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But all his hopes broke like a crashing wave when people started showing up to his haven. First it was just one man who came and then left, then a couple, then families––those who came but never left. They built houses, they brought boats. They clothed him and put him inside a home.
Michael never wanted this. Those who thought themselves to be saints for rescuing a barbaric old man were just obstacles to Michael’s peaceful life. Nature was being destroyed, roads were being paved, and there was talk. So much talk. Talk of this old man who lived a savage life on his own in this wilderness. Who muttered words but never conversed. Who spoke their language in a land that had never known their people.
So he isolated himself, that is, until one family moved into the town. The family Mason, a name so familiar yet so strange, one that belonged to him, but one he had not heard in ages. A family with a little boy named Michael. His own family, who had become dim in his mind.
The appearance of this boy, however, did not give Michael joy. Rather, he became afraid that this boy would live a happy life–one that he had never known or too early forgotten–unlike himself who, although convinced himself otherwise, deep down knew his miserable life was a result of his sins. Michael was not ready to accept the fact, and he never would be. So he had to make sure the little boy Michael walked the very footsteps he had once walked.
He followed the boy wherever he went, making his own efforts to melt into the society of the town. He was now known as Harry, a man who had drifted ashore to this land while traveling on a ship with his friends. He watched as the little boy grew, causing trouble, making messes, going on adventures, all by the side of his best friend Andrew. And everyday, Michael’s anxiety grew stronger as he saw the little boy gleam with joy in his reddened cheeks. The boy had everything Michael ever wished he could have. It was just so unfair, so cruel, he couldn’t be happy, he has to be alone. He can’t be smiling like that, he can’t. He just can’t–
And before he knew it, the blood of his parents was dripping down his hands. The blood of a youthful man and woman, those who worked day and night to put food on the table, those who once looked so great and mighty to him, those who were once so dear to him. But Michael had no sense of guilt. With the ages past, they were strangers to him, just as much as he was a stranger to them.
A hum of joy escaped Michael’s lips. Finally, the boy would be alone. Finally it was fair.
Next to his parent’s lifeless bodies, Michael placed Andrew’s “magic egg” that the boy had discovered in the mountains, one that he always carried. It was perfect, this should do it! This should make the boy miserable! Michael cleaned himself up and disposed of his clothes. With sickening excitement he hummed:
“This is your punishment!”
chuckling at the young couple he had killed. His eyes manic, and his lips trembling. Grabbing the bloody stone he had used to murder, he laid down next to the lifeless bodies of his victims. He held the stone high above his head and laughed hysterically, his shrieks ringing through the cold autumn sky. A sickening splat then followed a little after, the sound of it ringing through the echoing skies.
And then everything was still–again, as it was before, as it always should have been.