We put bandages on the wounds, but you can clearly read “Sinterklaas” in bloody red slashes through the gauze.
The wounds were deep, but not severe enough to kill him.
His breathing was ragged, moans of pain.
“Did you see who did this to you?” I asked the man.
His eyes remained dull and fixed as he coughed through his confession: “I did it to myself.”
He pulled a knife from his boot, dropping the bloody blade on the floor.
“Why?” I asked him.
“I’m bad,” said the man, “and he’s out of coal.”
Be good, little children.
Or else.
Sinterklaas
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life is better ehne the voices in your head are pleasant. when they are ugly, they tell you to do strange things.
when i was at university, a streetperson, who was for the most part harmless, started listening to the ugly voices, who told him he was the hand of the devil.
So he decided to do something about it. He went to the industrial arts building (where i was taking classes), circumvented the safety feature on the paper trimmer (guillotine knife, 3′ long, 6″ wide) with his belt, and proceeded to remove his hand. Problem solved.
Don’t listen to the ugly voices…