The Taste of Concrete and Copper.

The taste of concrete and copper was all that was on the lips. Reaching through a ragged coat, the hands could not find what was supposed to be there. The inner coat pocket was empty. Eyes opened, laying face down in filth, the hands push and give out. A grunt of pain was all that could have been heard. Turning eyes to look at the surroundings, a small gasp escaped. Rather than stand, the hands pulled the motionless body towards what the eyes had in focus. The movement was slow through the dark alley. Traffic and sputtering neon echoes covered the sounds of dragging. Approaching the overflowing dumpster, the hands gathered the remaining strength and pulled the body half under the green dumpster. The hands felt, and the eyes saw the white duffle bag, frantically pulling it out, spilling the contents in the alley. The hands moved back under into the blackness. A jaw-clenched grunt pulled out the remaining endurance left in the body.

The hands moved back and forth, searching, eyes unable to see through the darkness. Then the left hand felt the smoothness, the soft, pliable skin. The fear washed clean with relief; reality started melting back into the body. The hands felt what the eyes could not see. Nothing was out of place. The mind began to work. The association started; clarity formed a point that started filling in the areas open within the mind. Pushing out from under the dumpster, the hands rolled the body onto the back. The blood still fresh, the eyes closed. Connections began hands to arms, then arms to body. The feeling regaining throughout self is overwhelming yet expected. Eyes to head, things always connect exponentially. The body started breathing. The mind connects layers of depth that fill the earlier blankness. The recently beaten collapsed body sat up, pulling out the black book from the coat placed there moments ago by the hands. The hands held it up slowly and glossed over the edges. Feeling a thread from the book's bottom, the hand grabbed and pulled, and the book opened. The eyes looked at the first line, and then a spark lit inside the body’s mind. The lips were licked, wetting the dried blood and concrete. The lips formed shapes over and over. Then the breathing stopped, the mind breaking through the haze. The mouth announces aloud, “ I am Mr. D.," a weighted exhale within a pause, "I am running, I cannot stay." Breathing came back with less effort. The eyes widened and narrowed, trying desperately to focus on the open pages. Inhale deeply, exhale "I am Mr. D." Inhale deeply, exhale "I am running." Inhale deeply, exhale "I cannot stay."

Mind fluttering like a skipping projector, Images poured through. Pain and fear touched every image. The hands close the book hold it close to the body. The mind sees deep the memories of Mr. D. The body running through the streets, looking back to see figures chasing. A shout as the body hits another. The mind sees the body pick up itself and grabs the dropped duffle bag. The eyes focus back on the present, looking at the bodies' feet. The once white duffle bag lay just beyond. The contents mostly remain in the bag. The mind urges the body to move. The legs shake as connections are still growing. The mind contends to search further in Mr. D's memories. The body is running down an alley the distinct feeling emerges that the figures are close. The hand throws the duffle bag under the dumpster. Eyes see the white of the duffle disappear under the dumpster. Moving past the dumpster while the head turns forward, the eyes flash white. The faint sound of a scream, shouts, and blank void scrambles the end of how Mr. D came to be void.

The mind, Mr. D., comes back to the present. The hands bring the book up while opening to the last page. "I have stolen" the sounds flow out of the mouth more comfortably. "I cannot be caught" Inhale, exhale. "I will not go back." The mind halted the reading. The hands close the book and put it back into the coat. "I am beginning to come back," Mr. D. spoke aloud. Placing his hands on either side, Mr. D rose forward, his legs shaking. He grunted as connections to his legs were being forced. He stood looking at his filth-covered pants. He looked at his face in a puddle, seeing a broken nose and grey dust all over his face. He did his best to clean his face. His clothes were filthy and ripped but still hid most of his body. Then a cold, wet line ran down his back. He stopped all and felt another hit his face. Rain, he thought. He glanced and spotted the duffle bag at his feet. He knelt and grabbed one of the green-hued small bundles and held it up, "money," he whispered, a memory recovered. “This is my money." He quietly picked up the rest of the green bricks, putting them in the duffle bag. Zipping it up, Mr. D. walked back out of the alley. The duffle bag slung around his shoulder.

Pulling out the black book Mr. D. flipped to the first page, the list of names made up the Index.

Mr. D. ran his finger down the list of names being careful that his finger did not touch the book. Mrs. R., his finger, stopped. Mr. D. noted the page closed the book and placed the loose ribbon marker through the book to mark the page. His legs were moving easier now, the rain still teetering on the edge of coming down. Mr. D. started to feel the impact on his face come through the pain bubbling forth marked by drops of cool wetness on his hands and a broken nose. "I am close. Just need a moment," he muttered to himself. The streets this far from downtown were always quiet. People had left long ago, the only reason he had to live out here. The figures came back to mind. They must have thought me an easy take. Mr. D. dropped like a dead body after the hit with no money and only my book. He thought they must have freaked and taken off. Mr. D. moved steadily through the sidewalks and trash piles until he reached his place.

The rain began as soon as Mr. D entered his building, an abandoned robotics building. The night transpired as the flicker of old streetlights hummed through the downpour. As night began to lift and a growing haze muted the stars, the door of the old building opened. Mrs. R Knew she needed to keep moving. "I need fresh clothes," she sighed, " then maybe I find a nice place to talk with the others." The White duffle bag in hand, Mrs. R. stepped forward, saying aloud, "Mr. D., we cannot be captured."