Sirens whined in the distance; he knew they would arrive soon. Something in the boy wanted to run for the hills and live by his lonesome, safe from damage. Though he tried to get up and act, he could not. So he remained where his mother had put him, in the street. He hid his face and tried his hardest to forget the scene that he knew he would be faced with if he unburied his head. It began to rain. The rain was cold and caused the boy to hug his knees tighter and closer to his chest. Trying so hard to erase his memory, he fell asleep. Erasing one’s memory is very strenuous, especially for children whom are the most impressionable of all.
To sleep was an escape. On the outside, the boy clung to himself in the rain, his eyes clamped shut by the need to escape his reality. On the inside, the boy sat in a green field. He stood up and the grass was up to his mouth. In all directions there was nothing but more grass against a pink sky. Above him, golden clouds filled with angel faces. He reached towards the heavens and squinted, for it was bright. A radiant hand outstretched and he took it. The hand pulled from the grass and threw him through the clouds where another hand of light caught him. Cradled higher and higher yet, he waved to the angels, which all waved back at him. The ascent ceased. There before him, a great star with a mile long, shimmering tale. Behind the great star, a million other stars winked at him from an unimaginable distance. So far yet so bright still, the glittering army in the nebula changed the boy forever. In his eyes, tears were created. Not sad tears, not happy tears, no, these tears were of a pure awe stuck wonder. An awe greater than the world, greater than the accident, greater than the rain and wind. This was the awe that could only be inspired by the stars. The hand of light that carried him moved to his shoulder. When he looked through the strands of his wet hair, he saw the face of a man with a mustache. That day, he got to sit in the police car.
