My mind and its work is like watching an unrated television. You never know what’s coming up next.
One
I was born into a wealthy neighborhood where high middle classmen settled into a suburban bubble. It was always peaceful and very safe; I have always been proud that you could walk around the double-storied wooden houses even at night, and attain no trouble. Little kids of each household were allowed to play on clean-shaven, bland streets until ten in the evening: that’s how safe it was. And I didn’t mind.
Now a word of me. I am a young woman, who just graduated high school. I have gotten a nice education in my lifetime, and I’ve been proud of what I had achieved. I’ve been an only child in our family, consisting of my parents and two of their own, along with two dogs. I held an internship at Lockheed Martin’s corporation five days a week, and I have never been happier of my maturity and independence since my troubled youth.
One hot Saturday morning I was readying myself before work. I was sitting in my dark green Volvo, trying to figure out some route for a “party” (for our office), held later in the day, in an area I have never been around. Near me was a newspaper, which had, among many other things, another address. I was going to buy an apartment in our city in a few days, so my beau and I could nest a new home and form a new family, so-to-say.
An old, crippled woman suddenly limped through my open garage, holding on to my car with her left hand. She looked about sixty, and loose hairs on her head, which seemed like they were brought to a dull knife, were feeble and shaking. She said quietly, out of breath, “Can you help me?”
I have been startled by her unexpected appearance. I glanced, and in horror I noticed her right hand bleeding. I asked, “What happened?”
“There is some maniac running around the block! You would have found that out sooner or later,” the elderly woman added to suffice my naïveté to this world. I have been known to be more of an angel, flapping around my wings in airy and soft dreams. I wondered why she didn’t start crying. “This had once already happened to me,” she continued.
“How can I help you?” my voice trembled with the fear of the unknown.
“Just get me something to cover my hand. Find me a piece of strong cloth; I’ll pull it around my hand.”
“One second. I think I have something here,” my attempts produced no results. Instead, I quite successfully ripped a piece of my long sleeve off of my shirt and gave it to the poor woman. “Here you are, it will get better.” I ran into the house, and got her a glass of cold lemonade to cool her off. But she was calm right from the start. I think I needed the satisfying icing of the glass more that anybody else right now. “Where did it happen?” I inquired.
“I was in my kitchen, cooking a couple of eggs, when suddenly this old man walks just right in and slices me. I thought he was a friend of my husband, and I didn’t ask who he happened to be before he did this... I ought to tell everyone so they’ll be cautious around here. I have always wondered that it’s too quiet here sometimes.”
“Was anybody else there, in the kitchen, with you?”
“My husband was reading a newsp… My husband! Oh no, not him!” she shrieked, started up, and ran away out of my sight around the block.
Instead of listening to that squeaky little voice inside my head, preaching good sense and nothing other than running away from this hell hole, I slowly, as if in a trance, stood up from my seat and walked in the direction the old woman went. I saw her cornering an alley, and turning right afterwards. I followed her maneuvers as well. I saw a young woman scurrying past me, screaming, “He raped my daughter in front of my eyes! He... raped... my... daughter!”
Ignoring shameless noise, I traveled through thick shrubbery of some house (I don’t remember which one right now), and peeked into an adjacent window. I wish now that it would have been covered by a pair of curtains, black, for example, or something else which hinders all of light.
An old man, wearing a sleeveless white shirt and dark blue sweatpants fingered a shiny knife. I saw his back in my view from the window. The room was empty of furniture, but held two prisoners: somebody like my grandmother and my grandfather. The man was sitting in a wheelchair, and by the way of only the woman moving her mouth, speaking I guess, I speculated that he had had a stroke or a heart attack earlier that had cut off his speech and the lower abdomen from working - the man in the wheelchair was half paralyzed, half dead. Although the man couldn’t express a thing, his eyes rolled and glistened in fear. The crazy man started to come up behind him with some kind of an intention, a knife in his right hand, and the woman tried to wheel her husband away from danger. A striking scene broke out. By a red touch, she fell. The man in the wheelchair eyed his dead wife, and wanted to hide somewhere out of everyone’s sight. He wheeled his seat around, the old man in the white shirt running two inches behind him. In a moment, an aged plaid was off the wheelchair, which used to wrap the man’s weakened limbs. Once stinging with sweet honey and moistened newspapers from the sprinklers in the garden, it was laying there, fallen out of its place. What I later saw was nothing but a shadow. The mirror across the man in the wheelchair just reflected his face: his eyes were rolling around, looking like they were going escape him once and for all. His skin was stained in bruises. A wild animal was brought into his home by some unknown force. I saw the man’s shadow being ripped off of its parts, and after a few minutes of waiting, the killer had pushed his knife through the throat of his already dead brother. The old man, now no longer holding the bloody weapon, had laid down and closed his eyes near his brother’s wheelchair. He was exhausted; silent tears rushed through his mortal face, gently washing over his age’s wrinkles and stains.
I slid down the side of the wall, unaware that my neighbors were crowding around me.
The first paragraph is a little bit confusing. 
So, when the old lady limps in, how can he tell that ther hair had been "brought to a dull knife" ?
You describe the old man very well. You know, the one is his "sleeveless white shirt..." 
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