I was caught up in my own thoughts and feelings on the journey back home. Frustration, anger, regret, fatigue, concern and depression were just the start of it; there was a lot more behind that, behind everything that was happening and it was beginning to make me feel like I had accidentally slipped into a parallel universe where nothing was real and the rules had been broken. Walking across the field, mind still occupied, I gave a jolt of surprise when my phone started ringing.

It was an unknown number.

"Hello?"

A familiar voice was on the other end, only it sounded a lot less senior and wavering, and a lot more definite and firm, as if twenty years worth of age had dropped away.

"Torsten, I have persuaded your mother to abandon her tea, and come visit for a glass of dessert wine and some cake. This will buy you some time to figure out what to do about the guest that escaped from the back shed and to clean up the broken door in the yard." She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "You were lucky she was looking in the wrong direction and didn't see it escape. It was pure chance."

"You ... you know about all this?!"

"There's a lot more I know, but this is not the time for long discussions." I was entering the backyard while I listened, closing the gate, my surprise short-lived. Everyone around me seems to have a secret these days. Maybe it's a conspiracy? "I have to go entertain Natalia. You can call this number when you need to talk. I was quite serious when I told you that I'm right next door if you need anything."

"I ... uh ... thanks, Mrs Sterling."

"That's not my real name." She paused a moment, a kernel of uncertainty creeping in, not sure how much more to say, but then she went on anyhow. "For now, you can call me Celeste."

The line went dead.

Well, alright. Let's throw sudden phone calls and suspicious neighbours onto the Big Pile Of Weird Shit That's Happening In Torsten's Life. I don't really need more unexplained strange things, but it's not like I'm in control of anything.

Little did I know it was about to get stranger.

The first clue was the simple fact that the rear slider door was open, and I knew that my mother would not have left it like that if she was going out, even if only next door to the neighbour’s.

I entered, cautious. The kitchen and lounge were empty, but the second clue that something was up, was on the floor.

Spots of blood.

They were dotted on the kitchen tiles, and led across the lounge carpet toward the garage door.

It, too, was open.

My breathing began to pick up again, my heart rate rising.

Is someone here?

I took a carving knife from the knife block on the bench and advanced, following the trail. It went through the garage where the car was parked, nothing disturbed. The spots continued, taking a right turn into the laundry, then through to the basement steps.

Down, the bloody path continued, into the dimness.

There was no other way out.

Whoever it is, they have to be there.

I switched on the light for the steps and descended, very slowly, grip tightening around the knife handle. Near the bottom, I reached out and flicked the basement lights and entered the room. It was the same as always; heating and water pipes, air vents and fuse box, concrete flooring. From the steps, the spots went across to the far wall, next to a cluster of piping, where they stopped.

There was somebody lying on the floor.

Pulse thundering, knife in hand, I creeped closer.

It was a naked unconscious boy, front down. His legs were partially drawn up on the left side and he was facing away toward the wall, the right cheek against the floor, only the back of the head visible. Pale skin, long limbs, lean and athletic, he appeared unhurt at first glance but there were smears and the signs of bleeding around the left shoulder, though the wound was not immediately visible because of how he was lying. Yet, there was one final detail that made my heart leap into my mouth. Long flowing hair was splayed behind him, onto the concrete surface; long enough to reach halfway down his back.

It was red.

Not ginger nor an artificial dyed variation, but a strong rich shade, with the same potent vitality that was attached with similar such things; flame red, ruby red, blood red.

But it wasn't all red.

From next to his ear, there was a shock of beautiful silky blonde, a golden current joining the river of carmine.

I nearly dropped the knife, out of pure amazement.

It can't be ...

There was only one place I had seen this before.

This is 'it' ... or, I mean, um, this is ... him.

A boy that wasn't really a boy.

The moment was difficult to process, but then my rationale kicked in.

He's hurt.

Barely thinking, I rushed across the concrete and crouched next to him. With some care, I reached over and pulled his left shoulder up enough to see if I could locate the source. He stirred, giving a pained groan, and I saw the wound. It was a gunshot, and beneath, on the floor, were the bullets. Two little metal pellets, soaked in his blood but free upon the floor's surface.

He ... dug them out?!

Then it got to me.

Someone SHOT him?

Instinct took over. Placing the knife on the floor, I tugged him half upright, draping his right arm over my shoulder. With some effort, I stood, bringing him to his feet also. Semi-conscious was enough, and he was at least able to support his own weight as we struggled across the basement and then back upstairs into the house.

Laying him down on the bed in the spare room next to mine, as gently as I could, he passed out nearly straight away. I fetched a blanket, covering him, then went back out, found a cloth, some detergent, filled a bowl with warm water, and went to work erasing the bloody trail that was left through the house.

My mind was kinda blank the whole time. I wasn't sure what to think about anything any more, and like my departure from Theo's company barely an hour earlier, it was easier to simply act like an automaton and do what I had to do. I was too mentally exhausted to process complicated emotions.

When I was done, the tiles and concrete were clean, and the carpet was good enough that it wouldn't be noticed. Emptying the water down the sink, I squeezed out the cloth, refilled the bowl, added some antiseptic and went back to the spare room, cellphone in hand.

Call-back.

Last number received.

She answered on the fourth ring.

"Hi, um, Celeste. Sorry to bother you, but I think now ... we really need to talk."