RICHARD GRAHAM
The morning air was thick and foggy on the Thames. It was the kind of fog that you couldn't see a few metres past, that made you seem isolated, on an island in a sea of white.
A man of around forty, but who seemed to be aged twice as much, quietly rested on a boat in the river. He twirled his medium-sized, snow-white beard like a cat pawed at its whiskers. Shuffling under his thick coat, the misty dusk air formed beads of droplets atop it, which dripped off of him from the rockings of the boat.
There was an overwhelming sense of peace and serenity. There was no need for steering, for the river was wide and had a powerful current. And the man was not able to see anything, anyway.
His name was Graham. He had sailed the waters from London to the sea for the better part of a few years, and he had only just begun to understand the river. It had a tendency to always flow in the right direction, to always show where you needed to go and what you needed to do.
The first time he had laid eyes on it was a bad day. The worst, actually. He had hobbled towards the home he had known all his life, in the city where he had lived all his life. Just a pile of rubble and charred wood. On crutches and with a piece of shrapnel in his knee, he wept openly for the first time since his formative years. He could do nothing but slowly shuffle forward from a shattered past.
London, at its core, had no heart. It was a cold city that gave no compassion to him. And so, with the last of his military stipend, he had purchased a small fishing boat, and rode the river all the way down to where it met the sea. That was the journey he made now, to the small, one-room shack that gave him a refuge from the world and its wars.
He had just passed Tilbury, visible over the horizon like a stick in the mud. So, he began to get up, and take the boat closer to shore, preparing to anchor off at the rock formation that marked his home.
Grabbing the wheel, he slowly edged the boat closer to the shore. He knew he was getting closer, as debris in the water became more and more common, scraping against the underside of his boat. Nothing would get through the plating, but it got him up and moving.
In the deep, unpierceable fog, a dark shape began to come closer to the boat. The man squinted, turning the boat slightly, attempting to get a better look. Graham's eyes widened suddenly, and he delved into the shallow bowels of his vessel for a moment. He appeared with a large net, used for trawling the bottom of the river.
Steering the boat dangerously close to the shape on the water, he stood still for a moment. Once next to the shape, he saw what he had suspected. It was a body, cold, blue, and seemingly lifeless. It gripped, perhaps by rigor mortis, to a large branch, keeping it afloat above the water.
Graham drew the net over the body, heaving it with a few heavy breaths into the boat. For a moment, it seemed he would lose his grip and the body would be returned to its previous keeper, yet he prevailed. It fell upon the deck with a morbid THUNK.
Upon closer inspection, the body was of a boy, who could not have been more than ten years old. It was cold and pale, with roughly severed fingers on its left hand, and legs that bent outwards in the wrong direction. The feet appeared bloated and purple, with open sores oozing liquid. Shredded linens were the only things covering the myriad ice burns on his body and extremities.
He took a moment to take in the grotesque scene before him, the serenity of the river now broken. If Graham had lived a kinder life, he would have assumed the boy died of the cold, and was set upon by animals. But he had not.
These injuries were deliberate, done carefully and to cause pain. There were deep blue bruises on the boy's shoulders, indicating he was held down. His legs looked as if they were crushed under a massive weight, unlikely in any English forest. And lastly, an animal would have eaten the body, or given the boy a quick death. This was the work of a sadistic monster.
How did he get in the river, though?
Graham clutched the cross he kept around his neck, making a silent prayer for the boy. He would find peace in God's light. Or, perhaps God would put the animal that had done this in Graham's path.
The man bent down, kneeling and cupping the boy's head. The twisting and turning of the boat escaped the man's mind, bringing the two up and down upon the river, as if both were breathing in tandem. Graham felt a connection with the boy. He had obviously fought long and hard for his life, only for it to seep away from him by the cold of the river. Graham knew very well the struggle for survival, and the lengths human beings can go to for their own lives.
Pausing for a moment, the man thought he felt a movement come from the lifeless body.
Graham startled, bringing two fingers to the boy's neck. The echo of a remarkably slow and weak pulse remained.
The boy was still alive.
Gripping the steering wheel on the starboard side, he moved toward the shore with alarming speed. Adjusting the speed of the boat, he grabbed several blankets and piled them atop the boy, placing him in his chair. He then placed his jacket on the boy's face.
He looked like a madman, stumbling around the boat and gathering his fishing equipment and bags, in just his undergarments. He nearly fell over as the boat rammed into his home's dock with alarming speed. Dropping the anchor, Graham unloaded everything he needed off of it, before rushing back to bring the boy inside his cabin.
It was a one-room fishing shack that the old man had furnished and repurposed. Out front was a small vegetable garden, now crusted over with frost. The two windows were sealed and closed, and the door was insulated. He fumbled with his keys before entering.
Inside, the old man laid the boy atop his bed, with its creaky frame and wool blanket. He grabbed a few pieces of firewood from the pile outside, and began lighting the stove in the corner. As he lit the match above the tinder, he could not help but wonder how the boy had survived. He had obviously been in the river for a while, and even a few minutes in the water was enough to freeze a grown man to their core. He took a pot and filled it with clean snow, placing it atop the stove.
Graham then held the boy in front of the open stove, sitting down with him, pressing against the boy's back. Outside, he could hear the small pitter-patter of rain, which quickly gave way to a torrential downpour.
Reaching for bandages and tape, he slowly held the boy in front of him. Thus, Graham began the long work of cleaning his wounds with hot water, and then patching them up.
He kept as still as possible, trying to work while feeling the annoying drops of water on his head from the roof leak he had forgotten to fix. It's going to be a long night, he thought.
—
THE DISPLACED
The boy's waking was not an instantaneous thing. It wasn't like in the movies he had seen, where the character would suddenly get back up and start fighting immediately after getting knocked out.
His awareness slowly, incrementally, came back to him. The entire time after the river had felt like dreamless sleep, hanging over the edge of the abyss as he grew colder and colder. It was painless.
No, not painless. That implied contentment. It was more…numbed.
But now, as he could feel, pain exploded from every part of his body. It felt like his skin was sloughing off, as if someone was peeling him like a vegetable, and then salting every wound that was made. At the same time, his senses told him nothing. It was just formless pain.
It was unbearable, but the boy could not react. Focusing on anything only made him more tired, so he just tried to go back into that dreamless sleep.
But what stopped him was the smell. He could smell sweat, grime and smoke, mixed with pine. As he took a deep breath, the feeling of going back to sleep left him for a while. So he continued on like that, just trying to breathe in and out, shakily due to the pain.
One breath led to another, as feeling slowly returned to his mouth and tongue, it spread from there. After what felt like ages of time, he could feel his neck and chest, raw and riddled with slight spots of pain. It felt like he was being held aloft at his back, and he could feel a burning warmth in front of him. The boy could also hear and feel the pumping of blood in his ears, and taste the dryness of his mouth.
His eyes were glued shut. No matter how much he tried to, they would not open for any reason. His arms and legs also felt useless.
He needed to communicate something. To prove to the world and himself that he wasn't dead, that his time in that hellish forest had not been for naught.
Fingers felt like they weren't there, just like the toes and feet. A profound weakness encompassed his body.
Presented with no other choice, the boy attempted to make a sound. The first attempt, it died in his throat, and was so tiring that he couldn't try again for a few minutes. He moistened his mouth, even as his tongue felt like a hunk of dead flesh. The second time, the boy grunted a cracked, high-pitched noise.
The hand keeping him aloft unceremoniously fell backwards, and the boy's body was caught just before it hit the ground. The small disturbance felt like a head-on car crash, amplifying the already intolerable experience several times over. Whoever held him had obviously been startled.
Propped back up, the lad had several boiled towelettes held against his back. Then, the jacket was draped over him, and the comforting presence of another person surrounded him. Big, obviously bigger than he was. It gave him a sense of safety, to be away from the wilderness, in civilization's warm embrace. Peace and serenity filled his mind.
But he had never been one for sitting still and lying down. Putting forth a momentous effort, the boy let out little grunts and squeaks, though no coherent word.
He shivered, trying to stretch his muscles. Fingers were able to twitch slightly. His feet were right in front of the fire, and felt like they were being pierced with burning needles.
His recovery would be a slow, brutal fight.
—
RICHARD GRAHAM
The boy seemed to be fighting. Sleeping a lot, but not dying. That was good. A few sounds, a few movements. It signaled to the man that he may yet live.
While he surrounded the boy for almost an hour, he had to drop him to the ground to do other things. Graham piled up blankets and clothes around him, to create a barrier between the air and his skin.
Then, he brought a stool over. Sitting in front of the crackling stove, he coaxed the boy's left arm out. As the man turned it around to examine it, he tutted like an old lady. He would need the medkit for this.
Graham had been a medic in the war. He had studied hard for it, and his mother always told him he could've been a doctor. "You're so smart, Dick! You're gonna do great things", she used to say.
Well, now she was dead. Cancer, it was. He was deployed too, so he never had a chance to say goodbye. That loss had left a hole inside him that he feared would never fill. He had always tried to help those who could not help themselves, in her memory.
He had fractures in both legs, thankfully none breaking the skin, outside of his ability to stabilize. Taking two pairs of straight wood on each leg, he formed makeshift splints to keep the tibias and fibulas straight. If the boy was lucky, they would heal properly, without requiring re-breaking.
Graham continued to bandage up the boy's wounds. The fingers were salvageable, no gangrene. The toes were a different story, though. Very hot, deoxygenated blood accumulated underneath Dead skin was visible on their surface, and if infection took hold, those toes would have to be removed. The rest of the foot wasn't much better, with several layers of flesh worn away by force. Poor kid, Graham thought. He was probably running for his life.
Well, at least the boy was asleep for this.
For more than an hour, Graham just sat there, listening to the fire, tending to scrapes and cuts, ice burns and blisters. It was oddly peaceful, and he felt ashamed to enjoy this as an opportunity to do something that appealed to his meticulous nature. It was evident if you looked in the cabin, everything stacked, stored, and put away clean and nice. He was still empathetic to the boy's plight, of course.
Suddenly, the boy uttered a word. A short, raspy squeak. It sounded accented to Graham's ears, but he could be mistaken in his age. "Water."
Rushing to fulfill the child's request, Graham was overjoyed at his activity. For the first time in a long time, a sense of optimism filled the man.
—
For another day, the boy uttered not a single word. He shifted sometimes, and sometimes stared at Graham with half-lidded, weak eyes. He brought water to the child regularly, only leaving him alone for intervals of, at most, half an hour. This was to get water to boil, chop more firewood, or to get preserved supplies from the crawlspace under his cabin.
Any other time, the man was comfortable sitting at the fire with the child snuggled up next to him. They would nap, or Graham would pull out one of his few books that he had read many times over. He would read them once again, aloud. No children's books, just survival manuals. From the boy's stirring, he gathered that he was particularly interested with the ones about hunting. Graham thought they were rather dry, but to each their own.
The nights were much more dramatic. More than once, Graham had awoken to hysterical screaming. The boy would spasm and fit on his small bed, moved from the fireplace, while the man soothed him from his spot on the ground.
"He's not here, he won't hurt you," Graham soothed. He guessed the bastard who caused the lad's injuries was coming back to him in nightmares. He had had a fair few himself. Still had them, in fact. But there was no chance of anyone getting in the cabin without Graham's say-so. The hunting rifle hung on the wall attested to that.
After a few minutes, the cabin would fall silent, as the boy's night terrors ceased. Graham never went back to sleep after them, though. He just started his day early.
Their days continued on like this, in a contented, if not comfortable routine. Snow piled up around the cabin's thick windows with the boy's first attempt to walk.
The sores on his feet had long since scabbed over, but his right little toe had been sacrificed to prevent the onset of infection. Graham, however, considered it a better outcome than he had seen elsewhere. Good friends of his had died from shallow cuts, which eventually swelled with pus and gangrene in the absence of medical supplies.
The boy's legs strengthened, as he placed occasional weight on them to speed up the process. An old medic trick that Graham knew.
The man stood at one side of the cabin, while the kid stood at the other side, supporting himself with the rickety bed.
"Come on, lad! You can do it."
One shaky foot in front of another, the boy shambled slowly. It reminded Graham of walking on slippery ice, or a newborn fawn attempting to trot after its mother. There was a slight instability in his right foot, due to the missing toe, which he would have to compensate for. Other issues were just due to muscle weakness, and would improve with physical activity.
By the time he got to the end of the bed, Graham gave him a smile, and offered him some dry crackers.
That was another thing about the boy. In his recovery, he had a voracious appetite.
Even after achieving this feat, he still never said more than a word at a time. He probably could, if he wanted to. Was it shyness? Caution? Apathy? Graham did not know.
He knew the boy was deeply hurt, and would be for a very long time, though.
—
THE DISPLACED
The boy wasn't sure what to think of Richard Graham.
He seemed a good man. As he recovered, he was always there with a helping hand, or a kind word. Sometimes, though, he caught the old man on the porch outside, in the middle of the night. He peered at him through the window, and Graham always looked far into the distance, in complete silence.
He would liken it to a thousand-yard stare. The boy remained cautious, but still enjoyed the man's kind demeanor.
Though, that was probably because, for whatever reason, he had become a child now. The boy distinctly remembered being an adult, and graduating from highschool, so that didn't add up. His memories were foggy, and slipped out of his reach like water through his fingers.
Panic gripped him the first few days, but the usual sadness of losing your friends, family and life was dulled. Hard to miss them if you don't remember their names or faces.
Same with his name. He couldn't remember it, and was too tired to think of alternatives. Graham would have just called him 'lad' either way, he thought.
As he gained more mobility, the boy helped around the cabin more and more. Sometimes he cleaned and dusted. He swept the immediate front of the cabin for snow, if he was feeling up to it. He was never allowed, and agreed with the rule of moving no more than a few feet from the cabin. He still wasn't fully healed, and any injury would set him back months.
He dressed in some of Graham's clothes that were tied with string to be tighter. The clothes he had on him before were, apparently, missing.
He noticed that there was no electricity, with all heat coming from the small wood stove, and a gas lamp that Graham told him was for emergencies.
The boat was the only viable method of transport, as they were out more than a day's hike from any city. It had a gas-powered engine, and looked a day away from collapsing. However, Graham attested to its reliability, and as soon as the boy was back to full health, they would go to the nearest city to bring him to the authorities.
The boy thought that Graham was underestimating his ability, or just simply wanted to have him around for longer. He could probably make the trip right now.
Conditions on the river had continually worsened throughout the winter, though. The current grew, snow piled, and the cold bit like never before.
"I've only ever seen a colder year when I was a wee lad. '23, or '22 it was. I remember, we used to wet our hands, stick them on a metal pole, and see who could last the longest." Graham spoke with nostalgia in his voice, as he sat on a stool and looked at the torrent of snow outside.
The boy responded, "The twenties? How long ago was that?"
Graham stared at him. That was the first time he had said more than a single word at once. The absence of a British accent seemed to have caught him off-guard.
"You're…American?"
"No, Canadian."
There was a brief pause in the conversation. Graham clearly didn't expect this, but he seemed eager to make the kid talk more. It would be good for him to come out of his shell.
"Well now, that's interesting. I've never been. D'you remember how you came here?"
"No. Can you please tell me what year it is?" The snippiness in his voice put the man off-balance.
Graham paused for a moment. "1967."
It felt like the breath was knocked out of him. He had time traveled too?!
The boy took a few moments to compose himself, staring at the ground, the reflection of the fire glistening in his eyes. Graham watched him intently, probing for a reaction.
"Why's that matter to you? D'you remember a different year?"
The boy responded, "No."
Back to the one-word answers, that night devolved into uncomfortable silence, as countless thoughts flitted across the boy's head.
What should he do? He was somewhere he shouldn't be. Somewhen I shouldn't be, he chuckled to himself. Was he just supposed to discard his old life, live a new one? Leave behind all those he could remember caring about?
The boy also shuddered, considering his first night in 'this world'. The monster that chased him seemed like some kind of werewolf. He briefly considered the possibility of becoming a werewolf himself, before brushing it off. He had already been through one full moon. The whole night he got no sleep, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw blue and white. It was unpleasant, to say the least.
The boy shifted uncomfortably under the covers, somehow feeling Graham's burning gaze through them. The man was as suspicious and meticulous as he was, and would notice anything amiss.
But again to the matter at hand: What should he do with this new life given to him?
He could stay with Graham for now. The man seemed stable, and would not be disturbed by his presence, if he pulled his fair share of the weight. He also owed him his life, which bugged at the back of the boy's mind. He didn't like owing anyone anything. It irked him to be beholden to others.
But that did not matter. So it was decided: he would stay with Graham as long as he would have him. And after that, he would figure something out. He rubbed the stumps on his left hand as he thought, attempting to alleviate the phantom pain.
For the rest of the night, the boy carefully avoided thinking about the events of his first night. And, eventually, drifted off into a fitful sleep.
—
By the time the snow melted, the boy was moving good as new. No complications in leg healing. He had several scars from frostbite around his body that wouldn't heal, though. The only visible one in clothing was a red, striated coloration along his fingers, and up his wrist. His foot had the same thing, but was usually covered. Other than that, he missed three fingers and a toe, luckily, on the non-dominant hand.
He helped cut firewood, fed the fire, and maintained the fence surrounding the perimeter (with instruction). Various menial chores were left to his hand, when Graham left for some reason or another. Hunting, fishing, or even gathering tea supplies.
Yes, the old man was a very avid fan of tea, quite the Briton. Pine needles, wild chamomile and the like.
One time, Graham brought home a whole deer, and taught him, step-by-step, how to cut apart the body and meat into edible slices. He even taught him how to preserve the meat, with a convenient sack of salt.
This routine of carving animals up continued, with fish, grouse, and other small animals. It was news to the boy, whose memories lined up with an urban existence.
This calming routine, undisturbed by the horrors of his mind, and the uncertainty of the night, were very enjoyable. Normally a highly strung person, these months put him at ease like no other method would accomplish. Who knew a natural, conflict-free existence would be so beneficial?
Graham proved a very competent conversationalist, who relished talking to someone that was not himself. He seemed to always be gunning for a laugh, and frequently told stories. In the day, they were happy childhood memories. In the night, the war.
But alas, this humble existence could not last for long. Spring was well and truly underway by the time the boy joined Graham on their first expedition to the city.
Jumping in the rickety boat, a sense of unease gripped the boy for the first time in a while. He would have been content with ignoring the outside world, but one always had to return to reality.
Even unwillingly.
—
It was a bit much to call Tilbury a city. A medium-sized town was more like it.
It was like a brown growth on the green English countryside, crawling alongside the Thames. The boy noticed this resemblance as they parked (do you park boats?) at the appropriately large dock. Many other fishers accompanied them, with the sea just over the horizon. However, these ships were significantly larger than Graham's, clearly meant for lobster, tuna, or shrimp. He spied a few fishermen, frustratedly cleaning barnacles off of their ship's hull.
The houses he could see were small, tall, with plumes of smoke coming out of them. The ones closest to the dock looked old, made out of wood, with small patches of brown foliage belying the seasonal change. Shifty-eyed, school-aged children lurked around outside, not meeting the boy's stare. In between these lines of townhouses were large warehouses, storing machinery, lumber, or some raw material. The fences were rusted, with many holes and bends in them, not really protecting anything. Whatever industry used these was having a hard time.
Graham motioned for him to come out of the boat. Taking his strong, calloused hand, the boy jumped onto the sidewalk, letting out a small smile at his agility, before Graham could see.
Both grabbing knapsacks, they left the boat locked and waiting.
The cobblestones were smooth and rounded under the boy's feet, as if no car had ever driven atop them. The streets seemed ill-suited as well, thin and winding as they were. The houses got newer as they walked, with power lines more visible, yet no cleaner. The whole city had a griminess that was wholly different from the one of the forest.
"What do we need to buy?" the boy asked.
"Things. Salt, sugar, spices, honey. Lotsa things." Graham scratched his beard as he talked.
"Can I get a new book?"
Graham looked down at him. The boy had a dazzling, sugary-sweet smile on his face. Completely out of character, but serving a necessary purpose.
His companion looked taken aback, but seemed happy at his appearance. But was he a little…suspicious?
"Fine, here, go pick something you like, you little bastard." Graham smiled as he talked, handing the boy a couple of coins. Pence, they were called?
He didn't know how British money worked, but he would have to figure it out. Hurriedly, he walked away in front of Graham, not meeting the man's eyes.
—
The boy walked a few metres in front of Graham, as they walked through one of the town's marketplaces. Vendors sold preserved foods, wild game, meat from farm animals, and various trinkets.
His ratty, too-large clothing was a brief matter of worry to him. He blended in perfectly, however, among the happy, exciteful children running around. Well, he was a bit quieter. And moved more slowly. And was less happy.
A few more minutes, and they had reached a main street, with the odd car driving around. Small, local stores selling every type of knickknack lined their path. Graham watched the boy until he got to the bookstore, with a promise given to stay in one place. He doubled back, heading to the previous vendors, going to take pleasure in the haggling and deals.
Meanwhile, the boy stared upwards. The label atop the aging, cracked wooden sign was Milford's Books and Stationery. Inside, behind dusty, fogged windows was a treasure trove of written materials, with an absolutely ancient man at a long oak desk, in the back.
Walking inside, a little bell rang to signal his entry.
Not even bothering to check the shelves, he walked up to the front desk.
After all, the point of this excursion was not to read, but for justice. For vengeance. For the sleeplessness that cursed him. Nightmares of blue eyes, white snow, and full moons.
"Excuse me sir, I would like to ask if you have any books on the hunting of wolves?" The boy thought it would be useful to get to the point.
The eponymous Milford blinked, fixing his thick glasses, looking down at the small, blurry form in front of his desk.
"Oh, so polite! I'd be happy to help, but tell me: Why does a little boy like you need to know about things like that?"
The boy put on his best, highest, cutest voice to get what he wanted. What came out was more of a squeak, but still adorable: "My dad said that I can get one good book. But I wanted one about wolves. He likes hunting, so if I can get a book on wolf hunting, maybe he'll let me keep it!"
Sugary smile, please don't call me out, give me this, come on.
The boy had practiced this routine under his covers, to the tune of Graham's snores. It was disturbing, whispering under his sheets, pretending to be someone who he wasn't.
The elder man reached down to ruffle his hair. Deception achieved, the boy waited while Milford walked to the back of the store.
A minute later, he went back up to the counter.
"I haven't touched this book in years! Why, I only ever hunted wolves in America. Of course, there are none in England, so-"
The man babbled on, and the boy pretended to listen on with rapt attention, eyes wide. This was probably the actual cost of buying the book. Listening to a boring story.
However, his mind wavered. Staring out into the crowds of people walking along the street, a brief sense of boredom filled the boy. A reprieve from the cold-hearted emptiness that permeated his existence.
That was, until, he noticed a man.
The man was rather old, even older than Milford. He had a knee-length white beard, and a wizened, grandfatherly appearance.
The first strange thing was that he was stopped in the middle of the street. No heed was paid to the bystanders, who seemed to just walk by him, completely unperturbed.
The second strange thing was his clothes. A wild, purple and silver bath robe cloaked his form. In his beard were several pink ribbons. Atop his head, a green cabbie hat. He looked like a character straight from a cartoon. And no one was paying him any attention! He stuck out like a sore thumb, in the sea of tan greens, light browns and blacks that streamed around him.
The last strange thing was that he was staring directly at the boy.
And in his sockets, were two blue, blue eyes.
Unconsciously jumping back, the boy banged on the counter. His gaze fixed, he only stared up at the old bookkeeper when he touched his shoulder, clearly miffed at his story being interrupted.
When the boy looked back, the old man in the street was gone.
Internally freaking out, the boy made excuses. In a rush to leave, he said his father was expecting him, lunch was soon, and such bullshit. As the old man's words barely began to come out, the money was already in the hand which once held the book. The door was left open, the humid spring air flowing in.
Milford kept the change.
—
The boy ran through the streets, eager to get back to Graham.
However, they had not walked here in a straight line.
In his panic, he took a wrong left. Then a wrong right. And then he was lost.
The streets looked rougher and rougher, with missing cobblestones and deep, water-filled potholes. So did the people, in fact. Men stood on corners in the middle of the day, drinks or smokes in hand. No children were around, and the odd house was clearly abandoned, with smashed windows and open doors.
The boy's pace quickened into a run as he looked behind him frantically, expecting to see a pursuer. His mind kept telling him that. The monster was back, it was back, and it was coming to finish what it started.
The strange men's faces bloomed into fanged facsimiles, and the street was no longer a street. Trees burst out of the cracked pavement, and the sun was blotted out by dark, grey clouds. Foliage grew denser and denser, choking the breath out of the boy's lungs. The sounds of the city turned to muted silence. He could hear the clawing, the gnashing of teeth, the-
The boy ran up against a wall, deep in a dead-end alleyway. His surroundings kept changing, and he breathed like a nearly-drowned man. The white at the edges of his vision seemed like snow, covering all he could see in a thick blanket. The boy's heart raced, cowering like a scared prey animal.
He heard someone walking at the end of the alleyway.
A youth, scruffy, with hungry-looking eyes, and ragged clothing. In his right hand, he held a small metal shiv, made out of a piece of sharp metal.
The boy's eyes were fixed on the weapon, interpreting it as a metallic claw. Screaming filled the air, momentarily stopping the mugger. It was disturbing, filled with terror, pain, and anguish.
The boy's head pounded in panic and agony, as the youth approached. He doubled over, clutching his head in agony. It felt like a stroke, like his skull would explode.
When the mugger was three metres away, looming with imagined blue eyes and white fur, the boy's screams reached a crescendo. They morphed in his own ears, deepening in timbre, growing in intensity, like a vicious roar.
Blood flowed from his nose, ears, eyes. The only thing that seemed to exist was the pain in his skull. The monster approaching him reared back, surprised at something.
He closed his eyes.
—
He opened his eyes.
To be back in the middle of a busy street in the daylight.
People walked around, oblivious of him, of his panic. The boy's breathing slowed as he wallowed in the safety of the crowd. He could disappear, nobody could follow him.
Suddenly, someone grabbed his hand.
"What're you doing?!" the man yelled, with obvious worry and anger in his voice.'
He didn't recognize him at first, that shaken he was. Graham noticed this, his emotions melting away, to be replaced with care and concern.
The boy just stared up at him, not saying a word. Tears welled up in his eyes, drawing clear liquid over the scarlet residue on his face. The man moved forward, rushing to rub the blood off with his foul-smelling mitts. This did not bother the boy.
He sobbed into his smoky coat, fear and anger coming out in undignified gasps, hiccups and wails. No explanation or words were given about his plight, and Graham's experience in the extremes of anger and violence kept him steady, like a wall the boy leaned on.
Graham picked him up, his head buried at his breast. Soft whimpering filled the now-quiet square, as nearly a hundred pairs of eyes lingeried on their backs.
Only the blue pair, buried in the crowd, truly understood what had happened.
—