Guilty

Night settled down on the city like a torn blanket, moon and stars peeking out from the holes. As the clock's hand hit 9, a woman exited the hospital. She glanced at her watch and swore. She was late.

She turned down an alley. Shouts rose from an open window, and her eyes followed the sound to a child's toy perched on the window ledge. A shirt swung in the breeze.

"Hello, honey, my Martha," a voice rasped from behind her. She froze. She knew that voice. "How are you enjoying your time with your Henry? And your husband?"

"You're not here," she said, feeling foolish as she spoke the words aloud.

"Ah, but maybe I am," the voice replied. "How do you know you really killed me?"

"I saw the bullet," she whispered, as if to reassure herself.

"Maybe I found a way to tell your husband," it hissed. "Maybe he knows about the second affair, even after you killed the first one."

"Stop it," she ordered, as a tear slid down her cheek. She went to wipe it away, but was stopped by a burst of pain on her head. She gasped in pain.

"Don't CRY!" a new voice demanded. "Don't. Cry. Don't. Cry." Each word was accented by another slap, punch, kick, and Martha fell to the ground.

"D-Daniel?" she whimpered.

"Oh, Mama. Do you feel remorse, operating on children after you killed one of them? You know it's true: the beatings, the scoldings, the anger, they all led to my suicide. It's your fault, Mama." The voice was her son's, and she pushed back more tears, knowing full well the punishment that would come with them.

Martha shook her head. "I did what I had to do. I- I taught you well. It's not my fault you couldn't handle it."

The voice growled, a feral snarl that made Martha cringe in fear. "Can you handle this?" It unleashed a barrage of blows and pain. Martha tried to crawl away from her invisible assailant, but he kept with her, until finally the pain disappeared. She felt numb, the world foggy around her. The smell of alcohol, pungent and painful, filled her nose. She felt a piercing at her side, pain worse than she'd ever felt before. 

"Hi, Doc." This time the voice was that of a child, cheerful and full of life. "Did you enjoy your drinks?"

Martha struggled to find the name. "Anna?"

"Hannah, but you can't be expected to remember, I guess," the voice sounded immensely disappointed. "You couldn't have been expected to remember the surgery before you went and got drunk at 3 pm, but I'm sure my parents understood when they left the hospital daughterless."

"It's not my fault!" the excuse came quickly to her lips. 

"Oh? I'm glad to hear it," the voice hissed maliciously.

Martha finally found the strength to whirl around, prepared to fight off whatever it was. But when she looked, there was nothing there but a quiet alleyway.