Chapter 3

He stumbled towards the wall and slammed his head upon it. No, he thought. I'm going mad. I'm crazy. I should be locked up in an asylum. But he had seen it. And it was all true.

He hated himself. He was at a loss for words in what to call himself next. His mind was playing tricks on him again. The man Don Jamesson had died. This man was real. And he had witnessed him die. This was real. It was true. His mind was playing tricks on him again. He was delerious. He was experiencing Delusions. Yet, no, he wasn't. He wasn't mad. He wasn't crazy. He mind wasn't lost. It was real. The Bank Manager Don Jamesson was real. He was really dead. And he had witnessed it all. The murder. The words they exchanged. The gun. The gunshot. The anger. The blood. The fear. The terror. And worst of all, IT HAD REALLY HAPPENED. He would never get the fear inscribed in that man's face from his mind. He would never forget the gunshot that rippled through the air and ultimately ended the Bank Manager's life. That vision would never be erased from his mind.

The door swung open and his dog Flipper padded in. The dog wore a solemn expression and nosed the boy whom had crumpled to the floor. Shakily, he reached out and stroked the dog's expecting nose. She whined, then strode out of the room.

He closed the door behind her. Hard. Eyes closed, the boy remained crumpled on the floor for several minutes before sobbing as hard as he ever had. The boy had never cried before. Tears had never streamed out of his blue, blue eyes. Yet now, they were flowing harder than ever. They were like salty waterfalls that rushed out of his unexpecting eyes that were fruitlessly clamped closed. His sobs and silent wails rushed through the room, echoing off the walls.

The man had died. He was real. He had seen him die. And he had done nothing.

Dennis Payr rose from the floor, real terror illumanating his tear-stained face.

And he closed his eyes.