My Life and My Writing

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I find out earlier today, an acquaintance had died in his sleep, this morning, here in the facility. Bill was a very nice guy, though I didn't know him very well, but he always asked what I was doing at the computer. He did have an e-mail account and always said he sends one off to his son. Exactly 2 weeks ago, another acquaintance died from lupus. She was 3 years younger than myself! I have to realize that death is more "prone" to occur in this environment than say, the general population. It's nonetheless sad--to say "hello" to someone one day, & then, to find that very same person died during the night certainly jolts one's equilibrium [thank heavens for spell-check!]. I'm hoping & praying no one passes away. . .at least for a while.

Building 4 "God's Eyes"

On Wellington Street

The existence of feral children raises terrible questions concerning the capacity of people to raise their young. Going seemingly against the very maternal instinct that is supposedly built into us, feral children are those kids whose upbringing was either deeply neglected, or whose raising was done by someone other than a human being. There are many reports of these, some fictitious and some true. However, despite the research that has been done, it has been considered on the whole to be a rare phenomenon. So when I discovered that such a case had occurred on Wellington Street, my natural inclination was to assume that it was merely a legend. I was wrong to assume this, just as much as I was wrong to hope that this would not end up being as disturbing as it managed to be.

The events occurred in yet another of the houses that line the street. However, the building itself no longer exists there, having been torn down years ago. The piece of land on which it sat is now vacant, a faded wooden fence being the only part of the original property that still survives. Questions still remain concerning the tearing down of the home, since by all accounts it had been in remarkable condition, and had several parties interested in purchasing the land, even after knowledge of the deaths within the home became public.

The owner of the home had been a single woman, who had confided with others a desire to one day have children. However, for one reason or another she was never able to find someone, and so, much of her time was spent alone. She had been supported by a group of wealthy relatives, which allowed her to spend much of her time gardening. Her garden was one of the prizes of the neighborhood, and it was not uncommon for people to ask her for advice concerning their own gardens.

When she was not gardening, she would on occasion hold parties in her home for her neighbors and friends. She was described as being a wonderful host, if not a little too flirtatious with the male company. Her parties would often go long into the night, and it was considered to be well worth attending. She seemed by all accounts to be caring woman, leaving many to wonder what caused her to be alone.

During one of the parties, the festivities were interrupted when one of the guests began to complain about a noise coming from upstairs. He said it sounded like scratching. The woman passed it off as some animal in the attic, and vowed that she would get it checked out.

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