Ticket Into Death

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“Whee oooo, whee ooo!” The siren blasts louder than a firework’s boom. Joanna, a thirty-four year old woman, was going 64 MPH on Bloomington Road, which has a speed limit of 45. She growls with a burst of anger as she pulls over to the side of the street. She glances in her rear-view mirror, noticing a tall, gray-haired man with a serious smirk on his aging face walk toward her.

“Why hello there Officer! How are you doing this fine day?” she says with a hopeful attitude. “Ma’am, you do realize you were speeding almost 20 MPH over the limit, right?” he said. “That is correct… Officer…. Whelms.” she says as she peered at his nametag. “Miss, can I see your license and registration please. And wait here one moment.” He trudges back to his squad car, picks up what appears his ticket pad, and chants on his two-way radio.

Joanna, now opening her glove compartment, sees it is stacked with piles of envelopes and pieces of lose leaf paper. Trying to organize what she can before the cop returns, something catches her eye. She picks up an envelope entitled her mother’s name, Sophia. As she notices the Northshore hospital logo and name in the corner, she opens the letter. She is shocked as she sees fist-sized pictures of her mother’s MRI results. It seems to be a screening of her brain. She can’t help but notice these dots in a few places. Joanna’s eyebrows move in confusion with her thought. The piece of paper following is a letter from Sophia’s doctor. Joanna reads for about fifteen seconds. She skims down to the end of the first paragraph. At that moment, she inhales a big breath. It’s her mother.

She has Grade III Brain Cancer.

Joanna scans the mirror as she sees the officer walk back toward her car. “Ma’am…. do you have your license and registrations?” he asks. She turns her head, slowly, and creepily looking at him. Just how abnormal tumors developed in her mother’s brain, crystal clear tears are developing in Joanna’s eyes. “Is everything alright ma’am?” She hands her license and registrations over to the officer. He grabs them, peeks at them, and looks back at Joanna. Drip, drop. One lonely tear glides down Joanna’s check bone all the way down past her lip, down to her chin. “It’s my mother, sir.” She takes in a breath. “These letters… sh-she, has brain cancer.” The officer as well inhales one large breath, and exhales with a soothing, caring tone.

There is silence for about ten seconds. Out of nowhere, Joanna grabs the steering wheel, inhales, and bam. She explodes with tears. It’s suddenly a waterfall, streaming, pouring from her eyelids! She moans and she yelps with devastation.

Just then, the officer removes his police cap, takes his other hand, and lays it gently on Joanna’s shoulder, letting her teardrops fall down.





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