Author's notes: You know, the more reviews the merrier! No, really, the more reviews I get the quicker I update because then I know that a lot of readers are requesting an update.

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MangekyoMasta510: I couldn't believe how fast you reviewed! It made me so happy I wrote this chapter. So this one's for you.

Black Seconds

Doctor Gero Number was born in 1929 and he still drove a car. He had to get his eyes tested every year and he always passed with flying colours. He had the vision of a hawk. No bird from the other side of the rode escaped his attention, no plush, not even a crumb. But his hearing was worse. Because he had never had the tendency to listen carefully, he barely noticed. He put the cleaning supplies in the back of his car and went on his way to his son. That son, he thought, for there was no hope for him. When he had still been young he had envisioned a daughter. But that wish didn't come true. He only got a hot-spirited, screaming boy. His mother died when Number Sixteen was seven years old. The shock of him becoming a father to something he didn't understand, kept him from finding a new wife or father more children. But all in all, it was his son. And he wasn't the kind of man to neglect his plight. The people didn't need to think that he was an untrustworthy man. That's why he went to Sixteen's house every week to take care of him. For his furniture and clothes. He kept his distance by talking constantly, while his gaze was fixed on a spot about five inches above his big head. He didn't get an answer anyway. Now he was thinking about the telephone conversation. He had been put out by something and he felt a vague feeling of worry creep up on him when he drove into another street. Because he hated any feeling of sentimentality this feeling quickly turned into anger.
If Sixteen had gotten himself into trouble, he would have to pull it out of him and clean the mess. Forty years or more he had waited for it. That something would happen. He had prepared himself for it. He hated tears, despair and sadness, anything that could make thoughtful, adult people change into soft and weak-hearted creatures. If that happened, he became unsure. His heart was closed of by an almost completely petrified fleece, but inside it could rage uncontrollably, even if his eyes remained dry. He didn't hope anymore, not on anything, except for death. He had friends, but they weren't close. They were a wailing wall which he used and he let himself be used also. He smiled sometimes, but that was most often out of contempt. He liked being ready for others, like with his neighbour Margotte with her broken hipbone, but always with a martyr's face. And yet, when he finally went to bed in the evening, he thought about everybody who couldn't do the same thing as he could. Then he couldn't sleep because he thought about Margottes leg that hurt.
Now he worried about Sixteen. He said no. He always said that, but he knew his son well enough to suspect that something had happened. Deep inside he thought his son could talk just fine. That he just refused to. He never said that aloud against somebody, they wouldn't believe it anyway, and he took it as a personal insult that Sixteen had chosen the silence. If he might be stupid or not, he didn't busy himself with that notion. He didn't have the strength anymore to be amazed by Sixteen. He was Number Sixteen and he was used to him. He remembered that he would soon be burried in a couple of years and that Sixteen would patter around his house and that everything would grow above his head. In his mind he saw how the grass and weeds zoomed from underneath the tiles in the kitchen. Maybe he would be lucky and the city would appoint him a nurse. If someone dared to get close to the gruff man. He shivered and assessed that it was already September and that the windows would have to be patched before the frost set in. Otherwise he could also add a few drops of spirit into the water. For these kind of things Gero always had a solution. He drove up the lane to the house and stepped out.
Opening the backdoor he pulled out the cleaning supplies. Then he walked to Sixteen's door. It was locked. A shiver of irritation went through his tough body and he began pounding on the window, so hard it almost broke.

'Come on Sixteen!' he yelled angrily. 'I'm not in the mood for games. You're not the only one who needs my help!'

It was deadly quiet in the house. He listened and knocked a couple of times on the door. He was driven solely by anger when he put down the cleaning supplies and walked back to the car. He had to be difficult and turn his back on his own father, that was fine, he was prepared for everything. Of course he himself also had a key of his son's house. It lay in his glove compartment and he went to get it right now. Resolutely he put the key in the lock. Or rather, half way in. There was something stuck in the keyhole. He stood dumbfounded on the porch, while he tried to push the key into the hole with all his might. It didn't work. Meanwhile it was also difficult to pull him out again. What in Dende's name was he doing? He had put something in the hole, the key stayed stuck. His face became red of anger and the fear began travelling through his body. It started in his abdomen and sooner or later it would reach his stoned heart.
He ran down the stairs, tumbled a wooden crate and put it underneath the kitchen window. He climbed unto it. The kitchen was empty, but there was light on. He moved the crate to the other window, to his bedroom. There the drapes were closed. There wasn't even a single crack through which he could peer. He walked back to the front porch and looked at the three-wheeler. As usual it stood, covered by sail cloth. He was home, then. Sixteen never went somewhere by foot, he felt vulnerable then. People could halt him and say something to him or ask him something. For the third and last time he knocked hard on the door. Finally he gave up. He left the crate behind, went back to his car and pressed the horn. But then he reminded himself of how Sixteen had neighbours and they might come and see what that noise was all about. He stared at the kitchen's drapes but his son didn't show himself. Gero's patience had run out. He stepped out and ran to the garage. Searched for tools but didn't find anything useful. Finally he drove back home, where he walked in stamping, right to the telephone.

On the moment he heard the ringtone, something happened in his chest. His heart constricted. Maybe he had fallen from the basement stairs. Maybe he lay down there on the floor and it was over with him. He was very heavy. No, that's nonsense, he thought. There was something in the keyhole. He has locked me out. Then the phone was answered. He never said something, only picked up the phone and waited for the mealstorm of words to begin. No one else phoned Sixteen.
When he picked up, he felt the relief pour through his body like warm water. Then he put his anger back on the front and he was back on familiar territory. He almost threatened his son. He had to clean up!

'You have to understand that Sixteen!'

Filth and dust, lines in the washing table, crumbs on the floor, it were just demons that pulled and pushed him, and he didn't have any rest at night unless he had cleaned them up. He couldn't sleep at night if his windows were dirty. He couldn't think clearly when the couch lay full with chips crumbs.

'Now you open up!' he yelled in the horn. 'I'm not liking this game! You have to thank me you are not in a home. Go outside and get that junk from the keyhole. I'll leave now. I'm there in five minutes and then you'll open!'

'No!' yelled Sixteen.

He hung up. Gero stood listening for a while to the silence on the other end. Then he ran outside. His sturdy shoes clattered over the parquet. It was a question of not weakening, not go sit and think. Just do, do! Getting the things done, it said deep inside himself. Further, further, until the end, that's where we all go.

In the garage he managed to find a crowbar. Afterwards he drove to Sixteen's house. Now he stood on the porch, his back curled, with a hammer in his hand. He put the crowbar in the crack between the door and its jamb and started hitting on it with the hammer. Gero was strong and wood was weak and old. When the crowbar had sunk in a couple of inches, he started to wiggle and turn it. The sweat was streaming of his face. He thought that one of the neighbours might see him and he didn't feel comfortable, but he couldn't stop. Now he heard his son inside, he ran around and threw with the doors. His head pounded. Suddenly the door began creaking enormously. The door opened. He let the crowbar go, it landed with a hard rinkling thud on the porch. Then he went inside.

Sixteen stood in the kitchen, his arms were held beside his body. He tried to read his son's mind, but it didn't work. He stayed silent. That didn't happen very often. They both stared at each other a long while.

'Tell me now what's going on,' he said, unusually soft for his nature.

Sixteen turned his back on him. He walked to the counter and found the bag of pindas. Taking one out of it and breaking it in half. Examined the content. His father took a step. He pulled the bag from his hands and laid it on the counter.

'I know something happened,' he said, louder now. He turned around and went inside the room. There he stood still, confused.

'What is the meaning of this?' he yelled. 'Are you sleeping on the couch now? And you haven't aired in days.'

His eyes flitted through the room, his pale irisses emitted a big worry.

'This is horrible,' he said. 'You can't let the left overs stay in the bin, you have to empty it every day, otherwise it will start to stink in a matter of hours. I have told you so countless of times. And there are also a lot of flies attracted to it, if you don't watch out! And how much junk can the bird create! You have to vacuum underneath the cage at least a couple of times a day. Is it that long ago that you have refreshed the papers on the bottom? Is that the reason why it smells so bad?'

He stared at the bedroom door. He didn't know why, but a big fear pushed him towards it. Step by step. His gaze shifted to the covers on the couch and back to the bedroom door. Sixteen followed him with fearful eyes. He stood at the door a while, listening. No sound could be heard from inside the door. He pushed down the door handle. The door didn't budge. His head started pounding again. His fear grew. It was because of that stench, so piercing and wonderful, so disgusting and sweet. He put down his fear and his anger dominated again. He ran outside and grabbed the corwbar from the porch, then he ran back inside.

Sixteen pressed himself against the wall. He was also afraid. He started to scull again, to hammer and to hit. With each hit a shockwave went through Sixteen's heavy body. This door was more difficult to break open than the outside door. The resistance of the wood made him crazy. Sixteen cowered. When the door finally slammed open, he closed his eyes and put his hand over both his ears. Doctor Gero went inside the room. There he kept standing, petrified.

Author's notes: Uh oh... This is kind of a cliff hanger.

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