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And Who Will Save Them?

Dawn had arrived, the first faint rays of light filtering through the windows set up high in the cold grey walls. The light struggled to penetrate the gloom within.

Peter lay quietly, only the soft rise and fall of his chest showing that life existed. Slowly the sun gained force, tracing a path downwards from the window until it reached him, coming to rest on his closed eyes. Only then did he stir, twisting sideways to keep the approaching morning at bay for as long as possible. A moan escaped his lips. He had to clench his teeth together to contain the sound inside himself. He did not want to wake the other prisoners, let them be at rest for as long as possible. He forced himself to lay without moving, without making a sound.

Then in the caged cells around him, the three other prisoners began to awaken with the coming light of day. He heard them each, one at a time, their own moans and groans breaking the silence, their shuffling feet telling him that they were getting up, stretching their kinks from their muscled bodies. Already the tallest and stockiest of the other three was trying to pick a fight with the prisoner in the cell beside him. Peter guessed that they would never learn to get along with each other, let alone society.

Peter wondered at the total lack of fear within himself on this day. For weeks he had tried to tell his captors of his innocence. He had tried to convince them that he was different than the other three. They would not listen to him. They had judged him guilty along with the others from the first day of their capture. The long wait for this day to happen, with the court case to legally convict them of the crime had been nothing but a sham to impress the public. The angry reporters who had come to this cold, grey prison to stare at them, to take their pictures, to splash their story over every front page of every paper in the country, had made sure the public would never stand still and let them go free.

Peter let his thoughts take him back to the beginning. Back to the country where he was born and raised. To the good times in his life. He found himself smiling as he remembered his mother. What a wonderful creature she had been. He hadn't seen her for a very long time but with his eyes closed like this, he could picture her as if she were beside him right now. Her soft brown eyes, her gentle voice and the way she cared for her children with such obvious love and devotion. She had raised him right and he had tried to be just like her. Of all her children, he was the closest to her. When he had been little, he had followed her everywhere, proud to be her son. She had taken him often to the river, which flowed past their country home. Here she taught him how to swim, the two of them, romping and playing in the deep blue water without a care in the world. Then they would lay side by side on the bank, letting the sun dry them. As they lay there, she taught him about the world of nature surrounding them. She pointed out the different birds to him, telling him the stories about each one so that he would know one kind from the other. She taught him the language of the trees, what each rustle of their leaves meant. Whether the wind was causing them to talk or some bird or animal made the tiniest of branches sway. He would lay beside her, listening to the leaves, happy when he was the first one to spot a grey squirrel in the foliage. She showed him each and every one of the wild creatures that lived in the meadows leading down to the river. Those were the best times of his life.

He hadn't wanted to leave his first home. He had been barely grown when he was forced to say goodbye to his mother and move to this city so many miles away. He missed her so much. And he missed the fredom of the country where he could roam the land to his heart's content. Maybe that was why he found every excuse to roam the city streets after dark. He meant no harm by it. He did it only to get out of his new home, to wander at will once again.

He might still be out there, free, if he had not allowed himself to get tangled up with the other three. He was not stupid, he had known as soon as he met them that they were no good. He knew that he was a different class than them. They were little more than the scum of the city streets. They prowled the darkened streets, night after night. Stealing what they could to survive, fighting with everyone they met. Fighting amongst themselves over anything and everything. They treated Peter like dirt but he allowed his loneliness to rule his head so that he sought out their company more and more often. They knew he was not a fighter, like themselves, so they tolerated his company without doing him serious harm. They sneered at his way of always running from a fight, but still he ran with them. Not in his wildest dreams did he ever think they would do what happened that fateful night, as bad as they were, he still thought of them as only free spirits, not hardened criminals.

The four of them travelled the back alleys, staying to the shadows that night. Peter always a few steps behind, with them but never part of them. Ahead of him, still hidden from his view, he heard their excited voices over something they had found hidden behind a garbage dumpster. As he approached them, he watched in amazement as they scrambled to get their intended victim. My God, it was only a tiny kitten, frightened out of its wits. Why couldn't they just leave it alone? When the leader of the three got a hold of it, yanking it out into the open, it screamed in fear and pain. Peter wanted to stop them before they hurt it seriously but knew that if he interfered they would just turn on him instead. He didn't want to watch this. There was no reason for such cruelty. Again the kitten cried out in fear, begging to be left alone.

Peter was the first to hear the running footsteps from the entrance of the alley. He shrank back against the wall, wanting no part of this. It was an elderly man, puffing from his exertion of sprinting the length of the alley. He didn't even appear to see Peter, instead he faced the other three, shouting at them to leave the kitten alone. They chose to ignore him, intent on mauling their tiny victim. Bravely the man searched at his feet for a weapon. Finding a chunk of a board, he snatched it up and charged the trio. The only managed to land one blow to somebody's shoulder before they turned on him. He was too old, too crippled with age to stand a chance against them. They literally swarmed all over top of him; his body sinking to the ground under the savage attack. Like the kitten had, moments before, he too cried out in fear and pain. Peter had to stop them. He must stop them. Leaping forward he grabbed the nearest one, only to be hurled back, his strength no match for theirs. Again he lunged at them, his voice raised in protest. There was no stopping them, they were nothing more than enraged beasts, intent on their kill. At the sudden sounds of approaching sirens, they came to their senses at last. As the bright lights of the police car flooded the alley, the three turned and raced down the alley, knowing they had to get away. Peter knew he had done no wrong but would the police know that? He broke and ran after them. There would be no escaping tonight. It was a dead end alley, a solid brick wall blocking their flight. Peter crouched in the darkness beside them, waiting to be captured, hearing the rattle from the dying man's chest, knowing terrible shame.

The clanking of the heavy security door at the end of the hall, told Peter someone was entering this isolated section of the prison. He sat up slowly, then with a great effort, stood at attention. The other three prisoners immediately started rattling the bars of their cells, shouting at the approaching guards, demanding that they were innocent, that they should go free. Peter remained silent for he knew it was too late to say anything. First came the guard with the lame leg. He stopped for a brief second in front of Peter. His kind eyes looked into Peter's eyes as if searching for some hidden truth. He was Peter's favourite guard, he had shown nothing but gentleness towards Peter from the very first day. While no one else had believed in his innocence, this man had, but to no avail. Limping he continued down the aisle. Next came the prison warden, he never bothered to glance at Peter. It did not matter now.

They took the first one from the end cell, protesting and crying into the room at the back of the aisle. The closing door shutting out the sound of his voice. When they came back for the second one, he grovelled on the floor of his cell, and they had to drag him out and through the door. The third one was the toughest of the three, he fought them with his brute strength, they took him in double chains, raging at them all the way. Then they came for Peter.

Peter never made a sound. He walked beside them, tall and proud, his head up, his eyes staring straight ahead. He entered the white walls of the room, looking neither left nor right. He knew it was over. His time had come.

When he had drawn his last breath, when his heart no longer beat, the kind guard carried his body to the trolley which held the other three who died before him. Gently he laid the Golden Retriever's body down beside them. His hand lingered on the silky coat of the dog. What a shame for a beautiful creature to have died like this. Then he turned and limped after the other man, knowing that he could not have saved him.