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Chapter 2: Every Dog's Dumpster

The place is quite a mess; in fact that description would be a huge insult to the word mess. It is like dirt flies all over the apartment. You can call it the house of dirt and it would hold true and no one would blame you. On the ground and very close to the very old king size bed that is more like a huge garbage can he laid snoring. Frank Benedict, who slept in the same clothes he wore to the dark alley the night before, seemed to be suffering lots of nightmares. From the looks of his own place you can even consider Benedict a symbol of suffering. A tiny place with tiny hallways and furniture that looks more than a century old is where this man lives and depresses.

In no time Benedict would open his eyes and start looking around in amazement, trying to remember details of the previous night. He could remember darkness and could still smell his fear all over the place. He stands to his feet feeling a mild head rush before he walks to his joke of a kitchen. A table, a very small stove and an electric kettle from the looks of which you would think it has been manufactured before Electricity was discovered or invented or whatever. Benedict opens his fridge, which from the look on his face stinks. He pours himself a glass of milk and takes a sip that he soon spits in the sink; for even the milk in his life decided to go all stale on him.

He then walks in the direction of his green sofa stepping on a couple of roaches on his way and pushing his hands in his pocket. Suddenly, he halts just a couple of inches away from the sofa. He then pulls a folded paper from his pocket and gazes at it after he unfolds it getting his memory to light up with the events of the night before. The head rush is gone. Everything that existed a minute before has been replaced by a couple of tears carving their way through his cheek.

He looks at the page he cut of the seventy’s magazine, at the image as he reads the words in the headline, “Business figure, John Samuel Benedict murdered with ten bullets to the chest.”

Twenty eight years have passed and it yet hurts to remember, and if another twenty eight like them do pass he is always gonna feel the same. This is news from when he was two, news he got to understand later on in his life when he grew from a young innocent baby with toys to a keen to know young boy with hope for life. It hurt then and it still does and always will. And if there is one thing Benedict should have learnt from his past life, it should be to give up on being happy and to accept the sorrow that keeps following him everywhere he goes. If there is one thing Benedict should have learnt from his past life it should have been that forgetting is a blessing, but he was never entitled to have it, he has never wanted to forget, he has never forgotten. If there is one thing Benedict should have learnt from his past life it is to buy a new bottle of milk when the older bottle has been in his fridge long enough it is logical that it should have gone stale.

Suddenly the phone rings and the lazy man Benedict is, hesitates to go for the set on a small table a couple of meters away but then he makes up his mind and he takes the call.

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