwork. A tired, young blonde was at the desk in a red business suit. She was bent over her desk with a pencil going 90 miles-per-hour. She looked extraordinarily busy and transfixed on her work. Tabitha Lockner. Deborah had heard all the other guys around the bank call her "Tabby." It sounded more like an insult than a friendly pet name, and she wasn't sure why. What she did know was that she tried not to associate with her since Tabby was the bank's pariah. Tabby had said "hi" to her a few times, but to stay on the good side of the bank, she had dismissed her with a few mean words every time.

Going through a small gate, Deborah headed right for Charlie Baxter's office. She made a b-line for it, not talking to anyone. She heard from behind her the older, gruffer, security guard Charlie yell, "Hey, miss, you aren't allowed back there!"

She ignored him and kept going, quickening her pace. She met Shirley on her way and nearly pushed her over as the built, sexy, blonde bombshell screamed, "My god, a Negro!"

Debora wanted to just turn around and slap her and yell, It's me, Deborah, you damn fool! Daniel's wife! She couldn't be misguided by petty things like that though.

What did stop her though was something frightening and surreal.

Daniel had his own office right next to Charlie Baxter's and in Daniel's office was a man sitting at his desk - doing his work - associate managing the bank. Slowly walking now, Deborah approached the office, gawking at the name on the door. The name that should read, Daniel Steele. Instead, it read: Timothy Higgins. It was in bold lettering and underneath it: Associate Branch Manger.

Deborah swallowed hard and opened the door with a gasp.

A redhead in a suit, much like the one Daniel wore to work, stood up with a mean grimace on his face, harshly asking in a mellow Irish accent, "Excuse me, colored girl, what are you doing in my office?"

Swallowing down another gasp, Deborah put her hand to her chest. "Excuse me, 'your office?' This is my husband's office!"

That was when Charlie Baxter had come in with the other Charlie. The two stood there with confused, nasty looks. Security guard Charlie already had his two-way out and was probably on the line to the police. After an uncomfortable half-a-minute of the four standing there in stone-silence, Charlie Baxter asked, "Okay, what's all this then?"

The redhead named Timothy waved at Deborah, "This… colored lady seems to be confused. She said this was her husband's office."

Deborah looked back at Charlie in his expensive garb like Pharaoh - and she was a pleading slave. "Charlie… you know this is Dan's office."

"Who?"

Snapping quickly from pleading slave to irate wife, Deborah clawed at the air in anger. "Daniel Steele! Your partner for nearly four years now! Branch manger for six!"

"Young lady," Charlie said dismissively, calmly, and without a note of sympathy; "Timothy Higgins here has been this branch's manger for exactly that long."

"No, Charlie, don't - don't do this to me. To us. Remember the party last night?! How you were kissing me all over?!"

Charlie let out a loud, boisterous laugh. "I would never kiss a Negro, no matter how good she looked."

"You were saying how good I looked in my dress! You…" Deborah stuttered a bit, trying to think of something, anything to jog his memory. "You…" Nothing came to her.

"Listen lady, I don't…"

Then it popped to Deborah. She grabbed Charlie by his suit collar and yelled, "You live on Primrose Avenue, 1232! You bought the house when you moved down here from New York, 4 years ago! You took this job because you couldn't stomach being in New York anymore and working with so many 'chinks' and 'wops.'"

If Charlie could have gotten any whiter, he would have. He edged over to the other Charlie, who already seemed to have his pistol drawn, and asked, frightened, "Tell me you have already radioed the police?"

Older Charlie replied with an emphatic, "Yes."

Deborah let him go and looked over at the older Charlie. She gasped and swallowed, hard. Backing away a few steps, Deborah stuttered with whatever ammo she had left. "You're wife's name is - is Donna. She always wanted to be an - an artist. She showed me her small gallery in your house. You have a - a son getting ready to - to graduate high school!"

He was having none of it. Even though he was starting to fear her more and more, he ignored all of it. Trying to show no fear, Charlie just balked, "You probably broke into my house just to make it seem like all your telling me isn't malarkey."

"Why would I break into a house and then not steal anything?!"

"So you admit it?!"

Deborah was getting nowhere fast. She felt like she was caught in a flood with the water steadily rising. Soon she would drown. The cops would be there any second and she wouldn't be able to run from them this time.

She could run now though, and run she did. Dodging out past both Charlie's, she rushed out of the bank and was now completely lost. Would she have to… steal a car?! She hated the thought. It made her stomach turn over more than it already had. The loud wail of police sirens were already fast approaching. The wail of the black-and-whites down the street caused Deborah to claw at her ears to stop the infernal noise with a whimper of helplessness. She choked back a rough heave and ran.

Not watching where she was going, she slammed into a vehicle in the opposite end of the bank's parking lot. A lime green, 40-something Plymouth coupe. It was in disrepair and looked like it had seen some raunchy, home-remedy mechanics. She was barreled-over the wheel-well and looked inside. There, behind the wheel, was Tabitha Lockner. The frazzled, tired blonde got out of her car, the door creaking as she did, asking, "Ma'am, are you all right?"

Deborah was desperate for an escape. Anything. This blonde, white woman was her only hope. Deborah grabbed her by the arm and begged, "Yes! Please, they're after me!"

At first, Tabitha backed away and tried to rescue her arm from the clutches of the wild, colored lady but then she heard the sirens. Tabitha looked back in Deborah's eyes and saw the desperation. A woman with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Barred down on by vicious men that probably wanted to hurt her in the worst way. Just like me ten years ago, she thought.

Running to the passenger side of the coupe, Tabitha motioned to Deborah, "Get in."

Deborah didn't have to be told twice. She hopped inside the car as Tabitha slammed the door and took off in her car, after having to turn over the engine three times, they were finally off just as the police cars arrived. All policelooked like they were about to fend off a rabid militia rather than arrest some confused, distraught woman. Most armed with pistols and shotguns while a select few carried Browning automatic rifles.

Deborah breathed a sigh of relief inside the car as she watched the thin palm trees pass her by.