by Everett A Warren
There was no questioning the man's talent as a photographer, as an artist; equally, there was no doubt as to the depths of his eccentricities.
You could gather up all those who had known him in life, whether superficial acquaintances or those with more familiarity than is comfortable in polite company, and not one would offer up an oh-so-common eulogy: not one would describe him as a good man, a good father, or any number of other bland or superfluously grand benedictions.
He was a man, although some refuse to think of him as thus, for whether or not there are monsters walking this kind Earth and threatening us as we go about our existence, there was at least one who breathed who was monstrous beyond belief.
We are currently working to unlock more of his secrets - his lair, if you will, cast in a vault of concrete, with no apparent method of access, save for that of a mouse crawling through the copious air shafts. We expect to find horrors - nightmares and visions already plague the work crew, but I lead a dedicated group of volunteers who would - and, it seems, must - dig to the far ends of the world to bring to light what has lain in darkness for too long.
Many of them are parents, my volunteers, parents who once had one or more child than they do at the present time, and their cause is hope - hope, or, at the least, knowing. For that sense of closure, they work long hours, puzzling over the mysteries left behind.
And why do I remain here? Why am I so intent on this goal that I donate immense amounts of my own time, despite that it takes me from my regular practice and from my dear family? Those questions can be answered almost wholly with a similar reply to that which my entire crew will give: I am a father. No, the question you want to ask, but are somewhat afraid to, is: why are the authorities allowing me here, let alone investing me as a leader in this effort, when it is I who killed the man with my bare hands?
Copyright (c) 2006 Everett Ambrose Warren