Time to steal

  Are you waiting with baited breath? Is the tension of this moment, of history about to unfold before your very eyes, building to a climax? Is excitement tearing at you?
Do not let it. Please, in the heat of all this drama, I implore you to remember this sobering thought - which is that this man, who is forming an introduction between these two crucial characters, is dying. Life bleeds from his heart. Please remember that, although this moment is terribly theatrical and impressive, a young boy’s father is lying before us, and though he clings to life for his boy, he is losing his battle. A young boy’s father – no matter how important this boy may be – is dying, and this will affect him like it would any other.

  The thief is standing, even now, waiting impatiently in the deep, dark shadows of Papa Moon-Saucer’s room. I must not keep him waiting, no matter how much I wish to, for he has others to visit tonight – and though I desperately wish there is something I can do, something to relieve this poor boy of the coming horror and pain, I cannot. I cannot change what is – I cannot change the torment that will attack this boy and eat him from the inside out. I can only report it.

  The moment it happens, I am sorry to tell you drama-lovers out there, is peaceful and anti-climactic. The thief simply steps forward, reaches out, and plucks the life from the chest of Papa Moon-Saucer. The life drips from Papa Moon-Saucer’s eyes, a quiet apology to his son dying on his lips, and it is over. The thief lets his gaze flicker towards the boy, feels the guilt stab his dark heart, and leaves.

  It may be anti-climactic, but my God do not let that diminish its importance. For in that split second, Moon-Saucer’s eyes widen to an unbelievably large size. He starts to shake so hard, the room seems to be vibrating. His Grandmother, mistakenly understanding the boy’s upset, hugs him and lets her withered tears fall over his face. But the boy does not shake for his father, for Death’s aftertaste that taints the air. He shakes for fear; fear of the unknown, fear for monsters in the dark, fear for him.

  You don’t understand? Try shoving the master’s thief into the face of a child who just lost his father. Then, as you look at the emotion curdling the innocence of the boy’s eyes, as you see dread, anguish, terror, and more unhappily matured versions of pain mar his youthful naivety; then, you will understand. You will know.

The End

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