Quietly, Quiggly stepped into the darkness as he stealthily approached and steeled himself for the task. The air was heavy with the stench of filth and misery. It smelled of things left unspoken, of things left unsaid and unrequited. It wasn't a strong aroma but it was enough for Quiggly. It reminded him of the time when he was just a boy. He'd grown up with the smell as he went around the back streets of the neighborhood. He remembered the good smells too; the flowers that were grown in the spring, the smell of burning leaves in the fall, the scent of burning wood in the winter. But these were the smells of his youth, things from his childhood, things that he knew well. Things he'd been told that he never would be able to experience, things that reminded him of the past and the life that he'd had. He could still feel his mother's arms around him, her love. She'd never left his side, even when she couldn't walk, couldn't see. She had been there for him in his darkest hours. And his father, his wonderful dad. He'd lived with them both until he died. His father had died when Quiggly was just a small child. He'd always been a quiet man, the type that rarely spoke unless something had happened. One day, Quiggly's dad had taken a bad fall in the park. It was just a simple accident but the outcome was catastrophic. Quiggly had woken up one morning to find him in the hospital. The doctors had told Quiggly's mother that his father would die. He was brain dead, he said, but he wasn't, he would never be dead. His mother and Quiggly would sit by his bed day after day. They'd hear the doctors telling them that his chances of survival were nil. 'Don't listen to them,' his father had told him. They refused to leave his side. They were his mother and he and he would not leave his side. He had wanted his father to suffer; he'd wanted him to suffer like he had suffered. He wanted him to have to stay at the hospital for months like he had. But the doctors did not listen. They said that he would die, and that was that. They would sit there, his father's voice would fade away, and then Quiggly would hear him say, 'You were good, old man.' Then he'd hear his mother say, 'Don't leave him, you can't leave him.' They were only words but they were all Quiggly had. It was his only connection to the past, and his only connection to a happier life. Quiggly's mother had eventually died as well. It was like the darkness had claimed them, his childhood ended there and then. And it would have been all his fault. He was the only witness to what had happened, and he would suffer the guilt of it until the day he died. Now he was all alone, left to clean up the mess. He had seen the crime scene but he had not seen what occurred; he did not know who the man was. But he knew who it wasn't. The news had informed him of this, they had showed footage of someone fleeing from the scene. He knew that this person was not the man he'd seen in that house, and he knew he was innocent. The street was filled with black garbage bags that had been scattered across the road like it was a garbage dump. He needed to get to them quickly if he was going to restore order in the area. As he picked his way through the street, he imagined the people that had lived there. How many of them he had seen die? How many more would die before he was through? He was going to clean up this crime. The light from the street lamps cut through the darkness as he walked along. The shadows of the buildings were cast over the road. It was a reminder of the things that lurked in the shadows of a life. But then the shadows were just that; they were not to blame. The light was. It was the light that did it; it was the light that led to madness. As he walked, his head lightened and brightened with the light of the street. The shadows would remain and they would fade, it was only the light that stayed. He stopped at the garbage bags that lay in the road. This was the worst of it; there were so many bodies there that lay in the dark. They sat there silently, like an abandoned wasteland, waiting to be claimed. They were the evidence. In one bag, he saw what looked like a baby, a child. Its skin was so tender, he could see the soft skin of the flesh. His eyes were wide open and they were searching for something. That was the moment he had seen so many things. And then it happened again. He was overcome with the temptation of the child. He had never wanted a child as much as he wanted this one. He wanted to take it home, to hold it and love it. But it was not for him; it was for his mother. That was the only reason why he wanted it. He could feel his heart beating against his chest and he could hear it beating the same in the child. He could see it breathing into his chest. His chest felt so heavy and full of all this love that it was going to crush him. And just like that, it took the strength from him. He was holding the child. He heard voices, but none of them was his. He heard them calling his name. He tried to fight against it but it was a voice that had to be obeyed. He listened to the voice and he followed the voice. All the time that he tried to fight against the voice he felt the light in him. He saw the light in the darkness. It was a light that did not fade and he walked toward it. He became more and more afraid of what was left behind him as he walked. He wished the darkness would stop him, but there was no darkness now. Only the light. It was so much stronger than anything. It had won, and all that was left was him. He had walked on his path and he had done it well. The voices stopped and he could hear the night noises again. It was the sounds of the dead that lived on in the dark. The silence was there, but it was a different silence. The darkness was still there, but he felt as though it had been beaten. The voice from the darkness was no more. But he still had so much to do. He placed the child down into the ground. It would be his way out from this place, from the dead things that called his name. He'd be his voice now. The child would be his voice. It was time to begin his work. He carried on walking. He saw the bodies and he knew that it was all just a matter of time. He looked at them and he did not feel any regret. The darkness was too strong now and the silence was there, but it had been defeated. It was there to tell him that he had to continue with his work. The voices had said that he needed to keep working and the silence would not help. It was time to continue and see where the light would take him. He smiled. He had done this. He had seen so many things. He was free of the darkness now. He was no longer blind. He was no longer helpless. He was here for a reason. He was here to clean up the streets. He was here to make a difference. It was his fate. * 'Quiggly!' Quiggly had heard this voice before. He didn't respond. He wasn't interested in who was calling him. He wasn't ready for this. He was busy, he needed to finish the work he was doing. 'Quiggly, Quiggly, Quiggly,' the voice called again. Quiggly was tired now and he could hear a faint sound. A thumping noise, but he couldn't understand what it was. He was concentrating on the work in front of him. He stopped walking and waited for it to be over. He knew that he was going to have to do something soon; he could feel the energy building in him again. He hadn't noticed it before, but it was there and now it was growing stronger. It was building up. He felt it. And now it was building and building. It was getting stronger and stronger and he could feel it. It was out there. He was sure of it. It was going to make him complete. And now he could feel it. He could see the darkness and he could hear the voices but now he was getting closer to the centre of the energy. He could feel it now, but it was just an energy that was fighting to get to the surface. And it was being held down by the darkness; it was being held down by the voices. They wanted it to stay down and they kept telling him that. They told him that he needed it but it wasn't true. It was true that he needed it. But the voices had no right to keep him there. He was going to have to listen to them no longer. They had always been a part of his life, but now he was ready to be free of them. The voices no longer had the hold over him. They no longer had the power over him. It had