A shoulder to cry on

Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on.

You know how it goes; it's been a crap day. Nothing seems to be going your way. You want to just crawl under your bed and cry.

Yes, I've been there.
Everyone has, actually.

...
Rhodes was a tough cop; one of the best they said. What struck me as remarkable about the man was his sheer....level-headedness. In the six months I've been on the force, I've stood and watched him shoot seven men. His hand never wavered. I've seen him look on crime scenes, on what's left of people after crime scenes; corpses so badly off you can't tell if they're man or woman, old or young...he never said a word.


September 16, 1989:

It had been one rough week. Three people were dead already. Scratch that, they weren't dead,they were worse than dead. Charlie "the artist" Sheen was in town. He didn't just kill his victims; he made paintings on the walls with them.
It was around midnight when I got a call; another victim. My hand shook as I called Rhodes;

Charlie...another one. 54, Second street.

That's all I needed to say.

He was there before me. As I pushed the door open, I saw the man standing there. Tall, angling, a man in his late forties, already greying around the temples.

He was standing very still, looking at the far side of the room, at the north wall.

I followed his gaze.


...

This part of the narrative is left out.

Grace Kimberly, aged ten, died on September 16th 1989. It took a Med team eighteen hours before the parents were even allowed in to see her body.

,,,,


I will always remember Rhodes' expression that night. His eyes were looking at the wall, but they didn't seem to be seeing it. I was standing next to him, but he didn't seem to be aware of me, either.

It is a terrible feeling...arriving too late.

He raised his gun and fired a shot straight into the ceiling.

Then he went home.

....

Of course, he caught Charlie.
And Charlie was hanged.
But I swear to God, I do not know how Rhodes made it through that night.
It took me several hours to clean the vomit from my walls.

...

When Irene heard her husband come home that morning; she went to him at once. They had been married long enough; she knew when something was wrong.

They stood there for a moment, in the hallway, looking at each other.

He, the tall, powerful city cop.

She, his wife- so small and frail against him.

And suddenly, John Rhodes seemed to fold. His mighty frame crumpled, and he slumped against his wife.

So young...so young...So bloody young, Irene..


Hush, baby....it's alright. It's alright. It's going to be alright.I'm here now.
It's okay.
I'm here.

Great, powerful sobs racked through thr grown man's body.

It's okay.
Honey, you hear me. It's okay. I'm here.
It's okay.

He let out a cry of pure,desperate unhappiness then, of inhuman pain; of the lion that had arrived too late, of a heart torn apart by grief.

The cry went on.

She held him tighter.

Baby, I'm here.


They held each other for hours.

....



In my time of need, I will call you. Be there for me.