Reuben, having no idea that his frugality was being discussed in such detail, had settled down into the chair at Keith's bedside. Shirley had refused to move from her position at his side and remained seated on the bed, her right hand caressing the wan face. He seemed to have settled a bit since his nightmare earlier and she prayed that his present dreams were more pleasant.
The enforced inactivity was making her drowsy, however, and she yearned for sleep but was loathe to succumb, recalling what had happened last time she had allowed herself some respite. She did not want a repeat of that and so she remained where she was, staring into the drawn, pallid face, mourning at the loss of the sparkle she had always found there, missing the dimpled smile and desperate for some way to make everything better for her eldest son.
Keith returned to semi-awareness slowly and remained there, reluctant to face the world and a future made bleak by his failure to prevent what had happened. Muted voices invaded his consciousness and, despite his best intentions, he strove to listen to what they were saying, already sure of the condemnation he would hear.
He was in for a surprise. His mother's voice was audible above the rumble of traffic from the street below, the distant hum of the air conditioner and sound of his own raspy breathing.
" …Keith, honey, I don't know if you can hear me, but … oh god, I just hate seeing you this way. This is all my fault. If I hadn't let you go off to that party - if I'd only insisted that someone else go with you … but I didn't want you to think badly of me; didn't want to put a wedge between us. Now … now I think I would rather have risked driving that wedge between us rather than see you go through all this pain, all this torment. This is my fault. Your father and I brought you up right, we brought you up to respect girls - and … I know you've had a lot of girlfriends, sweetheart, but - well, you're not ready for an experienced women like Joni - especially not someone as devious as she was. Maybe that was our fault as well - perhaps we protected you kids too much. I don't know. I only know that I blame myself for this. I shouldn't have let you go - I should have done something more to protect you. It wasn't up to you - you're young - too young … oh Keith, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry … Please forgive me …"
Oh god, his mom was crying. His mom was crying - about him. He felt like bursting into tears himself. But she had it wrong. How could it possibly be her fault when he was the one who had gone to the party? He was the one who had allowed Joni to spike his drinks and he was the one who had allowed her to inject him with heroin and make out with him - even though, he recalled, hazily, he hadn't done anything to invite her to do that, hadn't actually participated - in fact, couldn't recall very much about it at all. He was beginning to feel very confused. Then he heard another voice - calming, reassuring - Reuben.
"There, there, Shirl, it's all right," the manager was saying. "It's not your fault. You weren't to know what that little jezebel was up to. No-one did. Not even Greg. Shirl, Shirl, please, don't cry. Keith will be okay, I promise. We'll make it all okay. And if anyone's to blame, then it's me. I should have looked after him better. After all, I'm the manager. I should have had these people checked out more thoroughly. The girl has a history, and no-one told us about it. If I'd been more thorough then this would never have happened and he wouldn't have to go through this. Just seeing him in this pain - well, it hurts me too. And it's unfair that he should have to go through all of this, that you should have to suffer right alongside him just because of her. Shirley, I promise - we'll find her and we'll make her pay for what she's done …"
Now Keith was even more bewildered. Reuben was blaming himself now? How many people were culpable for what had happened? And why was no-one blaming him? Surely he was the one who had allowed it all to occur? Surely he should be the one who was reprimanded, condemned and castigated? Oh god, this was all getting too complicated for him to figure out. It needed a clear head and the ability to form coherent thoughts, which he was incapable of doing at present. He felt like someone had beaten him on his skull with a hammer and it was about to split open. The pain was intense, especially on the left side and came in wave after wave, drowning out speech and thought alike. He desperately wanted something to ease the incessant and thunderous throbbing but couldn't seem to get his mouth to work or his eyes to open. Even his face ached. The dim light from the lamp on the bedside table pierced his eyelids, adding a counterpoint to the agony inside his head, and unwittingly, he groaned.
Immediately, the two adults' attention was focused on him. "Keith? Keith, honey?" his mother's voice, gentle though it was, thundered into his aching skull, sending fresh shards of agony piercing through his brain. Sound hurt his ears and he whimpered, softly, hearing his own blood pounding in his head. God, why didn't this torture stop? Why wouldn't it go away? Oh god …
Shirley bit her lip as she gently stroked Keith's arm. An effort to touch his forehead had resulted in a pitiful whimper and a feeble attempt to escape. His fine features were scrunched up in agony and every now and then, little sounds of pain would bubble from his throat, signifying to her that he was suffering immensely. "Keith?" She tried again to gain his attention. "Keith, sweetheart, where does it hurt? Can you tell me?"
It took a long time and obviously a huge effort on his part, but finally, he answered her, although she had to crouch low to hear his reply, whispered in a tortured, hesitant voice. "Head … head hurts …"
She turned to face Reuben, anguish written all over her face. The manager, however, shook his head. "I'm sorry, Shirl," he said, regretfully. "We can't risk giving him anything for the pain., With the heroin and everything, well … we don't know what it could do."
Shirley understood. She really did. It didn't make watching her son endure this new torment any easier, though. She wanted to make his pain go away, but she couldn't. Instead, all she could do was hold on firmly to his hand as he writhed around weakly on the bed. It was evident that he was in increasing agony, however, and, hesitantly, she reached to lightly touch her fingers to both temples, massaging gently. He jerked away from her slightly, wincing, but then allowed her to continue and his tortured expression cleared a little as she worked. Sighing with relief, she watched as his breathing evened out and at last exhausted sleep overcame him once more. As he slipped into morpheus's arms, she removed her hands from his face and covered her own, her shoulders drooping.
Reuben put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the tension there and swallowing hard as she trembled violently beneath his touch. "I'm sorry, Shirl," he said, apologetically. "But you know what the doctor said when we spoke to him earlier."
She nodded. The doctor had telephoned them from the hospital, checking up on Keith's condition and reassuring them that he had informed no-one of the circumstances behind his request for blood analysis. The results had not yet been returned to him but he had been concerned that his initial diagnosis had been correct and was almost relieved when Shirley had informed him of Keith's continuing pain and subsequent collapse in the shower. At least it meant that the young man was mobile, even if only barely and his body was still processing the drug. They were good signs - a fact of which he tried to assure the still fearful mother. But when she had asked if there was anything they could give her son to assuage his pain, he had told her 'no' most emphatically. "Any more drugs in his system could be enough to kill him," he had informed her, sombrely, knowing he was scaring her but needing to make the point. "The prescription I gave to Mr Kincaid is for any residual pain which might occur in two or three days time. We have to let the heroin work its way through his system completely otherwise … " he left the rest unsaid but Shirley had already got the picture and after thanking him for his concern and advice, replaced the receiver and returned to watch her son suffer.
Now, she let reaction overtake her. Reuben's solid presence was a comfort but the whole ordeal was beginning to take its toll on both of them. She longed for it to be over - not for her sake, nor Reuben's, but for Keith. Her son. Her firstborn. It was too much to ask him to endure. Too much to expect from a 17-year old whose biggest problem just yesterday had been what to wear to impress a girl for a party. And that girl … She couldn't comprehend how anyone could be so evil, so completely devoid of feeling, so utterly shameless. To knowingly put someone through this - someone so young, so inexperienced … what kind of home did she come from, anyway? What kind of upbringing had led her to do this kind of thing? It was all beyond Shirley's understanding, but now she found that she actually wanted to understand at least, rather than just wanting to kill Joni. The girl had made good her escape, however, blending into the city streets as easily as the wind. It was almost as though she had never existed - and Shirley couldn't help wishing that she didn't.
*****
Greg was hot on Joni's trail. He had made a few enquiries in what he had termed 'the seedier' side of town and now he was headed toward her last known destination. He was no stranger to the world of drugs. He had seen what addiction could do to people. It was a vicious cycle. Once someone started, it was impossible to stop, however, much they might want to. Withdrawal was hell. There was no other way to describe it, and every junkie lived only for their next 'fix'. People, places and possessions meant nothing to them any longer. The only reality in their lives became the drug and the problem of where the next shot was going to come from.
Novak had watched, helplessly, as his own brother descended into the abyss that was addiction, transforming from a bright, intelligent 23 year old to a gibbering, rake-thin wreck of a man who looked 20 years older. His death from an overdose still gave Greg nightmares. He had been the one to find the body. It had not been a pretty sight. His brother's untimely demise had forced him to take a good, hard look at his own life and occasional, recreational use of 'soft' drugs. He had been clean from that day forward and had devoted his free time since to helping others in similar situations to that of his dead sibling, which was how he had encountered Joni.
He had offered her a job to get her off the streets, promised her a new life and a chance of stability if she would stay off the drugs and had been convinced by her promises for about a week and a half. He had been rudely awakened time and time again but had continued to give her chance after chance to redeem herself. Until now. Now she had not only broken the rules, she had shattered them into a million tiny pieces. Her seduction and drugging of a minor made him furious. He would never forgive this particular transgression and although he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do when he found her, he was going to find her.
His search had taken him to the most derelict, forsaken part of town, where he strode amongst abandoned, empty-eyed wraiths. But Greg had seen it all. He was no longer shocked or appalled by the terrible waste of humanity as he searched through the dregs of society to locate anyone who had seen his wayward assistant. He simply asked the questions, listened to the answer and moved on, not bothering to offer sympathy which would not be welcomed, nor make small talk which would be ignored. His trail led him finally to a disused warehouse on the edge of town where he had heard that a number of addicts congregated. It was a 'meeting place' of sorts for the junkies of the town - a place where the drug dealers could come for a few quick sales, make some money and get out with no fuss. The police had long since abandoned any attempts to clean the place up and for every drug dealer they put away another ten or so would take their place. It was a losing battle, and it was getting worse with every passing year. The place was filthy, polluted and squalid. Large brown puddles of odorous liquid lay like blots on the grimy stone flags which comprised the floor of the old warehouse. Timorous voices called out as he passed each foul hovel, constructed from rancid smelling blankets and pieces of cardboard. Here lay the refuse of society, the waste which no-one either wanted nor cared about. This was the true underbelly of the city, where people lived and died in vile conditions, surrounded by their own filth, covered with dirt and the waste from their own bodies. They had long since stopped caring - so why should anyone else?
Greg held his breath as he stepped through the human wastage, unable to even feel sickened by what these people had allowed themselves to become. His destination was in sight - a recently erected, putrid smelling shelter consisting of several pieces of rusted metal held together with pieces of dirty twine. He stopped just short of the temporary home. The gloom made it difficult to see inside and the stench which was coming from within was almost unbearable.
"Joni?" No reply. Well, of course not, he reflected, wryly. Why would she answer him? He had threatened to set the cops on her, hadn't he? "Joni!"
Still no answer. Not even a sound. Frowning, he drew closer. And almost gagged. The whole place reeked of something foul and decaying. The pungent aroma was almost overwhelming.
Cautiously, he stepped forward, holding his breath, then exhaled in shock at what he found within.
She lay in a pool of her own waste, obviously expelled from her body in a violent paroxysm. It had probably not been instantaneous and, from the angle in which her limbs were skewed, had been torturous. But drug users lived every day with the risk of overdosing. And that was what had happened here. Joni was quite dead.
Pulling back, Greg staggered over to a more deserted, less repulsive area of the warehouse, gagging and trying to control his reaction at the same time. It took a few moments, but eventually, he was able to get his involuntary reaction to the sights and smell under control and he sagged down against the grime-covered wall, for a moment uncaring about his surroundings. It had been inevitable, he knew. Joni had been a heroin addict for longer than he had known her and the sources from whence addicts obtained the drug were, by their very nature, less than scrupulous. The powder was often mixed with other additives to increase its amount or it would, on occasion be too pure and too strong for even the experienced user to handle. No-one seemed to care that any additions to the drug could kill the customer. After all, there was always another prospective buyer just around the corner.
It was such a waste. Another life snuffed out; the victim of an insidious world where dreams and hopes were exploited and crushed beneath the weight of a chemical substance which wasted the body and warped and destroyed the mind. Joni had deserved punishment for what she had done to the young Partridge Family singer, but she hadn't deserved this - to die a lonely, forsaken death in horrific circumstances in some foul shack. The consequences of addiction could be very high indeed. And for the second time in his life, Greg cursed aloud the dealers of death - those who peddled their narcotics to the weak-willed, the desperate, the dreamers and the unsuspecting.
Darkness had fallen like a shroud by the time he emerged from the stinking warehouse - scene of yet another wasted life. He inhaled deeply of the night air, trying in vain to rid his nostrils of the odious smell and unable to purge his mind of the images which he had left behind; images which continued to assail him as he stood below the night sky with its brilliant, twinkling constellation. He supposed he should call an ambulance - although a coroner's wagon might be more appropriate now, he mused, bitterly. He owed it - if not to Joni, who could no longer appreciate it - at least to his own conscience. He would give her a decent burial. He knew her own parents would not. They had moved on; disowning her, lavishing all their love and affection on their pet dog, who would never disappoint them the way their own flesh and blood had. A burial in a decent plot was all Greg could do for her now. It was over. Her life had been extinguished like so many others before her. It was time to get back to the living. Time to take care of those who could be saved.
The enforced inactivity was making her drowsy, however, and she yearned for sleep but was loathe to succumb, recalling what had happened last time she had allowed herself some respite. She did not want a repeat of that and so she remained where she was, staring into the drawn, pallid face, mourning at the loss of the sparkle she had always found there, missing the dimpled smile and desperate for some way to make everything better for her eldest son.
Keith returned to semi-awareness slowly and remained there, reluctant to face the world and a future made bleak by his failure to prevent what had happened. Muted voices invaded his consciousness and, despite his best intentions, he strove to listen to what they were saying, already sure of the condemnation he would hear.
He was in for a surprise. His mother's voice was audible above the rumble of traffic from the street below, the distant hum of the air conditioner and sound of his own raspy breathing.
" …Keith, honey, I don't know if you can hear me, but … oh god, I just hate seeing you this way. This is all my fault. If I hadn't let you go off to that party - if I'd only insisted that someone else go with you … but I didn't want you to think badly of me; didn't want to put a wedge between us. Now … now I think I would rather have risked driving that wedge between us rather than see you go through all this pain, all this torment. This is my fault. Your father and I brought you up right, we brought you up to respect girls - and … I know you've had a lot of girlfriends, sweetheart, but - well, you're not ready for an experienced women like Joni - especially not someone as devious as she was. Maybe that was our fault as well - perhaps we protected you kids too much. I don't know. I only know that I blame myself for this. I shouldn't have let you go - I should have done something more to protect you. It wasn't up to you - you're young - too young … oh Keith, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry … Please forgive me …"
Oh god, his mom was crying. His mom was crying - about him. He felt like bursting into tears himself. But she had it wrong. How could it possibly be her fault when he was the one who had gone to the party? He was the one who had allowed Joni to spike his drinks and he was the one who had allowed her to inject him with heroin and make out with him - even though, he recalled, hazily, he hadn't done anything to invite her to do that, hadn't actually participated - in fact, couldn't recall very much about it at all. He was beginning to feel very confused. Then he heard another voice - calming, reassuring - Reuben.
"There, there, Shirl, it's all right," the manager was saying. "It's not your fault. You weren't to know what that little jezebel was up to. No-one did. Not even Greg. Shirl, Shirl, please, don't cry. Keith will be okay, I promise. We'll make it all okay. And if anyone's to blame, then it's me. I should have looked after him better. After all, I'm the manager. I should have had these people checked out more thoroughly. The girl has a history, and no-one told us about it. If I'd been more thorough then this would never have happened and he wouldn't have to go through this. Just seeing him in this pain - well, it hurts me too. And it's unfair that he should have to go through all of this, that you should have to suffer right alongside him just because of her. Shirley, I promise - we'll find her and we'll make her pay for what she's done …"
Now Keith was even more bewildered. Reuben was blaming himself now? How many people were culpable for what had happened? And why was no-one blaming him? Surely he was the one who had allowed it all to occur? Surely he should be the one who was reprimanded, condemned and castigated? Oh god, this was all getting too complicated for him to figure out. It needed a clear head and the ability to form coherent thoughts, which he was incapable of doing at present. He felt like someone had beaten him on his skull with a hammer and it was about to split open. The pain was intense, especially on the left side and came in wave after wave, drowning out speech and thought alike. He desperately wanted something to ease the incessant and thunderous throbbing but couldn't seem to get his mouth to work or his eyes to open. Even his face ached. The dim light from the lamp on the bedside table pierced his eyelids, adding a counterpoint to the agony inside his head, and unwittingly, he groaned.
Immediately, the two adults' attention was focused on him. "Keith? Keith, honey?" his mother's voice, gentle though it was, thundered into his aching skull, sending fresh shards of agony piercing through his brain. Sound hurt his ears and he whimpered, softly, hearing his own blood pounding in his head. God, why didn't this torture stop? Why wouldn't it go away? Oh god …
Shirley bit her lip as she gently stroked Keith's arm. An effort to touch his forehead had resulted in a pitiful whimper and a feeble attempt to escape. His fine features were scrunched up in agony and every now and then, little sounds of pain would bubble from his throat, signifying to her that he was suffering immensely. "Keith?" She tried again to gain his attention. "Keith, sweetheart, where does it hurt? Can you tell me?"
It took a long time and obviously a huge effort on his part, but finally, he answered her, although she had to crouch low to hear his reply, whispered in a tortured, hesitant voice. "Head … head hurts …"
She turned to face Reuben, anguish written all over her face. The manager, however, shook his head. "I'm sorry, Shirl," he said, regretfully. "We can't risk giving him anything for the pain., With the heroin and everything, well … we don't know what it could do."
Shirley understood. She really did. It didn't make watching her son endure this new torment any easier, though. She wanted to make his pain go away, but she couldn't. Instead, all she could do was hold on firmly to his hand as he writhed around weakly on the bed. It was evident that he was in increasing agony, however, and, hesitantly, she reached to lightly touch her fingers to both temples, massaging gently. He jerked away from her slightly, wincing, but then allowed her to continue and his tortured expression cleared a little as she worked. Sighing with relief, she watched as his breathing evened out and at last exhausted sleep overcame him once more. As he slipped into morpheus's arms, she removed her hands from his face and covered her own, her shoulders drooping.
Reuben put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the tension there and swallowing hard as she trembled violently beneath his touch. "I'm sorry, Shirl," he said, apologetically. "But you know what the doctor said when we spoke to him earlier."
She nodded. The doctor had telephoned them from the hospital, checking up on Keith's condition and reassuring them that he had informed no-one of the circumstances behind his request for blood analysis. The results had not yet been returned to him but he had been concerned that his initial diagnosis had been correct and was almost relieved when Shirley had informed him of Keith's continuing pain and subsequent collapse in the shower. At least it meant that the young man was mobile, even if only barely and his body was still processing the drug. They were good signs - a fact of which he tried to assure the still fearful mother. But when she had asked if there was anything they could give her son to assuage his pain, he had told her 'no' most emphatically. "Any more drugs in his system could be enough to kill him," he had informed her, sombrely, knowing he was scaring her but needing to make the point. "The prescription I gave to Mr Kincaid is for any residual pain which might occur in two or three days time. We have to let the heroin work its way through his system completely otherwise … " he left the rest unsaid but Shirley had already got the picture and after thanking him for his concern and advice, replaced the receiver and returned to watch her son suffer.
Now, she let reaction overtake her. Reuben's solid presence was a comfort but the whole ordeal was beginning to take its toll on both of them. She longed for it to be over - not for her sake, nor Reuben's, but for Keith. Her son. Her firstborn. It was too much to ask him to endure. Too much to expect from a 17-year old whose biggest problem just yesterday had been what to wear to impress a girl for a party. And that girl … She couldn't comprehend how anyone could be so evil, so completely devoid of feeling, so utterly shameless. To knowingly put someone through this - someone so young, so inexperienced … what kind of home did she come from, anyway? What kind of upbringing had led her to do this kind of thing? It was all beyond Shirley's understanding, but now she found that she actually wanted to understand at least, rather than just wanting to kill Joni. The girl had made good her escape, however, blending into the city streets as easily as the wind. It was almost as though she had never existed - and Shirley couldn't help wishing that she didn't.
*****
Greg was hot on Joni's trail. He had made a few enquiries in what he had termed 'the seedier' side of town and now he was headed toward her last known destination. He was no stranger to the world of drugs. He had seen what addiction could do to people. It was a vicious cycle. Once someone started, it was impossible to stop, however, much they might want to. Withdrawal was hell. There was no other way to describe it, and every junkie lived only for their next 'fix'. People, places and possessions meant nothing to them any longer. The only reality in their lives became the drug and the problem of where the next shot was going to come from.
Novak had watched, helplessly, as his own brother descended into the abyss that was addiction, transforming from a bright, intelligent 23 year old to a gibbering, rake-thin wreck of a man who looked 20 years older. His death from an overdose still gave Greg nightmares. He had been the one to find the body. It had not been a pretty sight. His brother's untimely demise had forced him to take a good, hard look at his own life and occasional, recreational use of 'soft' drugs. He had been clean from that day forward and had devoted his free time since to helping others in similar situations to that of his dead sibling, which was how he had encountered Joni.
He had offered her a job to get her off the streets, promised her a new life and a chance of stability if she would stay off the drugs and had been convinced by her promises for about a week and a half. He had been rudely awakened time and time again but had continued to give her chance after chance to redeem herself. Until now. Now she had not only broken the rules, she had shattered them into a million tiny pieces. Her seduction and drugging of a minor made him furious. He would never forgive this particular transgression and although he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do when he found her, he was going to find her.
His search had taken him to the most derelict, forsaken part of town, where he strode amongst abandoned, empty-eyed wraiths. But Greg had seen it all. He was no longer shocked or appalled by the terrible waste of humanity as he searched through the dregs of society to locate anyone who had seen his wayward assistant. He simply asked the questions, listened to the answer and moved on, not bothering to offer sympathy which would not be welcomed, nor make small talk which would be ignored. His trail led him finally to a disused warehouse on the edge of town where he had heard that a number of addicts congregated. It was a 'meeting place' of sorts for the junkies of the town - a place where the drug dealers could come for a few quick sales, make some money and get out with no fuss. The police had long since abandoned any attempts to clean the place up and for every drug dealer they put away another ten or so would take their place. It was a losing battle, and it was getting worse with every passing year. The place was filthy, polluted and squalid. Large brown puddles of odorous liquid lay like blots on the grimy stone flags which comprised the floor of the old warehouse. Timorous voices called out as he passed each foul hovel, constructed from rancid smelling blankets and pieces of cardboard. Here lay the refuse of society, the waste which no-one either wanted nor cared about. This was the true underbelly of the city, where people lived and died in vile conditions, surrounded by their own filth, covered with dirt and the waste from their own bodies. They had long since stopped caring - so why should anyone else?
Greg held his breath as he stepped through the human wastage, unable to even feel sickened by what these people had allowed themselves to become. His destination was in sight - a recently erected, putrid smelling shelter consisting of several pieces of rusted metal held together with pieces of dirty twine. He stopped just short of the temporary home. The gloom made it difficult to see inside and the stench which was coming from within was almost unbearable.
"Joni?" No reply. Well, of course not, he reflected, wryly. Why would she answer him? He had threatened to set the cops on her, hadn't he? "Joni!"
Still no answer. Not even a sound. Frowning, he drew closer. And almost gagged. The whole place reeked of something foul and decaying. The pungent aroma was almost overwhelming.
Cautiously, he stepped forward, holding his breath, then exhaled in shock at what he found within.
She lay in a pool of her own waste, obviously expelled from her body in a violent paroxysm. It had probably not been instantaneous and, from the angle in which her limbs were skewed, had been torturous. But drug users lived every day with the risk of overdosing. And that was what had happened here. Joni was quite dead.
Pulling back, Greg staggered over to a more deserted, less repulsive area of the warehouse, gagging and trying to control his reaction at the same time. It took a few moments, but eventually, he was able to get his involuntary reaction to the sights and smell under control and he sagged down against the grime-covered wall, for a moment uncaring about his surroundings. It had been inevitable, he knew. Joni had been a heroin addict for longer than he had known her and the sources from whence addicts obtained the drug were, by their very nature, less than scrupulous. The powder was often mixed with other additives to increase its amount or it would, on occasion be too pure and too strong for even the experienced user to handle. No-one seemed to care that any additions to the drug could kill the customer. After all, there was always another prospective buyer just around the corner.
It was such a waste. Another life snuffed out; the victim of an insidious world where dreams and hopes were exploited and crushed beneath the weight of a chemical substance which wasted the body and warped and destroyed the mind. Joni had deserved punishment for what she had done to the young Partridge Family singer, but she hadn't deserved this - to die a lonely, forsaken death in horrific circumstances in some foul shack. The consequences of addiction could be very high indeed. And for the second time in his life, Greg cursed aloud the dealers of death - those who peddled their narcotics to the weak-willed, the desperate, the dreamers and the unsuspecting.
Darkness had fallen like a shroud by the time he emerged from the stinking warehouse - scene of yet another wasted life. He inhaled deeply of the night air, trying in vain to rid his nostrils of the odious smell and unable to purge his mind of the images which he had left behind; images which continued to assail him as he stood below the night sky with its brilliant, twinkling constellation. He supposed he should call an ambulance - although a coroner's wagon might be more appropriate now, he mused, bitterly. He owed it - if not to Joni, who could no longer appreciate it - at least to his own conscience. He would give her a decent burial. He knew her own parents would not. They had moved on; disowning her, lavishing all their love and affection on their pet dog, who would never disappoint them the way their own flesh and blood had. A burial in a decent plot was all Greg could do for her now. It was over. Her life had been extinguished like so many others before her. It was time to get back to the living. Time to take care of those who could be saved.