Visitations Read Online Free

paying customer. The guy behind the counter stepped back and put his hand on the phone. Maybe it was the clenched fists, or the red face, or maybe the low moan the man emitted that made the coffee shop worker hold the receiver in his hand. I noticed he started dialing when the man screamed Andrea’s name.
     
    The angry man stormed over to our table and looked down at me. I thought for a quick second that he was going to wind up and punch me. I was surprised that my underwear didn’t need to be changed yet.
     
    “Colin, you’re not supposed to be here. I have a restraining order,” Andrea said, her voice weak. “Please, Colin, just leave before something bad happens.”
     
    He turned to face her. “Fuck you, you fucking whore. How dare you fake your own death? Thought you could get away from me? Well, I’ve got news for you.” He jabbed a thumb my way. “Who’s the asshole? He better be a long-lost brother or giving you a job interview.”
     
    The angry - Colin-the-abusive-boyfriend - was shouting now. I was more scared than I’d ever been, or than I’d care to admit. I’m a writer. I write these things. I don’t act them out. As Michael said: I’m a lover, not a fighter.
     
    “Get up. Now. We’re leaving.” He reached for Andrea’s arm but missed. She’d pulled back far enough to avoid his grasp.
     
    A red and blue flashing light registered in my peripheral vision.
     
    Good, the coffee shop guy had called the police.
     
    The biker saw it too. He turned around and shouted in a deep guttural grunt, “I’ll be back to deal with you,” as he pointed at the clerk.
     
    He leaned down and reached out far enough to get Andrea. With a display of massive strength, he pulled her out of the booth and into a standing position. She squealed and tried to wriggle out of his hand clamp.
     
    I had no idea what I was doing. I look back and try to reason why I would do it in the first place. Rationally, I know why; but on every other level of my being, I remain puzzled.
     
    My foot swung out. I grabbed the edge of his jeans and gave him a sharp tug, which caught him off balance. He fell backwards over my outstretched leg, his hands releasing Andrea as he flailed his arms on his way to the floor.
     
    I grabbed my coffee, still somewhat warm on the outside of the cup, and flung it in his face.
     
    He roared like a bear, shook his face to clear his vision, and jumped back to his feet like his name was Jack and someone had wound his little box.
     
    The cop car stopped out front. I would be dead in four seconds. They would arrive in ten. So much for balls.
     
    Andrea had moved away from him. She stood by the bathroom doors, wiping at her tears.
     
    I didn’t see his fist. I couldn’t see it coming. A blur of movement, a subtle shift in position, and then what felt like a large rock broke my cheekbone. My head flew back and banged the wall behind me.
     
    Fight-or-flight alarms flooded my system, with “flight” winning by the time I slipped out of the booth chair and landed on my ass on the floor under the table.
     
    Andrea screamed. Her voice, even in peril, reminded me why I was here. Why she was here. In that moment, I realized that I hated to do the right thing, but I had no other choice.
     
    My face felt like someone had set burning coals in my cheek. The pain was so intense that everything went woozy for a second.
     
    What pulled me out was the broken ankle.
     
    Andrea’s boyfriend couldn’t bend down and yank me out fast enough, so he jumped up and landed all two hundred and twenty pounds of biker muscle on my right foot, snapping a couple of the twenty-six bones I have in there.
     
    My scream rose higher than Andrea’s, I’m embarrassed to admit.
     
    I have never experienced that much pain in my life. A crazy thought ran through my mind. Women experience more pain then this when giving birth. I’m sure I can handle it and still fight my opponent, even though my shorts were soiled now with