“Look at this guy, what a loser!” Said Brody as the school bus roared past a homeless man. The man had been standing on the highway verge every day for the past month. Clutched in dirty hands was a cardboard sign that read, ‘PLEES HELP’.
I looked over and caught a glimpse of the dishevelled man as he was buffeted by wind. “Is he really as bad as they say? Like genuinely?”
“Oh yeah, you can count on that. I heard he killed two little girls out of state with an axe,” Brody said.
“Really?”
“Yeah, don’t you know about him? Dude’s a scumbag.”
“I’ve heard what people say, but I never saw any evidence like a news article or something. Didn’t want to be duped by some fake news or whatever.”
“I heard it was three. Three sisters, and they weren’t the first he’d got to.” Leon, a wiry kid on my right, said.
“No, it was definitely two. Definitely two.” Heavy-set Brody asserted.
“They were triplets, idiot. How’d you count two when they were triplets?” Leon sneered.
Before Brody could reply, the face of a red-haired girl, Trisha, appeared over the bank of seats in front of us.
“Triplets? They weren’t related. That old guy killed three girls from three different families. My mom said so.”
A fierce argument broke out. “Guys, guys, GUYS! I don’t think the details matter that much. You all agree that dude is bad news. My original point was that I haven’t seen any evidence, and I mean hard evidence, like a news article or police report filing about that guy. Maybe, just maybe, we’re mistaken.”
An uneasy silence settled, and Trisha shifted to drop back into her seat. “Either way, my mom said to stay away from him, and I suggest you three twerps do the same.” She said, and dropped out of view.
Brody made a mocking face and turned to look out of the window. Steam covered the glass nearest his mouth. “Wasn’t planning on inviting him around for dinner…”
I, however, couldn’t get the image of the hermit out of his mind. The loneliness. The hopelessness. The plea on his pathetic cardboard sign. That wasn’t a man seeking to live off-grid, he wanted to be noticed. Why? That question played across my mind all day.
On the return journey, there was no sign of the man, so when I got home, I dumped my schoolbag and grabbed my bike out of the garage.
“Mom! I’m going to the park with Leon, Brody and Trish! I’ll be back in an hour!”
I was pedalling furiously down the street before she had a chance to respond. There was no sign of the man at the spot where he’d been earlier. However, through the trees, I could see a tent leaning drunkenly. A lamp dangled from the high point within, and a silhouette lay prostrate on the other side of the canvas. I pushed branches aside and came into a clearing.
“Hello?”
There was a sudden scuttling from inside the tent. The shadow moved toward the entrance and an old man emerged.
“Oh, forgive me! You caught me off guard, son. One moment and I’ll be with you!” He said, before unfurling himself and standing upright. He towered over me, but the skin around his eyes was crinkled and weathered in a kindly way. “What are you doing out here? This isn’t a prank, is it?” He asked, eyes darting around.
“No, it’s not a prank, there’s nobody hiding. I saw your sign earlier and just wondered if you needed help? I can grab you some groceries or something?”
The old man seemed taken aback. He studied me for a moment before offering up a seat on a log beside the tent. “That’s very kind of you, son, most kind indeed. I’ve seen you on that bus these past few weeks, actually. There’s a gaggle of you by the back window, isn’t there?” He eased himself down beside me.
“Yeah. My friends are scared of you, but it’s not true, is it? You didn’t kill anybody.”
The old man laughed. “Is that why your friends are afraid? No, no, I haven’t killed anyone, most certainly not. People see an ageing guy at the side of the road and assume he’s, as an old friend of mine would say, a wrong ‘un. But anyway, I digress. Before you go to the store, I need to know something: are you a good boy for your mommy and daddy and your teachers? Do you do your homework and stand up to bullies?”
The old man peered over from the other side of the log.
“I mean, yeah, I try my best…”
The elderly man sprang to his feet and marched over to his tent. “Good, good! Silly question, really. You came all the way out here of your own accord, but I had to check. I’ll get a list of things I need- one moment. It’s rare to get a visitor so young and helpful…”
The man opened the tent flap and searched through his belongings, feverish and muttering. I leaned over to see what the interior was like. The man knocked a pile of photographs off a wooden box and they slid so that the top one came to rest in the doorway. Three little girls in white dresses laying on the floor stared upward vacantly at the photographer. They looked so alike, they could’ve been sisters. Or triplets. I got up to leave and the old man heard me rise. “What are you doing?” He asked.
I pointed at the photograph. “Y-you killed them, didn’t you? You lied.”
The old man picked it up and looked at me with pity. “We don’t need to go over this again, son. I’m not a killer, let me explain.”
He stepped around the log, eyes on the photograph. One spindly arm drifted away, and I saw too late that the hand grasped a brick.
When I came around, I was flat on my back, unable to move. Above, there were swaying treetops, leaves and a darkening sky. Motion in my peripheral vision materialised as a young man with jet black hair, slicked back. He wore a leather jacket, studded along the shoulders. His skin was smooth, his lips full, eyes flinty and unfeeling.
“Let me explain.” The man repeated, crouching. “You have been robbed. I’ve taken your life force, but your heart still beats because I am above all, merciful. Of course I could kill you, but for the aforementioned reason, I haven’t. You’ll live, kid, you’re not too far from that highway there and they’ll come lookin’. Now, the upshot of our exchange means that you’ve been left with only your senses. You’ll never move again, you won’t speak, you won’t laugh, et cetera, the list goes on. Obviously, you also won’t tell anyone about what happened here because you can’t.”
He stood and took a picture; the flash causing me to blink. The printout emerged and the old-man-turned-young shook it through the evening air. He hoisted a large rucksack onto his back and took one last look.
“Sayonara.” He said with a shrug, and walked beyond my field of view.
-
LIS. ‘Locked-In Syndrome’. Technology has moved along over the past decade to the extent that I can now type this account using a special camera which traces my eye movements to a virtual keyboard. The nurses have been letting me practice, and they must have forgotten that the camera is still affixed to the laptop. In any case, I won’t tempt fate by prolonging this postscript. I write this as a warning about the man who left me in this state all those years ago. For all I know, he’s still out there. Be safe.