The things he had seen were beyond
his own wildest imaginations. Luke was gone, finally. He was relieved and yet
he was also morose. Luke was his best friend, his confidante. He had protected
him, always. Now, he had run away. With Luke gone, he felt lonely. A part of
him was lost and it left an enormous, gaping hole in his brittle heart. Could
Luke have been saved? That was a question he would never be able to answer, not
anymore, not since Luke left his side. As he sat in his dingy room, lights out,
he reflected upon Luke and reminisced all their inglorious moments together.
They said he was insane. Who were they to mark him as anything, let alone
insane?
********
Three months ago:
He
lay wide awake staring at the blank ceiling. It was another wall to him,
another boundary, another way for a world full of unimaginative mongrels to
strap him to an unjust and ubiquitous reality. They said he was deranged. They
said he was retarded. It was they who were retarded and deranged, oh yes, it
was they. What did they know? They couldn’t possibly comprehend his world. Who
were they to mark him as anything, let alone insane? He lay wide awake staring
at the ceiling; just another wall that trapped him, he smiled ear-to-ear at the
thought. He was strong and courageous, he was invincible. They could lock him
away in a box for as long as they wished but he would not, for the life of it,
admit defeat. He hadn’t blinked in hours, his eyes burned; the pain demanding
he shut them despite which they were open and they would remain open. He would
keep them open else they would win, he couldn’t have that – no, they couldn’t win, shouldn’t win, they
wouldn’t win. He was not going to allow the oppressed to rule him, his freedom.
He was free and they would never be capable enough to rip him of it.
His
head turned right and there too was a wall, its resemblance to the ceiling
uncanny. It was the same white, made of the same stone and equidistant from
where he lay to that ceiling -- another wall which trapped him. “Just” he said
taking his time between each word, “another wall.” His head turned left, there
it was again; the same white wall made of the same stone but, this was closer
and he could see the shadow of his weak soul on it, staring back at him. The
wall nearly kissed his face; he could feel the heat in his breath as it
ricocheted off the wall and slapped his face hard. It was his third day lying
awake in that same room, with those same walls. The stone, on which he lay, was
cold and dry. He shivered as it sent repetitive lacerating chills up and down
his spine each time with increased intensity, each time numbing his senses
momentarily, but the cold never bothered him – he was fearless. He was free, oh yes he was, and no one was ever going to take that away
from him; his wings may have been ripped off his back, and his back may have
been broken but he was free and he would stay free.
He
continued shifting his head; facing the ceiling then the right wall and then
the left wall as the clock sung tick-tock, mocking him as the walls ate away
his life. He tried moving his arms; they had been too still for far too long
and they rested cross on his chest, as he lay wide awake staring at the walls,
eyes dry and burning in that same room, for the third day. He stretched but his
hands would not release from that crossed position. They seemed tied down. He
grew agitated. The oppressed, unimaginative mongrels had tied him down. How dare they? He attempted to stretch
his hands again but they would not budge. He was free though, he had to be free,
else what was the point? No, no, he was
free; he was that black bird flying through the night sky undeterred by even
the light of the moon. These beasts wouldn’t have it, not his freedom no! Who
were they to break him? Who were they to rip his wings? He thrashed in protest,
jerking his arms violently as he did so, attempting to move them. They wouldn’t
budge. “I am free” he whispered to himself, “I am free.” He continued thrashing,
rolling left to right as the force of his arms dragged him. “I am FREE!” he
began to yell as he thrashed fiercely, the rebel in him growing stronger as
blood pounded in his head; so hard it hurt him. He began to laugh hysterically
but softly. As his fervent thrashing grew stronger, his laughter grew louder,
drooling from the sides of his mouth -- his dry, burning eyes – tearing, oozing
partially dry mucus through his flaring nostrils. “I AM FREE!” he yelled again.
There
was a bang and suddenly he saw dark figures above him; the shadows of them;
those who tied him down, the ones who took away his wings. “NO!” he yelled,
“You will not! Not again!” he bellowed, as he continued his hysterical laughter,
echoing off those walls – the walls that trapped him. One of the shadows held
him down with a force he never knew existed and the other had an object in its
hand. “NO! NO! NO!” he protested, vigorously shaking and thrashing to break
free from the grip of the monster that held him, as he knew that object in the
other shadows hand, he had seen it one too many times before. It was all they
had against him, all they had used to rip his wings apart, to break his back
and to paralyze his arms. It was all they needed to rip his freedom from him,
like tearing flesh from bone; it was the knife, that same knife they used to
cut pieces of his life apart, the one they used to tear his wings, the one they
used to rip his arms off. He was free, he would rebel, he would give them war;
he would die fighting. They can tear his wings, his limbs and they can even rip
his mind into mere fragmented shreds of flesh but, they could never rip his
spirit for that was free and if he needed to forsake his body to protect it, he
would do so – gladly. He kicked,
screamed and yelled. The shadow holding him down now intensified his already
dominating and powerful force. He choked on his mucus, on his drool, on his
tears -- his breath unable to come clear through the passageways of his
diminishing strength. He spat and the specks flew across the room in all
directions, he needed air, he needed to breathe to be free, they were choking
him, they were choking the freedom out of him, those foul shadows! His face now
wet with his own mucus, tears and drool -- he was helpless, he was not free. The shadows, they owned him,
they owned his being, and they had succeeded in imprisoning him in entirety. He
gave one last effort, he kicked and screamed but it was in vain, the shadows
were too powerful, too dark for his deliberately diminishing light. The other
shadow brought down the knife and plunged it into his chest, right through his
heart, so deep he felt his soul twinge. He screamed as the pain seared through
his chest into his very bones and spread through his weak and already
disfigured body. Yet he was not dead. His breathing became softer and the blur
began to clear. What was this? What was this place? What were they doing to
him? Where there were shadows now stood two people, they were wearing what
looked like nurse’s uniforms and one of them held a syringe loosely dangling
between her fingers. Over the pounding in his head, he heard one of them say
something. He couldn’t grasp the whole statement – too weary for that -- but he
was certain he heard, “Doctor…patient…needs rest…” It couldn’t be. He was free!
He was supposed to be free! What hell had they brought him to? He was the bird,
that black bird that flew through the night sky, undeterred by the light of the
moon; or was he? Now, he had lost his wings but, did he ever have them? He wept
as he came to terms with his reality; he was and henceforth would never be,
free.
********
Three days ago:
He watched keenly as they frolicked
around. The game room was full, as usual, between the hours of four-thirty and
six-thirty. It was the only time any of them really saw any of the others. Some
had made associates, others accomplices to their vivid imaginations, and others
still (very few of them) made friends. The institute had now become his home
and all those in it were his “family”, or so they wanted him to believe. He
found it difficult to associate himself with any of these ludicrous monkeys as
they yapped about rainbows, attempted to predict the weather, read books in
groups or played a hand of poker. The lack of sophistication at any level was
disturbing and abusive to his senses. No, he was not one of them. He was unique
and special. He knew that, for it was certain, he could feel it in his blood.
He was above the whimsical fancies of the common lunatic. He had been deemed
insane by the insane; just as expected from an unaccepting society.
“It’s your turn mister” said a kind
looking nurse. One of the very few people he respected. There was an elegant
aura that surrounded her which enticed him. It reminded him of Sarah. It was in
the small things, the way her hair was neatly strapped, the way she
consistently-- without fail, everyday-- organized the medicine, the way her
uniform was always neat and tidy but, most of all, it was in her tone. She was
genuinely kind. He rarely disobeyed her orders. As she had said, it was his
turn, so he simply nodded and stood up to follow. She led him through the game
room, past the visitor hall and took a right to face a wooden door on which the
plaque read: “Dr. Janice Brody”
“Come in” ushered Dr. Brody as the
kind nurse knocked the door. “You’re five-o-clock ma’am” she said, her right
hand holding the door knob and her left pointing, respectfully, at him. Dr. Brody
nodded and he walked straight in. He took a few moments to stare around the
office, absorbing the minute details – the color of the tables, the seats, the
lines of books shelved neatly. The room even had a window, cheerfully lighting
the floorboards with the evening light. “Please have a seat” Dr. Brody
insisted. He liked her tone; she too had similar qualities to the kind nurse. He
did as she had kindly pleaded, perching himself on the comfortable leather
cushion.
“So, how’s your stay been so long?”
she asked beaming at him, her perfectly aligned teeth, reassuring him that he
may trust her. He gently nodded and replied, “Pleasant.” It had been anything
but pleasant. The bathrooms constantly reeked of urine, and the food was
miserable, the beds were but made of bricks. Yet, he chose to be polite to
someone with Dr. Brody’s charm. “Good, good” she said and began to flip through
a series of pages inside a folder on her lap. Her smile began fading as she
read through each page and just about disappeared as she reached the eighth
page. He wasn’t sure what was bothering her and so he obliged himself to be
courteous, “Anything the matter Miss?” She stared at the page for a few more
seconds before replying, “No, everything’s just dandy.” He could literally
smell the strain in her voice. She was lying to him.
“My dear, old pal, she knows about
us” said Luke, “I can smell it!” he was angry, Luke was always angry. “We don’t
know that” he told Luke and forced a smile on his face. Dr. Brody stared at him
with a rather quizzical expression on her face, vaguely searching the room. He
did not appreciate it. Maybe Luke was right, maybe she did know about them.
“I’m telling you, she knows!” Luke
repeated. But he wanted to be sure. He needed to be sure. She continued staring
at him, her eyes now showing slight signs of worry. He bent down, curling his
hands over his head, “This isn’t the time Luke. Nothing has happened.” Luke
laughed, the laugh echoed in his head, the pitch increasing, “Mary had a little
lamb, little lamb…” Luke began to sing. He couldn’t take it, not that song,
“STOP!” he yelled covering his ears. Dr. Brody reacted to the shouting, she
cowered. “You see friend, I told you, she knows! Would you like her to dig
deep, find out about how bloody the lamb got?” Luke asked. Luke was right,
there was too much she might know but, he had to tread carefully.
“Mister…” Dr. Janice began but he
cut her off, “Oh, please continue.” She seemed a bit distressed. Could she
know? If so, how could she know? He had to be certain. “Let me out!” Luke
demanded. He remained silent, ignoring Luke and his paranoia. “I’m just
curious, I heard you talking to Luke. Who is that?” she straightened herself on
her seat and smiled as she asked the question. “Oh no, no, no doctor.” He
replied clicking his tongue while shaking his head – slowly-- a demonic, evil
sparkle in his eyes. “I told you she knew!” Luke said venomously, gritting his
teeth. “Not yet Luke” he said patiently in a menacingly calm tone as he watched
the color drain from Dr. Brody’s face. The doctor was perplexed, she had
treated similar patients before but, there was deep malignance in his words; it
was effervescent with death. “Ok” she squeaked, the fear in her voice was so
eminent even a three-year-old boy would have sniffed it out, “Let’s talk about
Sarah then.” The name sparked a dangerous rage in him, his eyes turned blood-red,
and his breath hot and his body so tight, he thought it would snap. “How do you
know?” he asked, shivering in fury. She moved uncomfortably in her chair,
outbursts of anger were common in therapy but this was beyond normal; it sucked
the warmth in the air and gave birth to an icy chill, “It’s in your file.” She
said. “I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!
It’s her isn’t it? Sarah, it’s her playing games with you my friend” Luke voiced
out. He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be, or was it? How was he not seeing
it? Luke had seen it; he had seen it much before anyone else. How?
“Is everything ok?” she squeaked,
her pitch higher this time. “It can’t be!” he said. But, Luke was right; it was
her all over again. It was Sarah! The fuel kept pouring into the flame, the rage
now so hot he was sweating, his face livid; he saw red. Within an instant he
had lunged from his seat, his hands outstretched as he landed square in front
of her and clenched her throat, squeezing it, feeling the blood in her veins
pulsating against his hands. She was frail, she was weak. What could she do?
His force was tremendous and his anger even greater. “That’s enough Luke!” he
said but Luke wouldn’t stop; the squeezing just got harder, her face almost
blue. She got bluer as the seconds ticked by. Luke was laughing, that same
laugh that echoed through his head. “Let her go Luke!” he demanded but Luke remained
vengeful. “Mary had a little lamb…” he began to sing as he choked her, watching
the life drain from her eyes as her pupils contracted to a dot. Her nostrils
began to bleed, and Luke laughed even harder, menacingly, it tore through his
head, echoing bouncing off the walls of his skull. “Luke STOP!” he yelled and
finally Luke let her go and she dropped to the ground. He stood over her,
sweating, hoping beyond hope that she would be fine; she was breathing. Luke
simply laughed and continued to sing, “Mary had a little lamb…” The malevolent laughter
resounding in his head as he fell face-flat next to the good doctor’s feet.
He woke up after what seemed like
hours in a room, staring at the ceiling, unable to move. He was groggy; Luke
always made him weary and frail. “Just another wall” he said to himself, taking
his time with each word, as he fell back to slumber; the laughter now a distant
echo in his head. “Mary had a little lamb…”
********
Three Years Ago:
The little girl sat in her room,
playing with her dolls. Her favorite was the Mary doll with her little, fluffy
lamb -- lying across the room. She crawled over to the doll and began to play,
all the while singing her favorite song, “Mary had a little lamb…” when all of
a sudden she heard a deafening scream. The shrillness made her quiver with fear,
her skin riddled with goose-bumps. She held Mary close to her chest, hugging
the doll hard, hoping for some form of comfort, which chose to elude her. She
heard the scream again, the voice – why
was it so familiar? She heard the front door of her house burst open, failing
miserably to muffle the scream, and a dim light grazed her window. She was
drawn to it, for an unknown reason. She moved towards the window, the dim
yellow light beckoning her. She climbed the stool nearby and peeped outside the
window. The screams grew louder and the voice more familiar and she saw it, the
source of the screams. There on her front yard was a woman, on fire. On the
ground she rolled in an attempt to douse the flames, screaming and screaming.
The little girl was scared, but she couldn’t avert her eyes. Something was
drawing her to that burning woman; she felt a gut-wrenching urge to help the
woman ablaze. One last scream before the woman stopped moving and the flames
continued to burn through her flesh, now effortlessly. The little girl,
clutching her Mary doll ever so tightly, realized why she was drawn to the
burning corpse. It was her mother. Another voice became clear, a man’s voice,
her father’s as he yelled, “No! Sarah!”
He was devastated. Why had she done
this? Sarah had seemed out of sorts for a while, but he had never known her to
be capable of such atrocity. He sat there, on his porch, staring at the burnt
corpse of his beloved wife as the neighbors peeped out of their windows,
through the blinds, at a distance. Nobody seemed to be doing anything about it.
“It was all for the best, my friend” said Luke. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t
even begin to comprehend how it could have been for the best. All he could see
was the flame, the bright light as it ate away her beautiful skin, her flesh,
slowly turning her bone to ash. “It was all for the best” Luke repeated. “How
is this for the best?” he retorted. “She knew old pal” Luke said, “She knew too
much. It had to be done!” Luke’s voice remained cold and menacing. “You did
this?” he asked. Luke remained silent. “Answer me!” he couldn’t shout, he was
too wrapped in grief and he had not the energy for it. “Yes. This was my work”
Luke replied, his tone bereft of even a hint of remorse. “Why Luke why?” he
cried, hoping the answer would bring him some solace. “She knew too much my
boy” Luke replied, the tone remaining cold, “she had to go!” the answer brought
him no peace. He couldn’t understand the threat. Luke seemed to understand – Luke did understand, yes. Luke must be
right. Sarah had to go. Luke had never failed him, had always looked out for
his best interests. His freedom must have been on the line, hanging by a thread.
She was extra weight, a burden unnecessary – he saw it now, he comprehended. He
grew relaxed, “Now you see, don’t you my dear friend?” Luke said, his pitch
growing higher as he began to laugh. He couldn’t laugh though, not along with
Luke, he loved his wife but, as Luke had said, she knew too much. As the peace
crept in through the labyrinth of his pain, he heard a small voice behind him,
“Daddy…”
She watched her father; talking to
the one he called Luke. She had seen it before, many times. Her father turned
around slowly, his eyes visible over the hunch of his shoulder, ‘Yes, little
girly” he said. It was her father, but the voice was unfamiliar. She clutched
the Mary doll even harder. The air was chill, ice-cold. She looked around the
hall and saw scorch marks everywhere. “You called me?” he said, with the same
ice-cold tone. She could not find the words to speak. “Daddy…” she said simply,
clutching her Mary doll and wept quietly.
“Come here child” Luke said. He was
too devastated to bother about his own daughter. Luke would take care of her,
he knew it. The little girl continued sobbing at the bottom of the stairwell,
holding her Mary doll. “It’s ok.” Luke reassured her, his tone remaining cold. He
wished he had the strength to comfort his daughter, the only remnant of his
wife – she had her eyes. “Come to daddy” Luke said, his arms outstretched,
laughing menacingly. Luke would take care of her, he thought.
Her father beckoned her, but
something deep inside her held her from reaching out. The voice, it was
disturbingly cruel. He laughed, as if the smell of the smoke and burnt flesh
made him happy. She slowly stepped back. “She knows!” she heard him yell as he
stood up with a sudden flash. “Luke no!” she heard him say. It was all too much
for the little girl, she broke for her room. All the way up the stairs she
heard her father yelling, “Luke stop” and then laughing that menacing laugh,
“She knows!” She was almost there, her safe haven, her room. There she would be
safe, that’s what her mother had told her. She would be safe in her room. She
ran with all her might, her father fumbling on the stairs behind her. She
couldn’t scream; the fear and commotion choking her.
“She knows!” Luke shouted as he made
for the top of the stairs. “Luke, please, she’s a little girl. She won’t say
anything!” he tried to stop Luke. Luke wouldn’t have it. Luke looked down from
the top of the stairs, “Maybe now, my friend. What about when she grows old?
Huh! Do you think she’ll stay quiet?” The question perplexed him. Could that sweet little girl – the one with
his wife’s eyes -- be a threat? Could Luke be speaking a truth he was
incapable of understanding? Lost in thought he suddenly realized, Luke had
reached his daughters room. “Come here girly!”
Her father had burst through the
door, taking slow steps towards her, his smile ear-to-ear. At least the
laughing had stopped, she was thankful. “Daddy…” she said, whimpering, hiding
herself behind her Mary doll. “Yes child, daddy’s here” he said and began
laughing again. It tore through her, the laughter. The fear clouded everything.
“Luke please no. PLEASE!” she heard him say. “My friend, I’m doing this for
you. Where would you be without me?”
she peeped from behind her Mary doll and saw her father facing the door,
“Luke…” he said. Suddenly he turned around, with that same wide smile, his eyes
each facing opposite directions, he began to sing, “Mary had a little lamb…” as
laughter filled the room, the house and the streets, she finally found the
strength to wail.
“…the neighbor’s said they heard a
girl screaming. Looks like a real scene. Go check it out” the woman voiced over
the radio. Officer Reynolds was hoping for a peaceful night. However, duty
called. He followed the instructions and reached the location. In the yard was
a burning body, he snapped into his senses. The whole house was dark, except
for a single light emitting from a room on the first floor. He screeched to a
halt and jumped out of his car, flashlight in hand. He approached the house
carefully, afraid of the possibilities. The stench of the burning body filled
the air but, the air was chill, too cold. He made his way to the front door,
already open, he pushed it in gently. There was nothing there, he moved towards
the stairwell, towards the only room with the light on. He was on the top step
when he heard it, two voices, both male. “Luke...why?” said one and the other
began to speak, “She knew, my friend. She knew!” he said. The second voice sent
a chill down his spine. The air grew even colder. He reached the front of the
door and kicked it open, gun out. There he was, weeping on a child’s bed and in
his hand he held what looked like a fluffy toy. He wasn’t even remotely shocked
by the entry Officer Reynolds made. He sat there still and slowly flopped
backwards and the toy fell to the ground. It looked like a lamb, a fluffy lamb.
It was a while before Reynolds figured it out, the strangeness of it; the lamb
was covered in blood.
********
Thirteen Years ago:
The schoolyard was his favorite
place. Not during recess though, he hated his peers. They were unimaginative,
too locked down by the rules set by those inferior to him. The evenings after
school, that’s when he loved it, the empty swings, screeching away in the
breeze and everything else stood motionless, for the most part. The noise was
gone and silence took over except for the slight wailing of the wind as it
passed the trees that lined the borders of the playground. He would sit there
every day, delaying his return home to even more unimaginative dimwits with low
reality standards.
On one particular evening, he sat on
the swing which creaked because of the rust decaying at its joints. He sat
alone for a few minutes envisioning his own utopia, where everyone had their
own choices and free will. While he fascinated himself with the ideology, they arrived; right on cue. He
wouldn’t spend more than half an hour at the park because that’s when the
drunkards would arrive, wailing at the top of their lungs ruining the perfect
harmony he would set himself in. That day, he felt differently about leaving,
he wouldn’t have it, the reckless mindlessness of a few drunken bastards
ruining his solitude – NO! In order
for his utopia to ever materialize into reality he would have to stand up to
these felons. So he tried to confront them. He walked over to the drunken
slaves of a false reality and told them to march away or they would have to
face dire consequences. He expected them to leave, he expected them to cower in
fear of his demand and respect him for his courage. But, they didn’t, before he
knew it he was on the ground, head bleeding. One of the bastards had smashed an
empty bottle on his head. He was weary and too weak to stand up, and he blacked
out.
The next day, he sat on the same
swing, his head bandaged by the school nurse who happened to be passing by. He
respected her; she had a calm demeanor about her that enticed him. He clutched
an old newspaper in his hands, sometimes enjoying a good read, no matter what
era the writing belonged to. As he had expected the drunken bastards returned
pointing at him and laughing. One of them laughed so hard he puked. Enraged he was
at the sight of uncompassionate mongrels that ruined the everyday lives of the
few who still enjoyed their leisure. Today he would stand for his beliefs.
Today he would fight back. “Look, look, the little man wants another stitch on
his head!” one of the boys said and they all began laughing in chorus – slaves, they were slaves. As he marched
forward he felt a hand on his shoulder, it gripped him hard and he heard
another boy say, “Wait!” he turned around and saw a tall, skinny boy, with one
broken tooth. “You don’t stand a chance against them” the skinny boy said. His
eyes were gaunt as if he hadn’t slept for days. “Let me handle them” he said,
his skinny hand gripping his shoulder even tighter. What could this skinny boy
do? He didn’t look remotely tough. He looked so worn out that even a gentle
breeze could have blown him away. But, his eyes they showed strength beyond his
physical demeanor. His grip was firm and strong, his voice filled with hate,
born from the pits of hell. He could clearly see that this skinny boy meant
business. “Why don’t we do it together?” he asked the tall, lanky boy. At this
he simply laughed and forced him to the ground. He watched as the tall, lanky
kid walked up to the drunken bastards, all the while whistling a cold tune. The
drunken bastards pointed at him and were laughing. The tall, lanky kid simply
continued whistling, walking with a small spring in his step.
The tall, skinny kid reached the
drunken bastards and waited for a while. In front of him lay a broken bottle,
the one which they broke on his head. He watched as the skinny kid picked up
the broken bottle and in moments, slashed every one of the drunken bastards’
throats. At first, he was shocked, but then he began to calm down, after all
they deserved it. Five drunks fell to the ground, blood gushing from their
throats staining the skinny boy’s shoes. He stood over them with the broken
bottle in his hand, laughing over their mindless suffering. It was their fault. They should have left
him alone! They deserved it. The skinny boy made his way back to where he
was squatting on the ground, where the skinny boy had forced him to sit, like a
loyal pet dog. Throwing the bottle aside, the skinny boy stretched his hand out
and he grabbed it and helped himself up. “This is the beginning of a beautiful
friendship, old pal.” He smiled and asked the skinny boy, “Your name?” the
skinny boy took a few breaths, crushing his hands with a grip that almost broke
his fingers and said, “Luke.” They skipped away hand in hand, whistling the
same cold tune and laughing as they told each other the tale of the dead drunks
again and again and again.
The janitor, Bruce, stayed late one
evening. He saw the boy again, sitting in the park, on that same swing, as it
creaked gently. He smiled at the thought of playground joy. He never had much
of a childhood, part of the reason he even became a school janitor. The
vicarious pleasures of watching the children shout and whistle and sing around
the merry-go-round. Bruce waited for the
boy to leave the swing before he began cleaning the playground. He began to
rake the leaves that lay on the ground, dry and brown when he came across an
old newspaper the boy had dropped. He picked it up, randomly scanning through
the page. At the right corner was an obituary post. It was a bout a twelve year
old boy who died a miserable death. The year of the paper was 1932, rather old,
thought Bruce. He looked at the picture of the boy, his gaunt eyes, and his
smile with one tooth missing. He was skinny too. He read the name of the boy,
Luke; it just said Luke. He shrugged and threw the paper into his pile of
leaves, figuring he could burn it with the dead, brown leaves he had raked up.
A cold breeze passed by his left ear and he heard a whisper, of a boy, “You
know too much!” he whispered and all went black for Bruce…
********
