Amber Rae

Amber Rae was born that way,
with eyes so big and blue,
with golden hair and skin so fair –
as soft as morning dew.

Painted toes of scarlet-rose
her sandals couldn’t hide –
behind would sail the ponytail
her older sister tied.

Amber liked to ride her bike
the mile or so to school
when traffic flow was fairly slow –
on mornings dry and cool.

Before her trip, she’d stop to clip
some blooms for Mrs. Berne,
the small bouquet was Amber’s way –
her thanks for all she’d learned.

Off she went, a brief descent
and then a hill to climb –
a steady pace – no need to race,
she’d get there just in time.

But half-way there – between a pair
of trees that lined the street
was Orville Wells – just tossing shells
of peanuts at his feet.

He’d learned about this common route
that children took to school –
he’d stand and wait in hopes that fate
would send a precious jewel.

A prior charge, but still at large –
he’d fallen off the grid
and thought it best to travel west,
where he grew up as a kid.

A broken home was all he’d known,
and raised more like a pet –
there came the day he ran away,
but swore he’d not forget.

Thoughts he’d keep were buried deep,
but spoke from time to time –
he’d follow suite and execute
a truly heinous crime.

He had no choice but feed the voice
that raged inside his head,
with little girls in bows and curls –
he’d rape and leave for dead.

His twisted mind could always find
a rational excuse,
despite the tears that came from years
of torment and abuse.

Poised to strike – he’d spot a bike,
an angel on her steed –
a treat to clinch, that’s sure to quench
the beast he had to feed.

Amber Rae was on her way
and now in Orville’s view –
he’d grab the lass before she passed,
and down the road he flew.

Left behind, the search would find
a bike – out in the street,
a basket filled with daffodils
and the sandals from her feet.

But passersby had heard her cry
and glanced at Orville’s plate
that cops would trace by database
to the home of a prior mate.

They reached the site by dark of night –
a cabin on a hill
where Orville brought the girls he caught
when he got the urge to kill.

The subtle hue a candle threw
suggested he was near –
a team of SWAT would comb the lot,
all dressed in special gear.

The stark abode was off the road
and far from neighbors’ view,
where scent of death would take their breath –
like a nightmare coming true.

They stepped through waves of shallow graves
in freshly-harrowed ground –
where each contained what still remained
of children never found.

They’d softly trek to reach the deck,
and when they first arrived –
they paused to pray that Amber Rae
would still be found alive.

Then the team would hear a scream,
and crashing through the door –
a muzzle placed at Amber’s face
would even up the score.

They tried to bait, negotiate,
do anything they could –
but nothing said would lend a shred
of doing any good.

Orville's choice would quell the voice
he'd heard for quite a while –
his pistol-lead would strike instead,
a tortured pedophile.

He hit the floor, a threat no more,
a killer now at peace –
a fatal blow would cause a flow
his body would release.

The pool would meet with Amber’s feet
and touch her painted toes –
a startled-glint of matching-tint,
a shade of scarlet-rose.