Man Hears Woman's Scream from Backstreet, Comes to Help Her and Feels Somebody Behind Him – Story of the Day

John finally gets the money he needs for his daughter's surgery, only to lose it when he tries to help a screaming woman in an alley. Desperate, John steals a gun from his brother and returns to the alley to reclaim his cash.

John pulled his jacket tight around his body as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He glanced over his shoulder, then up at the windows of the heavily graffitied tenement building on his right.

He had just sold his car, and the wads of cash he'd stuffed into his pockets pressed reassuringly against his sides. Now, he had the money he needed to save his daughter.

John strode briskly toward the bus stop a block away to escape this tough neighborhood when he heard the chilling scream of a girl.

"Please, help me!"

The woman's plea made the hair on the back of John's neck stand on end. He peered into the alley he'd just passed. Trash overflowed from the dumpsters, and small creatures skittered through the shadows. Deeper into the alley, something larger moved, a woman crawling through the muck. John ran to help her.

"What happened, are you injured?" John's heart pounded as he knelt to assist the woman. Runny mascara had carved black marks over her cheeks, and her blue dress was torn.

"Don't worry, miss. I'll get you out of here. Can you walk?"

"She walks just fine."

Before John could turn to confront the man who'd spoken behind him, a cold, sharp blade pressed against his throat.

"Hand over all your money, and your day don't need to get worse," the mugger said.

John’s chest felt hollow around his racing heart. It took him a moment to realize the huffing he heard was the harsh hiss of his own breath. He wanted to tell the woman to run. She was crying...no, she was laughing.

"This one's loaded, baby." The woman looked up and past John to the man behind him. "Look here."

She reached into his jacket—when did she open his jacket?—and pulled out one of the stacks of cash John got from selling his car.

"That's going to keep us for a long while." The man chuckled as he reached down and snatched the cash from the woman.

"No!" John tried to grab the money, but the knife bit into his throat.

"I need that money for my daughter's surgery. Please, she'll die without it."

"Shut up." The woman didn't even look at him as she removed the rest of the cash from his jacket. "Otherwise, we’ll silence you for good."

"It's a dog-eat-dog world, and today was just your turn to get bit." The man behind John added.

"Please!" John was in tears now. He barely noticed the hot trickle of blood down his throat.

"Quit your whining."

The knife withdrew suddenly and was quickly replaced by the iron-hard grip of fingers around his neck. Pain arrowed down John's spine when the man pulled him to his feet. John thought about self-defense moves he'd seen in movies but never got to try any of them.

The man slammed John's head into the side of a dumpster. Stars burst across his vision. Chipped paint on cold steel, greasy wrappers, and torn bits of cardboard slipped under his fingers when he tried to grab something to help him stay upright.

John scrambled through the trash to follow the blurry shapes of the man and woman who'd robbed him, but they disappeared into the blinding sun at the entrance to the alley.

Once John could walk again, he went to the closest police station. The middle-aged officer at the desk gave him a once-over and shook his head.

"Rough night, buddy?"

"No, I was robbed!" John leaned on the desk and pointed to his throat. "See where they cut me? I need you to find the criminals immediately and get my money back."

"Of course you do." The officer sighed and took some papers from a desk tray. "I'll take your statement, and we'll see what we can do."

Once John had finished telling the police officer everything that happened to him, the man sniffed and leaned back in his chair.

"So, you went into a dark alley, in this neighborhood, with twelve thousand dollars in cash in your pockets." The man's mustache quivered like he was suppressing a smile. "Unknown assailants stole your money, and now you want us to find it when our only lead is the location where they robbed you."

"I got a good look at the woman. She had blonde, shoulder-length hair, blue eyes—"

The officer raised his hand. "That describes a quarter of the women in the state, sir. We'll send some officers out to investigate and get back to you if we find anything."

John left the police station in a daze. Outside, he stared at the people passing by. Most of them wore shabby clothes and had a glazed look in their eyes. He'd trusted the police to help him, but now he realized he was probably one of thousands of mugging victims in this precinct.

The odds he'd get his money back were slim. His heart turned to lead, and tears poured down his cheeks as he contemplated what that meant for Brianna.

Brianna's room in the hospital felt stuffy and overheated compared to the fall chill outside. John had removed his jacket. He'd had an irrational urge to throw it in the trash, but instead, it now hung over the back of his chair.

Apologies burned in the back of his throat, but John didn't have the courage to tell his comatose daughter he'd failed her. He watched the lines zig-zagging on the machines hooked up to her frail body and imagined them all turning to flatlines when he told the doctors he couldn't pay them.

If only he could turn back time. He'd never have allowed Brianna to go horseback riding if he'd known the darn horse would throw her. If he'd realized how long the ambulance would take to reach the farm...if he'd known a single moment would steal his beautiful daughter from him.

John sandwiched Brianna's limp hand between his own. She looked so peaceful. She might've been sleeping if it weren't for the pipes helping her breathe, the pads stuck to her shaven head to monitor her brain, and everything else feeding life into her body.

A few moments later, John kissed the back of Brianna's hand and went looking for her doctor. It was time to find out just how screwed he and Brianna were.

The doctor's face crumpled in sympathy when John told him he couldn't pay the bills because he was robbed.

"I just need a little more time," John continued. "I'll find something else to sell...my house! I'll sell my house. As soon as I leave here, I'll contact a realtor."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Thompson, but Brianna's condition is becoming critical. We need to operate as soon as possible if we're going to save her."

"I know." John sobbed. "But I'm just short of ten thousand dollars. I'll pay the rest. Can't you do something?"

The doctor shook his head and gazed down at the floor. "I'm sorry, but it's against hospital policy. All major procedures must be paid for upfront, even if you have health insurance and only pay the deductible."

"You'll let Brianna die for a measly ten thousand dollars." John turned away to face the window in the doctor's office.

"I have to follow the hospital's policies, Mr. Thompson. There are no loopholes. Even if I tried to bend the rules for Brianna and convinced everyone else on the surgical team to do the same, I wouldn’t be allowed access to the theater to perform the surgery."

John nodded. He watched the wind scattering yellow and orange Maple leaves across the neat lawn in front of the hospital. Unless he acted fast, Brianna would never see these leaves again, or wake up early in winter to find the streets hidden by snow.

A desperate plan stitched itself together in John's mind. He ran from the doctor's office without saying goodbye and narrowly missed colliding with a nurse in the hall.

"No running!" The nurse shouted after him. "This is a hospital, not a park!"

John ignored her. He hailed a cab outside and promised the driver a big tip if he'd get him across town as fast as possible. There was one person in this world who could loan him the money Brianna needed.

John pounded on the door to his elder brother's apartment for ages before Richard answered. The brothers hadn't spoken in years, not since John discovered the illicit aspects of his brother’s income. They’d argued, and John disowned Richard that day, so he was surprised when Richard welcomed him inside.

John sat on his brother's leather couch and told him everything. “Please say you’ll help me, Richard! I know I’ve shunned you for the past few years, but Brianna’s life is at stake.”

Richard sighed. "It must be pretty desperate for you to come running to me. What was it you called me, little brother? A scumbag thug? Are you sure my money isn’t too dirty for you?"

"This is about Brianna, not you and me." John leaned forward. "Please, Richard. There's nobody else I can turn to."

"Ten thousand doesn't just fall from the sky, little bro." Richard shrugged. "I might be able to get it for you, but I don't have that kind of money just lying around."

"Then give me a gun. I'll return to the alley and make those muggers give back my money."

Richard laughed. "A gun? You're more likely to shoot yourself. Just sit tight, I've got this."

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Richard was suddenly as alert as a guard dog. He grabbed John's arm, tugged him to his feet, and pushed him toward the bedroom.

"Get outta here, now. Take the fire escape." Richard kept his gaze fixed on his front door.

"But—"

"Get lost," Richard snarled.

John's last glimmer of hope turned to ash. He should've known better than to expect his no-good brother to come to Brianna's rescue. He opened the window leading out to the fire escape.

What was he going to do now? Asking Richard for help had been John’s last resort. If Richard couldn’t loan him the money he needed for Brianna’s surgery, his daughter would die.

John turned to ask Richard for the money one more time, but his brother was leaving the room and slammed the door before John could speak. In desperation, John glanced around his brother’s bedroom. John had sold everything of value he owned, but maybe Richard had something worth ten thousand dollars.

A dark, rounded shape jutting out from beneath a stack of papers on the bedside table caught John's eye. He looked closer and gasped. This was exactly what he needed.

He glanced back toward the sitting room before tucking Richard’s gun into the back of his trousers. One way or another, he'd save his daughter.

Fear crawled across John's skin when he approached the entrance to the alley. Every step he took produced a cacophony of crunching leaves and trash. His heart galloped in his chest, and all he could feel was the weight of the gun tucked against the small of his back.

The woman was crying. John pulled his hood over his head and moved toward the sound of her voice. She reached out a hand to him, and John pointed the gun at her head.

"Give back my money!" John shouted. He glanced into the shadows beside the dumpsters. "Give it back right now, or I'll shoot her."

"Oh, it's the dying daughter guy." The man rose from behind a row of overflowing trash cans. "Put that toy away before you embarrass yourself. You ain't fooling anyone with that plastic pistol."

"It’s real, and I’m not afraid to use it." John struggled to keep a secure grip on the gun with his sweaty hands as he aimed at the man. "Now give me my money."

The man laughed and continued to approach John. He was too close now. The gun shook in John’s hand.

“I’ll shoot you!” John said, his voice shaking.

John stepped back, and something hard poked him in the back. His finger slipped. An explosion echoed through the alley and thundered along John's bones. He stumbled backward and watched in slow motion as the large man dropped to the ground.

The woman ran away down the alley. She might’ve screamed, but John’s ears were ringing too much to hear her. He quickly went through the man's pockets. John found a folded stack of bills and stuffed them in his pocket, but there had to be more!

John knew didn't have much time. That woman might return with the police any minute. He reached into the man's coat and screamed when he touched the warm blood saturating his shirt. He threw the gun into a dumpster and ran.

John remembered nothing about how he got home and into the shower. In his head, he watched the mugger falling over and over and felt the juddering recoil from the gun travel through his body.

He had to clean the blood from his hand. It was sticky and dark. He stank of copper and raw meat. The blood didn't rinse off when John stuck his hand into the flow from the showerhead.

He scrubbed at the blood congealed in the creases of his palm and watched it flake away. It was so warm when he first touched it, warmer than Brianna's hand when he held it in the hospital. He had to remember that he did this for her. He had to get clean, so she'd never know.

Even after the water ran cold, John continued to wash. He stepped out of the shower only once to fetch the bottle of bleach beneath the kitchen sink. If only something could erase the memory of the man lying among the trash in the alley and the faint reflection of golden sunlight in his unseeing eyes.

Eventually, John left the shower and grabbed his clothes. He had to burn them, but first, he needed to count the money he took off the mugger's body. It felt like a thick stack when he grabbed it. John hoped it might be just enough to cover the hospital bill.

John's fingers were wrinkled from the time he spent in the shower and shook as he counted the bills. He counted wrong the first time—it couldn't be so little! John counted the money three times, then let out an anguished howl and flipped his coffee table.

Eighty-seven dollars worth of ones and twos floated through the air. That was the price of the mugger's life. John's breath came out in shuddering, high-pitched gasps. He'd killed a man. He'd ended a life, tarnished his soul, and it still wasn't enough to save Brianna.

Mad with anguish, John fetched his axe and hacked the coffee table into splinters. He was exhausted by the time he dropped to the floor. It was getting late, but when John shut his eyes, he saw the mugger lying dead in the alley and smelled his blood.

"It's not real," John muttered. He raised his shaking hand and scraped a fingernail over the creases in his palms. "There's nothing there. I washed him off me. He's gone...oh God, he's gone."

John searched for his car keys for five minutes before remembering he'd sold the car. That's how this all started. Laughter bubbled up and burst from his lips. He giggled like a hyena until he saw the dollar bills littering the carpet, and then he burst into tears.

John ran out his front door. He didn't stop until his legs felt like concrete. He boarded the next bus going in the right direction, and sat way in the back. It didn't stop everyone from staring at him. John ducked his head and hunched his shoulders. Could they tell he was a murderer?

The fire escape steps clanged as John charged up them. He tapped on the glass in his brother's bedroom window until Richard let him in.

"What is your problem?" Richard snapped.

"I just...I...had to." John gulped. He raised his hand, but it was still clean.

Richard grabbed his shoulders and stared at his face with narrowed eyes. "What the hell did you do, John?"

John told his brother everything. As soon as he'd finished, Richard dragged him to the kitchen and got an unlabeled bottle from the cupboard.

"Wash your hands with this." Richard put the bottle in John's hands and pushed him toward the sink.

"What is it?"

"Just wash your darn hands!" Richard shook his head and walked away.

"I can't believe you did something so freaking stupid. Didn't I tell you I got this?"

"No, you didn't! You said you couldn't help me." John toweled his hands dry. "You said—"

"I said I'd take care of it, but it might take a while."

Richard hurled a package at John from the bedroom door. John caught it and stared at the bundle of newspaper secured with strips of duct tape.

"What's this?" John turned the package over in his hands.

"It's Brianna's ten grand, of course. Now get outta here." Richard pointed at the door.

John stared at the package. A thousand questions swirled through his thoughts, but Richard didn’t allow him to ask any of them.

"Go to the hospital and pay the darn doctor so my niece can be well again,” Richard said, pushing him out the front door.

John sat at Brianna's bedside, afraid to blink in case he missed the moment his daughter woke up. Thick bandages crowned her head, and she was still hooked up to the machines, but the surgery went well. The doctor had taken Brianna off the medication keeping her in a coma so she might wake at any time.

He couldn't believe Richard had come through for him. The brothers were close when they were younger, but everything changed when John left for college. John had returned home for his first Spring break to discover his parents had kicked Richard out after he started hanging out with a bad crowd.

John didn't realize how bad the situation was until he visited Richard. He'd found the big brother he'd looked up to as a hero squirming in a puddle of his own vomit. John had cleaned him up and thrown away the plastic baggies and hypodermic needles he found in the kitchen cupboard.

Although Richard eventually got clean, he never left his lifestyle of crime. John wasn't even entirely sure what his brother did, but he'd seen enough fake social security cards and odd packages on subsequent visits to know it wasn't legal.

Still, Richard couldn't be all bad if he was willing to help Brianna. John smiled and folded his hand over his daughter's. He squeezed gently and froze when she returned the pressure.

"Bri?" John edged closer. "Are you awake, Brianna? Can you hear me?"

Brianna's brown eyes fluttered open. John sobbed with relief. She was awake! Their lives could finally return to normal.

The door to Brianna's room burst open. Two police officers entered the room.

"John Thompson, you're under arrest for murder."

John sat facing the police detective in the interrogation room. He felt like a thousand eyes were watching him from behind the mirror on one side of the room. Every breath made him choke on the cloying citrus scent of the chemical they used to clean the room.

"We have your brother in the cells." The detective stared at John over the rim of his coffee mug. "We found his gun at the scene, and we have his confession, but I smell a rat. Want to know why?"

"Uh..." John hesitated. He was afraid to say anything in case it was the wrong thing. His and Brianna's entire future seemed to rest on what happened next.

"Tough guys like your brother don't just confess to murder, not unless they're protecting someone." The detective slammed his palm down on the table and leaned toward John. "You reported being mugged in that same alley the day before the murder. You took your brother's gun and went back there for revenge, didn't you?"

John clenched his jaw shut. He remembered the gunshot echo in the alley and the dead man's warm blood. John knew he should tell the detective everything, but Brianna was awake and waiting for him. Who would care for her if he went to prison?

"Not feeling talkative, John?" The detective smirked. "That's okay. These days, we can test for gunshot residue in minutes without needing to leave this room."

A different police officer entered the room and tested John's hands for gunshot residue. John remembered Richard's insistence that he wash his hands with that strange substance. Was that to ensure John passed this test?

The detective had told John that Richard had confessed. John barely held back a sob as he realized his brother was doing everything he could to ensure he went to jail for John's crime.

"Seems like you're clean." The detective continued to eye John suspiciously. "I guess the only question left unanswered is whether you're willing to let your brother take the fall for you?"

John gulped. Richard had done bad things, but he didn't deserve this. It wasn't fair. There was only one thing John could do.

John met the detective's steely gaze and said: "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sunlight shone down on John as he exited the police station, and a sudden gust sent fallen leaves dancing across the parking lot. His heart felt cold and empty. He turned around. Maybe it wasn't too late; he could still save his brother.

John reached for the door handle but never turned it. No, he couldn't help Richard, even if it was the right thing to do. Brianna needed him more than his brother. Richard had done this for her, and John needed to honor his choice.

What can we learn from this story?

• Bad people do good things, and good people do bad things. No person can be defined by a single act, only the balance of their choices throughout their life.
• Criminal behavior will never end well. Acting in defiance of the law will only create bigger problems in your life.

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If you enjoyed this story, you might like this one about a woman who is terrified when she sees her late husband two years after she arranged his death.

This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone's life. If you would like to share your story, please send it to info@amomama.com.