LISA CHANDLER SCOTT

Crimson and blue flashing lights echoed the walls of the only home I'd ever known. I wiped the salty tears from my mascara run eyes, hoping the cops would take this pretty young girl from the wrong side of the tracks seriously. Pearly round buttons ripped from my expensive angora cardigan rolled along battered hardwood floors, while tumbled masses of knotted hair fell in sweat across my stinging welted face. Stunned, I slowly gazed from the floor to myself. It was then, in shame, I realized my sweater's ragged edge flapped open, revealing the pink lace from my favorite bra, and the tender blush of a firm, young breast. I had been tossed about like a sock in a dryer. Two husky men stood at our doorstep with CHICAGO P.D. written upon their sparkling gold badges, assessing our small bungalow home, and which course of action should follow. Embarrassed as hell, I wondered how a nice Jewish girl from the South side of Chicago wound up in this dreadful predicament...