Mr. Jones, of Manor farm, was drunk. He locked the hen-houses. He, however, didn’t lock the pop holes. He was too drunk to remember. The light of his lantern danced. He lurched across the yard. He arrived at the back door. Boots came off. Scullery full of beer, he had another glass. Upstairs, Mrs Jones was snoring. Mr. Jones made his way to her.
It was wrong. I knew that. But I couldn’t let it continue. It was for his sake, after all. He was destructive. Killing himself. And it couldn’t continue. Bang. He pounded on the door.
“Let me out, ” he whimpered. I didn’t comply. He was safe now. Safe from himself. Safe from everyone. And nobody could change that. Not now. Not anymore. I was home free.
It was wrong, so devilish, and heinous, so absolutely atrocious that any sane person would call it an act by Lucifer himself. I knew that. But it couldn’t continue. It was for his sake, after all. He was self destructive, killing himself slowly without knowing, naive about his actions like a small child. And it couldn’t continue. Bang. He pounded on the door.
“Let me out,” he softly whimpered. I could almost hear his tears dripping down his face. But I couldn’t comply. He was safe, finally safe. And nobody could change that. Not his family, not his friends, not the police, he was hidden, so well hidden that nobody except for me would be able to find him in a thousand years. I was home free.