The old man blinked awake as if he had been in some sort of dream or nightmare like the ones he was having. He remembered clearly what had just taken place. He recalled one name, which was Jeff. Yet for his own name, he still had no memory of it; it was at the tip of his tongue and just out of reach. He sat up, finding the same set of keys lying near him, reminding him where he was and what had just transpired out loud. "I hate this place, but right now, I don't know what is worse, images or the memories and those horrible feelings that the boy and I had experienced."
The old man stood still, shaking, unsure what he could have done,
asking himself. "Would I have made a difference if I was there with
the boy watching his foster brother die in front of him like that? The
question is and still remains; do I make a difference? Is there still Time to help the boy? Can I help the boy? I now understand why the boy would not go inside there. We must be on our toes in case 'Time' itself, in our mind, decides to lay traps for those with wandering souls, like mine." He remembered something he had written not more than a lifetime ago, it seemed; a small poem that was more of a thought every Time he woke from a stormy night, wrestling with a nightmare of his past.
Fear
Written by Eric J. Shepherd
"For they, are those that need to fear are those that fear, fear itself.
For Darkness waits for no man… even light has its shadow, which hides
deep within itself. So when Death eagerly comes to some, rebirth will
arrive on the Morning tides.
For fear has nothing to hide, for shadow and light are one, meaning
Death and rebirth are equal to life. For fear has no fear without understanding
fear itself. Few will soon discover fear will go away, leaving a rebirth of
something else instead of being and living in fear forever."
"Is this what Death is posing, that I help the little boy?" The old
man whispered softly to himself. The old man realized that he must push on and find a new zeal and reason to move on; knowing that fear could be waiting at every door, he opened behind the looking glass; he was in serious trouble. The old man could sense Death's nightmare and bated breath, the same one he had been living with for the last twenty years or so, knowing it would soon come sweeping down upon its wings to crush him. The old man laughed silently. "Maybe, at last, I will die. Or maybe I
am already dead? If that is the case, why don't I feel any peace? No angels, no heavenly light, or personages are waiting to take me into their arms and embrace me. Yet there are no devil or suffering souls except my own. All I see is an endless tunnel of nothingness as far as the eye can see. No doors or windows. Not a single sound of a person's voice except my own."
And once again, we find ourselves in that dreaded, horrible-looking entry in the search for that missing little boy. In hopes of finding the way out is near or better, he will soon provide the answer that will change his past before 'Time' runs out for both of them, and they die here forever.
The old man pushed himself down the hallway not far. He begins to
hear distant whispers. But unsure because everything is so muffled here, and he had to strain his human ears and eyes, which are just getting used to the lack of light here. Once again, he thinks he sees two images. "But how is that possible?" He asked, "And how did they get in here? I can't even get out. Am I losing my mind?" The old man said, running towards them, feeling angry as he watched them as they began to walk away as if they hadn't even noticed him. "WAITE, WAITE, WAITE,
WAITE FOR ME! WHO ARE YOU?" He screamed.
The old man yelled again, thinking that would get their attention,
but they paid him no mind. They kept walking away and faded away as
quickly as they came. So tired and angry, he falls to the ground with a
loud slump. The keys chimed, hitting the ground beside him, and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to remove the tears of anger behind them. He yelled with all his might. "What in the hell am I
supposed to do now?"
He yanked his head back, letting out a blood-curdling scream. In
hopes of frightening some poor, defenseless chickens, Death caused them to lay all their eggs at once, and when they hatched. Be they hard-boiled, scrambled, or doubled yoked. Go figure, the chickens had a rough day.
His head rebounded back against the wall; instead of feeling the
hard cement wall with the back of his head, it felt hollow with a soft
thud. The old man placed his right hand behind his head to feel it,
making sure what he felt was real. His eyes widen with surprise and
dismay at the same Time. Fear crept over him as his heart began to race with excitement and fear after what had happened the last Time, he had gone through a door here.
Caution was needed as he remembered the pitfalls of the last door
he opened. Yet at the same Time, he wondered what could be lurking
behind this door. After gathering courage and dusting himself off his
feet, he said, "Let's see this door. I am sure this door wasn't here before.
The question is, where did it come from? Where is that little boy? Who
is he talking to? Where did he go?" The old man wondered in his mind
what lies behind it.
The door was cold and bore ugly scarred markings like its heart had
been torn. The old man wondered if he wanted to go in there. "Could
it be the way out? Which key fits the lock is the question." The old man
looked down amongst the keys, feeling each one. Noticing each one had a different but odd feeling about them, it was hard to describe the feeling as he thought of each key. He closed his eyes tracing each with his fingers afraid it would be the wrong key.
He mumbled to himself. "At least the boy could have given me
instructions. Even a map would have been nice, especially if he would run off like that." He said as he allowed his mind to drift thinking of the boy and the person the boy was with; then he laughed at the mere thought of how to use a set of keys. "Well, it still would have been nice." He said as he decided on the key he had chosen. The strange, odd-shaped key felt like a twisted tree in the wind right in his hand. Finding the keyhole, he placed the key into the lock and slowly turned the key, hearing a slight 'click.' As before, another room opened.
The old man stepped through it, and the door closed behind him
quickly the moment he had walked maybe five feet, blending into the
background as the same white light as before dissolved all around him.
Finding himself inside a small trailer sitting in a metal folding chair tied
up, but this Time he was the same boy again.
He was different somehow, unlike last Time, yet the same, images
quickly swirled around him. Old memories intoxicated them out of
control, and something or someone in the room immediately grabbed
hold of him. He gazed about as if in a daze about to awaken; his body
now felt so small, cold, and trapped, hurting from the pain of the wounds encased on his now small body.
Like before, his mind swims as he becomes the boy in this body as
it takes hold, seeing and feeling like a tidal wave of emotion that pierced his inner soul, leaving the old man behind as he becomes that boy once more, like a flicker of a candle… the old man was faded away like as if that image was but a dream… leaving him only the memories of the old man and now the boy's memories combined.
* * * * *
The sounds in the small room were angry and hostile. The boy's
left eye was swollen; he could barely open it enough to see through the
bottom of his eyelid. Looking around, he noticed he was indeed tied to a metal folding chair with a small dog chain wrapped around his unclothed body. He could hear a small child crying nearby. A mother was screaming at him at the top of her lungs as the boy was being beaten by a wooden spoon on his bare bottom, trying to do dishes at the moment, trying to find a way to escape the blows. His sister's faces were smiling while they played with their dolls on the other side of the room as they watched.
The boy stated their names were Peggy and Donna, and the boy
being whipped was his brother Danny. Then, it was like a bolt of lightning had just struck him. He knew who he was, his name, everything was flooding back. He was Eric Stewart; the small boy was him more than a lifetime ago. Somehow, he had forgotten this, but then again, he did his best not to remember it. And now questioned if this is what the man called Death had in mind. To help change his past so he didn't end up lying dead on his own front porch, alone and forgotten by the world around him. With no friends and no family to call his own. Nothing, and no one to care about him.
He said without thinking out loud. "How can you help him? Right
now, I can't even help myself. The question is, who am I? Where am I?"
he whispered as he gazed down upon his cold, tiny naked feet, asking.
"How did I get myself into this mess?" As if he was asking the little girl
named Peggy across the room, playing with her dolls, these questions?
She looked up, turned, and laughed. "Look, Mommy, it asked a
question. It thinks it has the right to ask questions now!"
The little girl named Peggy, with long brown hair and picture-perfect
doll-like quality was no older than ten or eleven. A year younger than
him at that Time. With the same blue eyes yet cold as they looked at him with such hate, and that stated that hate was all she ever had for him.
Her sister's name was Donna; she was more reserved and different in likeness, with dishwater blond hair and pigtails. Blue eyes and a Barbie doll patterned after her sister. Yet, so different, it was hard to believe they were related other than the same hate, meanness, and quiet anger, and she was only eight or nine, known as the baby of the family.
His brother Danny was so small compared to his older brother and
his two sisters and for a boy of six and a half. He had the same mossy
brown hair and blue eyes; he looked much like him. He hated the fact
that, just like him, everyone here who considered him family hated him;
he hated the fact that there was nothing he could do or had tried to do
that made no difference; maybe he could change that; perhaps he could not only change his life, but his brothers as well, but the question was how.
His mother, Linda, quickly came over, placing herself in front of
him as if he were nothing but dirt under her fingernails. Yelling to his
brother Danny not to move from that spot or she would whip the tar
out of him if he even thought about moving, said. "He does, does he?
That ingrate little brat. After, he tried to run off and tell everyone how
he got all those bruises. He nearly got us all into trouble again. We all know girls, how he fights all the time, got them at school, or fell off his
bike, and his brother. After all, your father and I would never ever lay a
hand on him; we love you all." She said, standing in the middle of the
room with her hands on her hips holding the wooden spoon, which had
seen better days.
"How many times have I told everyone? 'Boys will be boys. This
is how you train them if you want a good one. Besides, these boys are
always in trouble!' People need to mind their own … damn business. If
it ain't broke, don't fix it … if it is, there is always a new one down the
street on sale, right girls? And you boys will learn that lesson if we have
to beat it into your little stupid heads.
"Oh, look, your brother needs to go to the bathroom. Can you take
him outside, Peggy? After that, put him to bed for the night; I don't want
him disturbing anyone next door." She said as she pointed to his brother
at the sink, dancing, trying not to wet himself. The girls laughed as if
it something struck them funny, as she said smiling; "anyone ready for
round two?" his mother asked.
Eric wasn't laughing; the pain was nearly unbearable already as she
came over to pop him a couple more times because she thought he was
being clever. He yelled, "STOP IT!"
His father entered the room, removed his belt in one fluid practice
motion, and swung it across his bare legs and feet. "Don't ever talk back
to your mother like that, you worthless little brat! Why did you come
back in the first place? They didn't want you. Nobody wants you!" He
replied with anger in his voice as his knuckles turned white.
His father wasn't a large man by any means; in fact, he was barely
five feet tall, if that, but still taller and bigger than he was and twice as
scary. He hated him and his brother more than words could possibly say.
No one understood why other than they stayed away from him.
All he and the boy could remember was that Jim, his father, had hated
him and his brother Danny since they were born. Plus, the fact that he
not once claimed to be their father or grew angry if we called him that or even referenced him in that company, and he seldom, if ever, called them by the name they had given them. His father was always angry, and his face showed nothing but hatred. Even his face was made of stone other than the red blotches on his mostly bald head, and his hard, cold blue eyes said he hated them with every fiber in his being.
He didn't walk or run like other men since the car accident, leaving
a hard limp in his right leg that never healed right. Yet it never really
slowed him down either, as he took off his belt and started to swing it
back and forth as it whistled in the air. The belt was as deadly as his fist
because he kept the metal buckle sharpened to cause the most damage.
At that moment, his father was punching him and hitting him with the belt in wild, uncontrolled anger. At the same time, his mother was also beating him with her fists and her favorite weapon of choice known as the wooden spoon, even though she also favored the metal pancake turner or anything she could reach.
The wooden spoon broke in two as she hit him across his already
sore shoulders, wincing with pain. The sharpness of the blow must have
loosened the chains that wrapped around him, snapping a link in the
chain, and freeing him. Without thinking, he quickly dived for the door.
He was cold and hungry and did not care as long as he was away from
there, for that was a living hell. The pain that he felt was great, but right
now, it was a blanket of warmth.
He would never return to that, and to think a small boy could or
ever think that could be called home. He knew that he had to find some
shelter for the night. Lucky for him, there was an old barn not far from
the house, just right for the night. He found an old horse blanket for
covering and hid behind an old hay wall to keep the wind and prying
eyes away until morning, allowing him to fall into tearful, deep sleep…
* * * * *
The terms love, home, and family. It will continuously be redefined
differently to the young boy and others like him, and many factors will
be added to his life. The terms or words disposable or replaceable have
more or less come to new terms known today and in some social circles
as true Family and Factions. For they are and have become terms to a
contract as slavery for this young boy and others; some would say White Slavery or Back Door Slavery. The government knew about it but went on regardless, even though they were hidden and well-guarded. Few knew they existed or even cared; some found it easier to ignore the problem after all was said and done. 'It was not their problem; best to pass it on' or 'I don't have the time right now, maybe later.'
Remember, the deniable ability is everything according to any rules
that could be trapped before him. The next best trap of them all is love. It can be just another lie and can be well hidden. Played upon the innocent, then smashed, crushed, or ripped apart. Done enough times, you can become numb. Yes, love and family are some of the best-laden traps the world has ever known. Some people say it is given freely, but there's always a price to pay. What is the price of man's own destruction? Ask the boy, now asleep underneath the old horse blanket in a simple barn, forgotten by the governing world of men and their so-called government.
The question is raised: will this boy be one of the forgotten souls
that Time has hidden away? Is his life among the different, hidden realms of reality? Does it exist in your world, and you have chosen to ignore it and its many Factions?
* * * * *
The old man of the boy in question wonders in his subconscious
as he stands alone in the veil of shadows and watches the boy sleep as if he is in a dream that only he can see and still be apart from the boy that lies before him. Hearing the soft sobs of the small boy as he falls into everlasting sleep and after visiting, after feeling and knowing the choices made long ago, some against his will. Watching his hopes and dreams die with the boy … his past self. Obviously, this little boy "was as he is now." Remembering it was he, himself, for he was this boy long ago, and soon he too will just stop feeling as he relives his past like a broken, tired old man that nobody wants or has forgotten about because he no longer matters.
He has no family, friends, or close relatives who care for him.
Everyone he did know is long gone… leaving him to suffer, not caring
if he lives or dies. To them, he was nothing more than a stranger and someone who didn't deserve to be loved by them or anyone. The world
he lived in was nothing more than hate and avoidance. "Was this Death's design and purpose? Or was this a joke that Death himself is playing on him?" The old man asked as he became trapped inside the boy's mind at the end of his subconscious.
For beware of cupids poison arrows. It tricks him; hope is something he cannot have, nor ever have. For if he does this simple act of love for that small nameless boy, knowing that this is his only hope… he might be able to save him before he becomes the man he is today as he stands alone in the veil of shadows of Time behind the looking glass.
* * * * *
The man called Death, a.k.a. Derrick, smiled as he looked down
upon the boy sleeping in the barn. He slowly gazed deep inside the old
man's subconscious, standing alone in the shadow's veil. Death watches
the old man fights a war he can no longer win; he shushes his mind, letting the two minds come together as the child merges again. He gives them both one last hope from a new sense of reality behind and beyond the realm of the looking glass. "I wonder? Yes, my boy, I wonder?" He said, leaving a small kiss on his tiny, tear-laden cheek, whispered softly in his ear. "Go find them and save
them and change destiny with those five keys and the objects and people guarding them. But most importantly, with their help, you can save the boy and yourself." Brushing away his soft brown mossy hair, a teardrop falls from Death's own cheek. "I am sorry I was late, but I am here for you now. Not as Death, but in life, I give you this gift of a new chance at life." He was gone in a whisper of the wind, and the boy and the old man were one…
* * * * *
If you think back to the 1970s generation, it was common practice
back then, almost as it is now, to find a small boy who quickly fell through the cracks. Back then, children were easily not seen through the public's eyes or heard from. They were known as society's cast-offs or, for a better word, garbage. The generalized government or social services assumed the role and standard during that period. If it doesn't work, it's okay; it's not our problem. Ignore it until there is a real problem. Then let us know … until then, fill this out and wait six months, and then comeback to check on the progress after you have waited one year or more.
The words of his mother and the mothers and fathers like them
could still be heard over the years, even today, feeling a sense of regret or the fear of getting caught for what they had done to their own flesh and blood as they speak to the cops or family services to some caseworker that doesn't care about boys or girls that they are in charge of. Other than they get paid or might be overworked for such little pay. The human factor, with many of them, is unreachable and uncaring when dealing with the world in general.
"What was the problem? I see. Did you fill out the paperwork? I
see. That program changed; did someone from the department tell you?
So, how can I help you? Yes, I can help you with that. Just fill this out
and send it in. It will take about six months for a reply back. What was
that, Mrs. Stuart?
"Your son is missing; he dove out the front door last night and has
been gone for? You don't know why? Oh, I see; he got into another fight
at school, he does that a lot, and you think he might be in some sort of
trouble. Not to worry, we know how to handle that sort; remember, there's a saying my grandmother used to say, 'In for a penny, in for a pound.' Plus, when they get hungry enough, they'll come home with their tails wagging, feed them, and put them right to bed."