His fingers move across the guitar automatically. He stares down toward the alleyway adjacent to his building. Street lamps dot the sidewalk and are visible, but the light doesn’t come close to penetrating the gloom of the alleyway. The melody that Michael plays adds to that gloom. The despair pours from his fingertips and is translated by the guitar into a mournful wailing. He tries to remember a time before him and finds it difficult. He knew his parents loved him. They loved him very much until their recent deaths. After the incident, as it was called at home, Michael was a different person. His exuberance left. His interests changed and he poured himself into music, a solitary pursuit that left little time for a normal childhood. That was fine, he didn’t have a shot at a normal childhood anyway. Grade school prodigy, high school genius and then off to Columbia. During his teen years he became enamored with the macabre. Anything gruesome and supernatural fit the bill.
