The cobblestones were lit by the street light’s misty rays – the smog wrapped itself around the streets of London, as Dr. Devon walked briskly across the road, indifferent to his surroundings. He was not to realise a person moving quickly behind him, for he was deaf to the ways of the world. He looked up at the sky, and found suddenly that not even street lights lit his vision, as he collapsed against the brick road. - “Friends, I know you are all impatiently awaiting my wife’s excellent cooking, but it is paramount that Dr. Devon is with us before we start supper. After all, he is to blame for the wellness of my wife and our little boy.” The small crowd of seven murmured their agreement and Mrs. Sheffield laughed gently, as Baron Sheffield walked towards the front door in response to a soft knock. “Jordan! Welcome, friend, thank you for coming to celebrate our good news with us!” the Baron grinned, motioning for him to enter. “Thank you, Baron. I must apologise for Dr. Devon; he had contacted me just an hour prior and said he was unwell and that he couldn’t attend the celebration.” Jordan smiled wanly, entered and hung his coat next to the half-dozen coats in the foyer. “Oh, I see.” the Baron appeared crestfallen. “Well, after this supper, I would be indebted to you if you could pass on a dish to his house, just as a token of appreciation.” “Not a problem.” Jordan smiled, and entered the cloud of small talk and conversation. The Baron thought hard. It was not every day that Dr. Devon was unwell; although he was past his peak and his hair had lost colour, he was always present at his surgery, and appeared, disregarding his age, to be a fit and healthy man. Perhaps it was the air. He noted the London air was getting rather thick; maybe little Brian would be better off attending a countryside preparatory boarding school; he could get some discipline and backbone, as well as some fresh air. He drifted back to the issue of Dr. Devon, and then decided not to think anymore of it; after all, why would it be not possible that he would be sick today? It was stupendous to think he was well for every waking hour of his life, so with that thought, the Baron returned to the celebrations. - Daylight broke and the shadows on Sheffield House scattered away. Sheffield blinked, twice. And glanced over at his peacefully sleeping wife; she must have woken up a few hours ago to check up on Brian, Sheffield thought. He decided not to wake her up, and fluidly got out of their bed. He tiptoed out to their ensuite to brush his teeth, when he heard a faint knock on their door. Blasted. Who could that be, knocking on our door at such an inappropriate time? He silently opened the door, descended down the staircase and opened the door, to be greeted by Jordan. “Well, good morning Jordan. What brings you here?” Sheffield greeted. “Baron, it appears Dr. Devon is not at home. I came here to return the dish you requested me to deliver to him.” Jordan produced the ceramic dish filled with roast stuffed turkey. “Oh, that’s odd. Thank you, Jordan.” Sheffield reached out to take in the dish, and then mused for a moment. “I wonder, I wonder. Not at home, you say? Maybe he was in a deep slumber...” “Hmm that’s possible, Baron. I guess he must still be sleeping, considering he’s not well and all.” “Alright. Well thank you again from dropping by, Jordan. Goodbye.” “Good morning, Baron.” Jordan tipped his hat, and walked promptly back towards his home. Sheffield made his way to the back of the house where he found Sharon. “Good morning Sharon. Listen, I’d like you to put this dish in the refrigerator. I think it has run out of ice though, you will probably need to get Mr. Williams to fill it back up. Oh, by any chance, where were you yesterday night?” Sheffield passed the dish to Sharon as she stopped nursing Brian. “Good morning, Baron. Well, yesterday I felt a bit adventurous, so I went cycling through the streets.” The Baron looked up incredulously. “Cycling? In the streets of London? At night? Are you daft, woman?” Sharon shrugged. “It was rather good fun. I met a few people walking around at night; there were Mr and Mrs. Davidson, enjoying some of the night smog, I presume.” Sharon grinned. “And the twins of Mrs. Ginger; I think they were setting up some fireworks. Oh, and I saw Dr. Devon. He was out walking too.” Sheffield raised his eyebrows. “Dr. Devon? Walking at night? Really. Did he walk something strange?” “Oh not at all. He looked fine. I passed by him quite closely; I think he got a little of a shock, because he seemed a bit deaf. Didn’t speak to him though.” “Hmm. Alright then.” Sheffield walked out of the kitchen and into his study room. Why was Dr. Devon walking when he was unwell? He was a doctor; he should know walking in this smog wouldn’t be the greatest benefit to his health. He thought for a moment, then grabbed his trenchcoat and top hat, left a note for his wife, and promptly greeted the morning air of London.
13 Pemberton Street. Sheffield peered into the window, and saw the grand staircase, the vase of frangipanis gifted to him by them last summer, and the red rich velvety carpet. Yet, there was no sign of life in the house. He knocked again, louder this time. 11 Pemberton Street walked out, apparently going out to the shops. “Good day sir. Have you seen Dr. Devon around?” Sheffield enquired. “Nope. Last time I saw him was yesterday morning. He was just grabbing his daily paper.” 11 Pemberton Street replied, and walked briskly off into the smog. Sheffield frowned. He opened the wooden derelict side gate, and brushed away the vines that lined the garden path, as he made his way to the back of the house. “Dr. Devon! Dr. Devon! It’s Baron Sheffield! Are you home?” Sheffield shouted. He was now clear of the vines, and met Dr. Devon’s neat garden, brimmed with flowers and plants from the corners of the globe. A fountain provided the soothing noise of water, and canaries chirped. Yet there was no Dr. Devon. The back door was locked, naturally. Here the Baron had a conflict of morals. To open and trespass, or to return and discover nothing. Perhaps it was really nothing. Maybe he decided to walk around and got lost and slept somewhere on a bench. He wouldn’t appreciate his house being broken in, his logical side reasoned. Maybe he had a stroke after all that exercise and desperately needs you to break and enter, his emotional side argued. And the chances of that are? His logical side retorted. Small, but not small enough that you can’t afford twenty-odd pounds to fix his door, his emotional side debated. Sheffield shrugged, and kicked open a part of the door, reached around and turned the handle to enter the house. Dr. Devon was lying inert on the floor of his kitchen. Sheffield rushed to his side; no signs of life were apparent. For some reason, his eyes were still open; Sheffield closed them slowly. He looked over at his body; there were no physical marks present, he was dressed as if he were about to sleep, instead of having recently come back from walking in the chilly night. A small pool of coagulated blood surrounded the bottom of his head. He must have fallen down or something, poor guy. Sheffield reasoned. What could have caused this? He thought. Pretty much anything, you know. Heart attack, stroke, symptoms of old age, aneurysms, his logical side responded. Murder. Suicide. He was a lonely man, his emotional side proposed. Better call the police. You’re way out of your depth here. He got up, walked to the phone, then thought back to yesterday. “I must apologise for Dr. Devon; he had contacted me just an hour prior and said he was unwell” Jordan had said. An hour. Dr. Devon only lives a ten minute walk away from my house. If he couldn’t walk to tell me himself, then he would have called me. Sharon said he looked well when she passed him. “Baron, it appears Dr. Devon is not at home.” Jordan wasn’t the quiet type of person who didn’t ask questions. Surely he would have knocked more loudly; perhaps entered the house like he did? He wasn’t the type to waste a trip either. Sharon said “he seemed a bit deaf.” When we were visiting Dr. Devon for progress of the baby, he understood every word I said, even though I had a sore throat and thus a soft voice. Sheffield sunk into a nearby living chair; he was at a loss – why didn’t this make sense? - Three days, not a single incriminating gaze. Not a single phone call, not any expression of interest from authorities. Jordan smiled. It was a good day to be smart.
“Hey mum. What’s up?” Diane walked over to her mum, who was slouching down reading a document.
“Hi honey. Nothing’s up, just the results of a standard routine test.” Her mum decided to mask the positive results of the test, and hid it back into the non-descript envelope.
“Mum, that doesn’t really look like just anything. What happened?” Diane’s anxiousness increased as she started to turn over the possibilities of what a table with many numbers could mean.
“Nothing, nothing – I just felt a little unwell, so I went to Dr. Gray for a checkup.” Her tone said this discussion’s over, Di. Diane sighed.
“Okay. Is dinner ready yet?”
“Yeah, hun. Just give me a few minutes alright?” Diane left the study room as her mum brought out the letter again.
To Dr. Gray,
The following table outlines the result of the biopsy you requested for Ms. Taylor. Please consult them and consider a course of action to take.
Possible diagnoses: Leukemia, Breast Cancer, Other malignant growth
Estimated progress of growth: 2 months.
Estimated extent of growth: extensive throughout blood stream, possible hyperinflationary cell reproduction in upper torso.
Yours Sincerely,
Dr. Brooke, Head of Pathology.
She looked at the letter again, scanned it; considering what would happen to her in the next few months. She remembered Dr. Gray as he explained the result: how it did not necessarily mean she had anything abnormal, how false positives were common due to various circumstances and exposure to conditions during the biopsy, and what should happen as a precaution in the event it was not a false positive. She folded it back again, and got up to prepare dinner for two.
-
Diane went back up to her room, contemplating the reason and effect of the mysterious letter. One of her best friend’s mum found out she had an early stage of breast cancer – she didn’t see her friend for two weeks, upon which she revealed that she stayed at the hospital, watching as her mum proceeded to undergo medication and chemotherapy. She fiddled with her pen, trying to concentrate on the mathematics that laid before her; but the numbers failed to be comprehended; her concentration sapped by the intruding unwanted thoughts of her mum going through the same thing.
“DI! DINNER’S READY!”
“Coming mum!"
She wondered why her mum didn’t move to a smaller house after her dad had passed away from a progressive disease. Spinocerebellar Ataxia, they called it. It was a mouthful and she couldn’t pronounce it properly, not when she had only just celebrated her tenth birthday.
“DI! ARE YOU COMING?”
“YEAH YEAH WAIT!” She bounded down the stairs and applied a carefree mask.
-
“Di, listen, tomorrow I won’t be able to send you to school. I’m going to Dr Gray for another checkup, but I’m not sure how long its going to take. So is it fine if you catch the bus?”
“Yeahmum its cool.” Diane poked at the boiled asparagus; not particularly the most enticing food, even on the best of days. She reached over for the salt and started peppering it over the vegetable.
“Alright.” A silence condescended upon the dinner table, as both started to eat quietly.
Diane didn’t really like meat either. Today it was grilled chicken breast; it was rather bland but she didn’t think tonight was the time to complain. She thought, then hesitated, then spoke:
“Mum, why are you going again? You just went there two days ago.”
“Well, I’m still feeling a bit unwell. So I just need Dr Gray to make sure everything’s fine.” Her mum looked up and smiled; it wasn’t terribly reassuring. Diane pressed on.
“Come on, mum. You’re not the type that goes to their doctor every time something seems wrong.” She could see her mum struggling to keep a placid look, a look of comfort and relaxation.
Something triggered in her mum’s mind. Okay Gin, she’s fourteen. She has a right to know this.
“Dr. Gray requested a biopsy.” She glanced at her daughter; she was impassive.
“So I got the biopsy done, and it tested positive for a malignant growth.” she continued; looking straight at Diane.
She started, then stopped. It was enough to break down the walls inside both; simultaneously the facades dropped and all pretenses forgotten. Diane creased her eyebrows from worry; the anxiousness peaked as she realized the contents of the letter. Her mind was completely blank; she simply sat, dumfounded, the grilled chicken breast forgotten and the salt shaker still in her hand.
“Honey, its not… that bad. It could be a false positive.” Her mum made it even worse; somehow she knew the report was not a false positive. Both unable to express their sorrows through words, Diane got up and hugged her mum. The memories of her father’s debilitating condition came back like a flash flood, filling her with grief and helplessness as she stood there, hugging her remaining parent.
-
Diane trudged back home from the bus stop. Today was a tiresome day and she just wanted to forget it all. Her friends were for some reason distancing themselves from her, she forgot how to solve an inequality in mathematics, and stumbled various times during class reading. She reached to the door, unlocked it, and walked into the darkness.
Her humble home was sparse – what remained of her possessions were in boxes, neatly lined up. She walked up the stairs to her bedroom, and left her bag there. In just two days, her family’s lawyer would help her negotiate the will and other men would carry the burden of moving away. She glanced at the picture of three; the only framed picture they ever had. She wished for the past.
The military dormitory for first-years was far from luxurious. The necessities existed; bunk beds with hard, one-inch deep mattresses, all covered in the greyish-greenish drab colour. Identical beds, forming row after row of ordered, neat, resting places. And then there were the lavatories. Utilitarian amenities they were; everything was white with the generic lemon fresh smell blanketing the atmosphere. The military dormitory was at its most ordinary and regular plateau, and this was how the Sergeant liked it. Let me describe my immediate superior. His name is Jeffrey Wilkinson. We must address him either as 'Sir', or 'Sergeant'. I say 'we', since there are one hundred and thirty-nine young men, fresh out of high school, who are in the same position as me. 'We' are the recruits of the new century, and the army had accommodated for the generation. In our messpit are televisions broadcasting the latest animated show, filled with the wit and satire all of us express in great quantities over the Internet. However, our sergeant, Jeffrey Wilkinson, is not from our generation. If we were Homo Sapiens, then he must be Neanderthal. All his values are as old as rock and stone. He believes in the miracles of discipline, the punishment that arises from laziness, and a general avoidance from the new technology that so captures our generation's attention. "Line up! Stop playing! Get into line NOW, whipper-snappers!" he would yell. And so he'd continue, Until one day his computer was hacked. There was no-one to help him.
"One..two..three...PUSH!!" the doctor yelled, notioning for her to push. And she pushed. "ARGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" She pushed and pushed. And huffed and huffed. And pushed and pushed again. Like that, it was all over. A mess of pink and brown and red emerged from the depths of her body; it breathed its first breath. And screamed. To the mother, it was the most beautiful, poetic, amazing scream in the whole world. To the doctor, it was yet another happy moment, relieved there was no Death Certificate to authenticate, no miserable documents to sign, and no messages of heartfelt apology to send out. "Oh wow; oh wow!" The mother collapsed into happiness - no, esctasy - unguarded, unrestrained joy. The mew-born baby was wrapped in the standard hospital towel, but that was fine. She was in a room where everything was painted, drawn or lacquered in all shades of white, but that was fine. Because she just had her first boy. - "What are we going to call him? the father asked. "Oh, I don't know; maybe Eugene? After my grandfather?" the mother replied, still amazed by the miracle which nestled in her bosom. "Hmmm..." The room was silent, with the exception of the fan hovering above. Just a cheap, white, ceiling fan; but that was fine. "Well honey, remember, we can't spoil him." The mother was slowly brought down from her summit of euphoria. "I know dear. I remembered our plans." "Great, great. Because we both want him to grow up to be a GREAT man, right?" "Right." the mother nodded. Your life, baby Eugene, will be vanilla. But that's fine.
Where was I? "You're in hell, my friend." "Hello? Who are you?" Silence. Then: "I am yourself." Impossible. I can't see, I feel numb, I hear nothing, yet I hear this voice. Only I can't hear; I feel this voice. How could this be? "This is hell. Nothing. For eternity." droned 'myself' "Oh really? What did I do to deserve this?" "You killed yourself. That's why you're here." Puzzled, I pressed 'myself' on further. "How? I'm not a bad guy. This can't be the afterlife, could it?" I asked with a hint of uncertainty. "Well, it is 'your' version of hell. You fear lonliness, do you not? You also fear the deaf, and the blind. This is your own hell, that you created. Look at you." "I can't..." But I looked down anyway. Nothing, as I expected. Then... A glimpse of colour; a hue of the rainbow. It emerged and blossomed gracefully, and I started to see. "What? I can see... my body?" The 'me', disembodied outside, replied in the affirmative. "That's your body. It's growing, slowly. You hate waiting, don't you?" The uneasiness spread as the colour moprhed; the body grew until it was complete, in all its entirety. Without the limbs. And without the head. I saw my own body; a three-dimensional hologram of what was, and now ceased to exist. "You can see the marks of your treatment, can you not?" questioned 'myself'. "yes..." I mumbled. I peered at it. Knife slash after whip slash after sword slash. Scars of every describeable kind. "Murder to yourself is also murder. This..." It paused. "That is why you are here."
He glanced at the TAG Heuer: 4’oclock - the sun was beginning to dip west. A ledge. It’s within reach… - “Good morning Senior Constable. I’m really worried about my husband. He went out rock climbing for the day, and he hasn’t come back home today.” “Okay; will you take a seat, Mrs…?” Snr Constable Adams motioned towards a plush foldable chair. “Li. Thank you.” Mrs Li descended onto the chair, stiff with anxiety. “Do you know where your husband roughly is at the moment?” Adams reached forward, clasping a notepad and flipping it open. “He went to Boronia Point. He was attempting the grade 34 climb - Mechanical Animals. ” Li stared at the blank whiteboard adjacent to her, attempting to bore a dent in the board. “Pardon madam? What’s grade 34?” asked Adams, unsure of the supposed danger of the number. “A grade 34 climb is one of the toughest in the world, and he’s been gone for 18 hours now, ” replied Li. “I don’t know what I should do, Constable.” “Don’t worry, we’re here to help.” Adams assured her. “McFly!” Marching in, Constable McFly wore thick black-rimmed glasses, still had remnants of pimples and was slightly overweight. Casually dressed, she was as cool as a cucumber drenched in boiling peanut oil, burnt, then incinerated. “Yes Sah! Reporting for duty Sah! You look very sad, Miss!” McFly snapped to attention. “Any more snappishness McFly, and your back WILL snap.” Retorted Adams. “Ring CareFlight and tell them there’s an emergency with 30% rate mortality within 24 hours at Boronia Point.” “Yes Sah! Right away Sah!” McFly marched out, albeit slightly quicker. “Well, there’s nothing more I can do now. Would you like something to eat and drink?” Adams asked Mrs Li, upon seeing her ashen face. - Shit. What the hell… Steven Li slowly opened his eyes to see the sun rising. Why is the sun rising? Is it morning? Disorientated, Steven realised he was lying on tree branches. Grasping the nearest branch, he righted himself, and looked down at the forest floor. 30 metres below, with nothing to break his fall. He looked to his right hip where his GPS was; the screen was completely blank. “Damn it, switch on!” Steven cursed at the satellite navigation system, enraged by its uselessness. Think. Morning. It’s been..16 hours? I must have fallen with that boulder right next to me. Steven saw the belay hook embedded in the boulder; the thread snapped and the strands were speckled over his body. Okay, think survival. Food… Steven realised he had one muesli bar. Uncle Toby’s too; none of the army surplus stuff that would last for hours on end. Water. …crap; no water. Despair was starting to encroach on him as he despondently strategized a way of removing himself from this mess. No water, one muesli bar, and 30 metres off the ground amongst the canopies of Eucalyptus trees is the best estimate I have of my location. Alright.. Steven began to analyse his situation, then tried to stretch. Immediately an earthquake erupted in his back; he doubled up and screamed as the clot around his broken spine reopened again. - “CareFlight 1045; there is an emergency situation at Boronia Point in the Blue Mountains; a man has been missing for 25 hours; there is a 30% mortality rate if he is not found in 18 hours. We must hurry. The co-ordinates of the location will be updated to the BK copter.” Dr Micahels briefed the team on the situation. “Good luck, men. It sounds like an ordinary mission, but remember; take utmost care. This is a human life we can save if this is done correctly. Farewell.” The CareFlight copter was ready to run; Pilot Jamie gunned the engine, and the crew loaded the BK. Dr Savage, the leader for the flight, had dedicated over 6000 hours to CareFlight; his subordinates had clocked over 2000 hours each on other expeditions. Today was an ordinary day, and another person to save. They were becoming desensitized. “Defibrillator, check. ECG Electrodes.. check. ABP Monitors.. HURRY UP AND LOAD IT!” Savage yelled, though without malice in his tone. “We’ve got everything on board David. We better get moving.” Dr Lane motioned Dr Savage to hop in; Savage briefly reassessed the situation and ran to the waiting copter, clambering onto the edge and hoisted up by Lane. “Okay, Jamie, send us away.” Dr Savage ordered. “Yes sir. Co-ordinates received, we’re moving out.” Jamie throttled the BK 117-B2. Dr Savage sighed. It was only a missing person; shouldn’t take more than four hours, then time for some Texas Hold’Em, thought Dr Savage, grinning. - 4 o’clock. It’s been 27 hours since I came to this God-forsaken place. Steven stared at his TAG Heuer, the only gadget that remained in operational condition since the fall. Depressed, he kept trying to think his way out of the canopy. Jump down? No… Find increasingly shorter trees to eventually get to ground? No… Get to the ground? Impossible… And with that thought, he realised he could only survive 52 more hours; it had been 20 hours since his last drink. The pain in his back began to come back again; he felt the onset of a migraine and a fever, wondering how his situation could have been worse. I can’t survive. It’s impossible. Implanted in his thought processes, he drifted off to an uneasy sleep. - “Pa! What’s Mechanical Animals? Can I play with it?” “No, you can’t, Jing. It’s a very special… cliff that I’m going to climb today.” “Wow… can I come pa?” “Sorry Jing, it’s very dangerous. There are huge rocks that are ten times my size, and I have to climb around them. And there are very few places where I can stand and rest.” “…Pa, will you come back?” Steven smiled gently. “Of course I will, Jing. Don’t worry, I’ll come back, and I’ll develop the photo from the top of the cliff. Okay?” “Okay pa. You better come back!” Jing ran back into the house. “I will. Goodbye Jing!” - “Where is he? It’s been 5 hours. He must be somewhere nearby.” Dr Savage became increasingly worried. “I can’t find him. I’ve looked all over Boronia Point, and I’ve encircled a 20km radius; we’re also running out of fuel. ” Pilot Jamie replied, noticing the blinking red fuel light switching itself on. “How many more minutes can we continue to search for?” Dr Lane asked, patiently scanning the trees with the high-powered binoculars. “We can’t stay any longer. 5 minutes more and we will not make it back to Westmead.” - Steven awoke to the sound of a helicopter’s blades slowly fading away. No; come back! I need to go home…please… He unhooked his radio, desperately searching for the right frequency. “Save me! Please!”
“C’mon man, we’d all love to hear it! Please?” I pleaded. I looked around the campfire for support and saw plenty; teenagers my age whose eyes, right now, flickered with anticipation. “Well, I guess you’re not that young…” Tomasz mumbled, and sighed. Tomasz told us one last story. He used his aged, ruined voice like an old man’s hands to pick the lock on his past… - “Tomasz! Hurry!” Tomasz heard his mother yell. “Yes ma, hold for a moment!” Tomasz yelled back. 1939 was coming to a close – the Polish winter had arrived, and with it, the snow. Tomasz didn’t know whether to love or hate the snow; it brought back the memories of his father three years ago, when he just turned thirteen. Ironic. It’s my birthday and it’s Christmas. Today should be the best day of the year. Tomasz reflected bitterly. Clank! Tomasz lurched forward as his leg tripped over an object. Eh? He retreated, then picked up the object. German, with a distinctive long barrel. The safety catch was off; he quickly closed it and pocketed the Luger, then ran towards his home. “Tomasz! What’s wrong, boy? Hurry up!” his mother yelled. Don’t make so much noise, ma.. don’t you know where we are? Tomasz picked up his pace, and arrived through the open door. Tomasz’s mother closed the door behind him, and ushered him towards the back of the house. It’s dark… The sound of metal boots hitting the cobblestones persuaded them to stop. Click-Clock… Knock-knock! “Umm, yes? Who’s there?” Tomasz’s mother answered tentatively in German. “Keep your noise down. Okay?” A German soldier’s order floated through the house. We all knew better than to oppose it. “Yes Sir, I will, I’m sorry.” Tomasz’s mother replied. Click-clock… click-clock… it faded off and with it, the tension. “Keep going Tomasz! Go on in!” Tomasz slowly entered the back room; dazzling light blinded him as quiet sounds of joy and excitement greeted his ears. “Happy Birthday Tom! Good man; you’re 16! Haha!” his grandfather exclaimed. “Oh Tom; you’ve grown so big! Last time I saw you, you were this small!” his auntie Danuta grinned, moving her hand to her knee level. Tomasz couldn’t really find the heart to show his true emotions, so he went with the crowd. “Haha! Oh, I’m so glad you could make it auntie! Thank you everyone!” Tomasz looked around and saw beaming faces. Hey, why not. It’s my birthday after all… Tomasz let himself be happy; be satisfied and grateful for all that he still had. - Tomasz walked out of the party to grab a drink of water. Nothing like pure tap water…what’s this? Tomasz’s eye caught a glint from the edges of his mother’s cooking book. He reached and picked it up, then flipped the book to the page that held the glint. And saw his first photograph of his father. The remains of tear droplets were scattered on the surrounding page; the photograph near the edge, depicting his father in his uniform. Dad. Why? Why did you do it? It was so… foolish… the Jews could look after themselves… They’d been respected. Honoured. Privileged. And his father just had to ruin it all. All for his friend. His friend! His friend who he had met just days before he was “reassigned”; his friend who just happened to be Jewish; his friend who so happened to be the leader of the Jewish resistance movement. The Jews can fight for themselves. They’ve got a resistance movement and …everything. Why’d you have to step up? We’re not even Jewish. As far as he could see ,the Germans were alright. They were fighting their large war with other countries; we were first “conquered”, then left with some German patrols. Only problem was the amount of noise you could make… it was the quietest Christmas in a long time. The Jews were worse; irritating, annoying creatures who never seemed to do anything right. Tomasz walked out to the snow. He felt in his right pocket and his hand met with the cool metal of the Luger barrel. Then he witnessed it. Across his block of houses, there was a mini-village, populated with Jews. At that moment, there seemed to be an uprising; there were Jews crowding over some people; Tomasz couldn’t see who these people were. Then a gunshot. Followed by more; the gunshots rang through the air, and the crowd scattered slightly. Tomasz could make out a German helmet or two in the throng, then gasped. Tssscchhhh… a rifle bullet whizzed past his ear, deafening him. Tomasz found himself nearer to the uprising; it was now turning into a battle. He whirled around; a squad was coming to reinforce the outnumbered Germans. Excellent. Now these Jews won’t be here anymore. He turned back to the battle; it had spread out and there were two Jews only a few yards away from him. He looked at him; one of them smiled back, and his chest exploded out. What? The Germans must have shot him… The Jewish companion was stunned. He swivelled around and looked at the German reinforcement squad; he lost his mind and charged. “What you doing here? We must go away now!” Tomasz was distracted from the scene of carnage by a Jewish girl; she lost no time in attempting to regain his senses. Slap! “Yeah, what? Yeah ok. Right.” Tomasz fled with the girl, who was evidently an unaffected veteran of war. He turned around; the German squad were merciless against the sole Jew; he saw the other Jews in a similar state. They’re Jews, right? Their lives aren’t worth anything. But here he was, aided by a Jewish girl to help him. He wasn’t even a Jew. - “Are you okay? What’s your name?” the Jewish girl asked; simultaneously checking his pulse and his body for injuries. “Tomasz. What are you doing?” Tomasz felt disconnected with the world. “My name’s Maria. You’re not hurt. You’re fine.” Maria stated. She grabbed at her flask, opened it and swilled it before consuming the contents in one gulp. “You’re a Jew… I’m a Pole. Why didn’t you help your compatriots?” Tomasz enquired. “I did. But I happened to see you lying there, as if you were day dreaming. And no matter where you come from, you’re a human being. Unlike those Huns.” Maria replied, looking straight at him. The Germans. The Huns. They weren’t so bad… they weren’t so bad?? They massacred people. Real people; with a family, with a life that was glistening with potential – toyed with, disfigured, murdered. “Hello? Are you ok?” Maria looked at Tomasz; his eyes were glazed over. “Hello? Tomasz?” Maria enquired, concerned. “Yeah, I’m here...” Tomasz replied hazily. Was that the reason behind my father’s actions? He saw the suffering; the torture – he must have wanted to help people. Like Maria. Like someone who would risk their life to save another. Could I change?
Picture Frame A line trickled down my wrist. The metallic lustre was exactly like the others before it. A sense of satisfaction crept upon me as I watched the line thicken ever so slightly; a droplet forming on the underside of my skin. Shifting my gaze towards the scores of lines faded into scars, I tensed. One crevasse broke open; my nerves felt the pain but my mind didn’t. Maybe I’ll become stronger through this. Maybe I’ll look down one day at these lines, and remember the lustrous, beautiful blade and think “I brought myself out of that.” Maybe I will survive. - There are psychos, and there are psychopaths. And there is John. That’s a seriously bland name, but he’s like freaky. Worse than freaky. The goose bumps on your skin disappear in fear of him when your eyes make contact with his. Somehow though, Rianne manages to look at him. I think she likes him. By the way, my name is Sonia. It’s a cool name; it’s a like a gazillion times cooler than “John”. I attend St Patrick’s High School, which is a private Christian school in the heart of Adelaide. I guess overall we’re pretty smart and rich, so I don’t really know how John got into our school. I’m not vain, unlike other girls in my school who suck up to me, trying to be me. However I think I’m quite hot, judging by most of the looks on guy’s faces whenever they see me. I’m also quite modest; I’ve got a nice group of friends surrounding me like every day. John is a loner; I never even see him at school, not that I would like to. I still can’t believe he’s in our nearly-perfect school. - Sonia is like the biggest bitch in St Patricks, but everyone still seems to like her. She looks pretty hot, but underneath, her self-centredness really shows, and it gets so annoyingly boring to talk to her. All you hear is “oh, that guy is so hot. I want to be like Adriana Lima. She’s so hot.” My friends call me Matt, but my full name is Matthias Lewis. My internet alias is TheFly ; I’m known for quietly observing everything, then contemplating and constructing sequences and consequences to various events observed. I go fairly un-noticed at St Pats, I guess I’m part of the un-cool ultra-geek super-nerd no-girlfriend group, but I don’t mind. Secretly, I’m good friends with John. At first glances he appears to be a real lunatic, but he knows so much and conversations with him are always interesting. After four years, we’ve stuck together as the alienated people of St Pats, and even though we’re withdrawn, we know we can safely unravel all our problems to each other. Then I noticed the lines. Only a few at first; thin narrow scars on his wrist, usually covered by his long-sleeved shirt. Then more, and after a year had passed in this fashion, his wrist was prone to bleeding and the lines started frequently re-opening. I can empathise with him to a certain extent, but nowadays I don’t want to decipher what is going on inside his brain. - How can I get out? My avenues were opened, tried, and closed: Alcohol – too weak. Sex – too temporary. Drugs – too expensive. Meditation – did nothing. Hypnotism – Off I go to the land of hell. Martial arts – too weak - literally. Smoking – bad coughs. One by one, the proved useless to my quest; to dig myself out of my disease-ridden hole. There was only one option left – the most terrible of sins. Surely it must deliver me from myself – otherwise nothing will. I watched, detached, as my left arm once again scored the skin of my right; the blade now dull with use; the lines criss-crossed like one millimetre-wide railway tracks. I guess the blade will have a second use now… “Breaking News: Teenage student Sonia Niang, 16, was found dead in a creek. The body was slashed multiple times all over her body. Adelaide Police are investigating the cause of the death. Stay with us: only the latest news at Channel Ten.” Announced Matthew’s television. Well. What a disaster. I guess the bacteria living around there must be happy. - 2 hours later “This evening has turned from tragedy to disaster as two more bodies were found in another creek 800 metres away from the site of death of teenage student Sonia Niang. Police have been able to identify the two bodies; two female teenage students – Rianne Miachel and Denise Xu, both 16. Our sources have discovered that all three were close friends at St Patrick’s High School, an elite private High School in Adelaide CBD. The investigation continues.” Announced Matthew’s television. Who would do such a thing? Man, my heart really goes out to those families. Ah well. I guess it’s time for my daily run. I’ve got to be beat my record: one hour for seven kilometres. Who would commit such a crime… - 1 hour later “Nationwide news on Channel Ten: Four students have been killed in Adelaide’s worse rampage ever since 1963. All four students attended St Patrick’s High School, a private school in Adelaide. Adelaide Police and forensic investigators are continuing the investigation into this disaster. Brandon and I, on behalf of the whole of Channel Ten news Australia, wish to extend our sincerest condolences to the families involved.” Gareth motioned for the switchboard operator to start the advertisements, then beamed at Karen. “Well done Karen, your on-screen charisma still hasn’t left you.” Gareth praised. “I love this job; it’s so wonderfully easy, and Brandon certainly helps.” Karen replied, winking to Brandon. “Well, as Gareth said, you did do fantastic. It looks like we’ve got material for the night.” Brandon replied, smiling back. - Blood covered my arms. Although, for the first time, it wasn’t mine. It came from the animals of our school. I hate them; they frolic around as if there wasn’t a single problem in the world. I watched them with fascination as I held them, possessed with a mad frenzy, cut them and watched them bleed. I stared at the castrated, dead sheep lying on the ground two metres from me. I remembered their cries. Oh, their cries! Something then, had understood my pain. My anguish. My desperation to escape; they experienced it, and I, for the first time in a year, saw a chink of light guiding my attempts to escape from myself. - The next evening “Good evening, you’re watching Channel Ten news. I’m Karen Knightley and …” “I’m Brandon Jones-Smith.” First on the evening news: Adelaide Police have found a suspect for the fatal student killings in Adelaide yesterday evening. The suspect has requested for his privacy to be maintained, however this arrest was not before the death of two more students, found hanging on two wattle trees near the creek where Sonia’s body was found: James DeJong and Aneth Visar, also both senior students at St Patrick’s High School, were hung by a fashioned rope; six students have now been killed in the space of 24 hours. Police are questioning the suspect at the moment, however DNA testing is impossible due to the storm that came at 2am this morning. Multiple slashes have been found on the students’ bodies, and a blade was found just a few metres from the creek. Witnesses have been asked to come forward and report to Crime-Stoppers on 1800 333 000 – the number is at the bottom of the screen - or Adelaide Police at 08 8463 7105. We, once again, offer our sincerest condolences to the families of these six students: Sonia Niang, Rianne Miachel, Denise Xu, Matthias Lewis, James DeJong and Aneth Visar.“ - What am I doing here? Why am I here? I can see nothing but people surrounding me. Surely killing animals can’t be worth a life sentence… But my defence lawyer said it was. Something about six killings three weeks ago. The fingerprint tests on the inside of the waterproof jacket Matthias was wearing; I should plead guilty, suggested my lawyer. “The jury finds the defence guilty.” Announced the lead juror. “John Newlands, you have been found guilty. You are sentenced to a life sentence with no parole at the Adelaide Maximum Security Prison.” My world was spinning. A judge had just sentenced me to life! Without parole! For a crime I didn’t commit… but it was useless to try and argue. The evidence was stacked against me; the blade cuts, which I had to admit I did to myself under the threat of perjury, and the fingerprints which I must have placed a month ago trying to reach Matthias’ wallet. Is there any way to escape now?
We sit down at table 20, one at each opposing side. I glance at the familiar equipment set up on the table before me. I look up at my opponent, who also glances. He fiddles with his king on the board though, and then his footmen. Typical hallmarks of nervousness. He glances towards the dual-timer chess clock, set to a minute per player per game; the main judge of our game today. This will be one of dozens of games I will play today, one of hundreds of games I will play a month, one of thousands of games I will play a year. The game has been part of my life for decades. I watch my opponents’ little face contort, and then calm. He could be my son. A quick peek at my watch told me it was just after midday. Finally, one of us broke the silence. “Hi.” My opponent offered. “Hello.” I replied as genially as possible. I guess this encouraged him; my apparent age must have intimidated him. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Norton. And yours is Henry?” I replied, remembering the draw for the first round. “Yea.” “Alright. Shall we play?” I asked. I offered my hand across the table; his nervousness communicated through his already sweaty hands. I smiled. “First time playing a tournament?” I asked gently. “Yea.” He smiled back. As he was White and the first to move, I was obliged to hit the start button on the clock. The game started.
His nervousness prior appeared to be an act; he moved the footman in front of the king quickly and confidently. At the end of each player’s turn, he would press the button closest to him, which would stop his time and start his opponent’s, thus measuring the exact time that each player had spent playing. However, it was soon to be discovered that little Henry’s nervousness was still apparent. “Umm, you haven’t pressed the clock.” I warned. He flushed, then pressed his timer. He had already lost precious seconds. His move was mirrored by my side; a sole footman marched to be just in front of White’s footman. And I pressed the clock, naturally. A footman shuffled slowly to stand diagonally in front of my footman, now threatening my sole footman. Alas, chess was a turn-based game. Move, kill! I thought. With the aid of my hand, the little Black footman took White’s. He forgot to tap his clock again; this time I let it go. Henry’s visage drooped; I guess he felt the loss of the footman quite acutely. For me though, it was nought but plastic taken many times over. His brave knight hopped over one of his many footmen, now threatening to end my footman’s victorious afterglow. With that thought in mind, he remembered to press the clock. Never fear. I thought. Our knight is here! So it hopped over, lending moral support to the footman, for nothing really stopped him being retired by the White knight. Sure enough, the knight moved and retired the footman from active duty. I looked up; Henry was grinning now. Apparently, he wasn’t aware of the piece value either. Pfft, I thought. This will be a brutally short game. As planned, our knight honoured the footman’s dying wishes heard only by him, and slew the offending knight. I looked up again; Henry was unperturbed. The sound of bells rang in my ears as I heard the White bishop approach. Slowly, it inched towards the knight who had tasted blood already. Clop-clop. My second knight in shining armour appeared, bound to protect his fellow. The sound of chanting rose as the Bishop converted my brave knight. I cursed; a pacified knight was useless for me and the battle. My anger invoked, the supporting knight leapt into action to remove the cowardly bishop. A decapitation solved everything.
Impossible, I thought. Yet my eyes did not lie; the White queen, the gracious, powerful and most precious being, that most would never order to move so early, had already donned her joggers and was making her way to stand right next to my knight. There was no escape, and no one could support him in time. His face betrayed nothing; the least I could expect from one of such nobility. I shook my head with regret, and vowed to avenge his fate. My bishop moved to the other side of the field, with promises of conversions yet to come. I looked away from my knight to Henry; I could barely see him a hundred yards away; yet he was distinguishable from the smirk plastered on his face. I heard my knight shuffle away to the side of the field. The queen was grinning; I wondered what transpired between them. No doubt promises of riches or other tantalising prospects were offered.
I ignored the queen for the moment, as my bishop cast his influence upon the lowly footman a few yards; but the White queen was irresistible, for she was now making her way towards enemy territory. She glided right up to my footman just in front of my castle. And proceeded to work her wiles. The footman didn’t have a chance. Or probably a wife. I was petrified; stunned. I couldn’t believe both the stupidity of my opposing general, and my army’s luck. The veteran castle moved towards the Queen; its men ready to welcome her to the depths of the castle’s dungeons. She won’t be able to keep her promises now, I thought. I looked up at Henry, who looked to my left. I looked to my left.
Behold, there was the chess clock.
“Your time’s up.” Henry pronounced gleefully. I looked back at the pieces; they were black plastic, as they should be. I didn’t press the clock.
