Origine de l'histoire

 

 

People had sworn the lady was crazy. No-one had believed the bystander. After all, there wasn’t anything remotely believable about her claim that “as she looked up, two men had peered out, and in a flash of blue light, they disappeared.” Even the police couldn’t take her seriously. And besides, a two-year-old toddler falling from a second story window was no joking matter. The little boy was doing well, all things considered. A fractured skull, no brain damage though. A few cuts, and a few broken fingers. But he was alive. All in all, he was a very lucky child.

With his track record it was only a matter of time before 'ingesting a poisonous liquid' was added to the list. That’s not to say it was a welcome addition. His mother had nearly screamed herself hoarse when she saw her boy of only six, covered in vomit and scratching at his throat. It was then that she turned in horror to the liquid now pooling on the ground. The acid. She had meant to spray that on the garden, to kill the bugs. He must have mistaken it for a simple glass of water. But how had it gotten there? Hadn’t it been up on the shelf? A whimpering moan brought her out of the trance and as she scooped her son up, all she could do was pray. Pray in the hope that he would be given another second chance.

Doctors had told him that he hadn’t been pushed, that there had not been anyone there. But the boy was adamant. He had not tripped. The man with the black hair had pushed him. The man with the black hair and the glowing blue wristband had pushed him from behind. When the boy had burst into angry tears, it had only confirmed it to the adults present. They were ever more insistent that it was all in the boys head. They said it was lucky all that had befallen the nine year old was a broken leg. That and a bruised ego. And even though the kid eventually relented, albeit weeks later, a secret part of him held onto that image. The image of a dark haired man wearing a mask of determination, mixed in with the smallest hint of sadness.

After heading back to their own timeline for a quick recharge, the two men had jumped back to 1825. Despite them being well out of their comfort zone, they knew they had a job to do. They had been sent to kill the boy. The younger of the two had not been happy with it, but they knew that it was their only option. Dressed in the appropriate attire, they rounded on the house where the boy lived. Only to find that nature had taken its course. Measles had almost succeeded where they previously hadn’t. The duo jumped as a voice spoke up from beside them.
“Shame, isn’t it?” The sadness in the woman’s eyes was evident. She turned to the fair haired man, the one who looked the friendlier out of the two. “Only eleven, that one. Been in that coma for going on seven days. Such a waste of a good life.” They decided to leave then, in the hope that the disease would carry on its course, and spare them both the guilt that would undoubtedly come. But when they returned to their original time, they found that again they had been unsuccessful. The illness had failed them after all. The boy had lived.

He should have been used to the accidents by now. After all, his parents had told him many stories about his various ‘adventures’ when he was younger. He could remember a few of them himself. At ten he had nearly been beaten to death by the local street kids..At fourteen, his arm had become stuck in a carriage and nearly gone on without him. And now here he was. Nineteen and lying concussed from a brick to the head. A brick to the head, of all things! Nothing as glamourous as the glory days but still, it was a tale to tell. Where it had come from, only God knew. But come it had, flying like a thing possessed, and had proceeded to knock him on the right temple. The gash that resulted was one heck of a thing, but luckily the doctor was present to stitch him up, good and proper.

He recognised the man, he thought, through the haze of pain. The one that had given him the wine. The obviously tainted wine. Either it was off, of it had been outright poisoned. His thoughts returned to the man. The dark haired man, from… from the cliff. He clenched his teeth at the new wave of pain. "So this is how I am to die then? At twenty-three, in the midst of some of my greatest creations, haunted by the strange man with the glowing blue light?" As his stomach heaved, trying to throw up things that simply weren’t there, he felt himself drifting away. He had been here alone for the past three days. Each had gotten progressively worse. By this fourth day, his mind and body were too tired to keep fighting. As the darkness forced its way into his mind, he heard a shout, and then all was silent.

As it had been told in the history books, Adolphe Sax was twenty-nine when he finished his first, and only, creation. But it wasn’t merely a musical instrument, this saxophone. In the not too distant future this innocent invention would become a weapon. In the wrong hands, the beautiful crooning music would be manipulated and twisted into something horrid, something cruel.
A new form of mind control that would leave the whole world reeling. That is why the men had come, to try and eliminate the source of the evil before it could ever become a reality. At every turn, they had been thwarted. By what forces were unknown.
Destiny?
Luck?
It didn’t matter now. For they had failed.
And with that failure came the knowledge that they were powerless. Powerless to go back and try again. Powerless to do anything now. And powerless to prevent the horror they knew the future held.

 

Writter: www.facebook.com/sianyybboxx