Raymond Wiesel was a rail-miner of overbearing airs, mildly emaciated, with conducive poise. His wavy brown hair was parted to the middle. On another misconducted Tuesday, within an hour or so after he should have been off work, he walked steadily to the checkout clerk as if in bafflement. There were offsite visitors looking to speak with him.
“Ray?” His wife called as he drew nearer.
She waited for him to walk closer and then said plainly:
“You still swamped?”
“Papa!” cried a youthful voice.
“I promised I’d be home sooner but I’m real swamped with this right now,” Ray gestured with his gloves, seeming dissatisfied as he hugged Mrs. Wiesel and his daughter, Alexis. Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his chest pocket: he didn’t answer it and the caller ended up leaving a message.
He commenced telling them to leave, saying that he’d catch up with them immediately after his work-shift on the train tracks were finished. He sounded strangled and strangely cold-blooded.
Raymond’s family insisted on leaving with him; Alexis began handing him the ragged wisps of a rose that she’d plucked and been dropping along the byway.
“You don’t know this area better than I do, and you shouldn’t stay too long,” stated Mrs. Wiesel. A terrible phobia concatenated within her all the while: only that he could be so distant and utterly aloof, emotionless, reticent while she and their daughter had come the long drive to see him. Something like distance between them was already far too much for her; it was so infinite a gap she must’ve had to look across.
Swiftly, a truck approached at an accelerated speed from the stoplight near the construction zones, breaking down the antique shop that was nearby and the construction signs. It got stuck in the ditch and after it unhooked, it smoothly set everything ablaze with a general-purpose bomb.
The firemen came with their screaming and wailing, the police and the cameras arrived almost within minutes, and they covered every body with a sheet and left them lying upturned, with Raymond's whole body scalded. But from the deaths, the smoke and debris made everyone wince with dread and guilt.
There was a colder, rawer story I could’ve told you about. The one where the police knew everything before it all came about. The story that would make even your ears tingle, dear readers. But where would that leave me? Raymond Wiesel’s real story serves as a conditional morality. The lesson you would learn is that we must thank the lucky stars that smile upon us every night.
Raymond Wiesel died on the operating table that night. A news byte was filmed two hours later in front of his hospital. The anchor stated, "Nonpartisans encourage the oppression, never the victims. Silence promotes the tormentors, never the tormented lives we may lead. We need the opposing side to the tale, and there are times when I feel powerless to halt injustice, but may there never be a time when the nose of the mob fails to sniff it out."
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