I once saw a little boy playing in the sand. At ten years old, he was such a handsome man. He had golden blond hair, and great blue eyes. He stood in the sandbox with his dirty little hands. Looking down at his creation with great pride, he formed a smile three times his size.

He had built a four story castle with a village to the North. Men and women he had set with army figures. Trees and animals also were placed neatly in their appropriate spots.

There he stood clapping his hands. His first fairy tale came to life. He ran around the park trying to get others to come and see this beautiful sight. Boys and girls gathered around while he told his story of Kings and brave Knights. When he was finished they all left with joyful laughter, and left him once again with only his fantasies.

That same little boy I saw at twelve years old running crazily down the street on a semi dark night. He ran to a bench not too far away. He seemed to run from an invisible force only he could see. He lay on the bench exhausted. Breathing in air as if he could not get enough, yet exhaling it in sighs of relief he could still breathe.

Then as I walked just a little closer I could see he was shaking uncontrollably from every muscle in his tiny frame. It was as if he could not hold a single muscle still. One could think he was having a stroke.

Even closer I walked, as the sunset was fading. I saw his tears forming at the edges of his eyes, and they were falling steadily in line with the tears before them. His eyes were so tiny they were almost swollen completely closed. The lids held the color of moonlight, and the moon would not allow the little boy to see.

As I looked closer I noticed the moon not only touched his puffy eyes but every part of his little face. He had a large lump over his right cheek, another by his ear. The ear started gushing the fluid from his heart onto his little torn shirt.

With caution, I walked a little closer, that's when I noticed the bruises on his neck and arms. He seemed not even to notice them as he wiped angrily at his own tears.

Enraged he cursed aloud. He said words I had never heard any man say. His voice was hard and strong as he lay there weeping. His body seemed to crush under a force I was not permitted to see. Yet, I heard him weep and cry out in pain and anger.

I dared to go a little further, so close I could have reached out and touched him. Suddenly, as though he knew my intentions, he jumped from his bench and ran. This time much faster, and he never looked back to see who I might be. I got the feeling he did not care, he was running to the night, trying to find a way to be free.

I saw this boy only two more times since then. Both on the same day. First, on the cover of the newspaper, and then on TV.

You see it has been many years since that night by the park bench, yet, I could not forget his face. He haunted me in all my dreams. I saw his face in all blond haired boys.

This time, his hair was long and very dirty. It was long and tangled, and just simply lay upon his head. His eyes had lost their shine and glow. Behind the glaze of alcohol they appeared almost black. They were frightening, angry, and looked straight into my soul like cutting knives. He had gotten larger. Very large in fact, he had become a very strong, towering man now. Each muscle framed, each curve perfected. He was still handsome, now in an inhuman, savage way.

The papers told me was scheduled to die by lethal injection in two days. Angrily I read why. You see my little boy had killed his son and his wife in an outrage of anger. Apparently, he had beaten them for three hours straight.

I continued to read through my haze of tears. His son was twelve and attempted to escape. After the incident the man went to the police station with what was left of his whisky and told the police officer he had just committed two murders. When asked how he could commit such a crime the man said nothing, but the police officer stated there was regret in his eyes.

That night as I slept, I saw him come to me. He was a little boy again, and he sat on the park bench. He asked a simple question, "Why"? I could not understand what he was asking. "Why?" What could that mean? What could that symbolize?

Then I realized he was asking me so much more than a simple question. He was asking me why I didn't touch him on the park bench. Why I didn't help so long ago. He became exactly what he cursed that night while the sun went down.

Slowly I answered him, and said it was none of my business what happened in his life. He corrected me softly by stating, "You could have helped me save another little boy".

Thanks for stopping by
Nik