The Fallen Leader

Lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the rain drops, allowing them to appear as if they were tiny light bulbs falling from the heavens. Thunder rumbled on in the distance. A middle aged man, appeared to be in his fifties; even though he was about forty- two, reclined in his leather chair. As he sat down, his hands curled over the armrest touching the round, brass bolts that held the deep brown leather to the frame of his comfort.

The time was eleven o’clock in the evening; the fire was burning like the warm summer sun shining on his face. It was about time he sorted through his wallet, and clean out unnecessary paper and such. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, also leather. He opened it to reveal the contents. In the clear plastic window, his identification was made apparent to anyone who looked inside.

“Name: Ralph H. Patterson

Age: 42

Sex: Male

DOB: 6/ 18/ ‘66”

Ralph’s fingers slipped past various credit cards, and photos of his pet fish. He pulled out small scraps of paper, slowly creating a pile on his lap. After about five minutes, Ralph rose from comfort to discard the small pile of scrap paper into the kitchen’s garbage bin.

The fire has burned down, almost to the bitter end, yet it was still clinging onto the wood, as if it were providing the last of its life. Ralph was feeling the weight of slumber on his eyelids, so he climbed the stairs to make his way to the bed’s beckoning call. He slid open the top drawer of his bureau, revealing his beloved pajamas. He undressed and put on the flannel fabric that covered his body at night, and threw back the covers. He pulled the blankets up to his neck, and dosed off for the night.

Outside the house, a slightly older man with a bit of a limp was walking around the property, with a strong hope to enter the darkness of the house. He tried the doorknob, the silly old coot left the house unlocked. The man opened the door and entered into the entry way, leading to the kitchen. He made his way past the darkened cabinetry and countertops, to the stairs directly to the left the kitchen door. The man took a twisted shape, almost demon- like, as he climbed the stairs to Ralph’s room. His inside coat pocket was bothering him, so he adjusted the contents and moved on. He followed the staggered snoring, to Ralph’s chamber of restlessness.

A shrill scream from next door startled Mr. Jameson and his wife awake. They were afraid something was terribly wrong, so they called the police. A few minutes later, sirens came screaming into the neighborhood and screeching to a sudden stop in front of Ralph’s house. Two strapping young men went up the stairs with their hands on their guns anticipating the need to shoot, and torches in hand, entered the room where Ralph lay.

A twisted figure lay in the bed; one of the young officers rolled the figure over, and looked into Ralph’s eyes. They were opened with fear, the young man backed away completely beside himself. The paramedic examined the body, and turned to a detective, and told him in the most solemn tone,

“That’s the third one this week. He’s another one of those guys that’s been stabbed several times with a stick- sharpened at both ends.”