Good bye, Mr.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
what happens when a man from the future visits?

Submitted: January 29, 2008

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Submitted: January 29, 2008



Goodbye, Mr.

It seemed that the puzzle was incomplete; there was an important trait from his character that was missing—his last name. None of us kids knew it, and he sure the heck ain’t going to remember. My mother was friends with his wife—that is, before she died. He was a tall man, mid eighties, slim and fragile. He walked with a limp, his cane wobbled as he carefully walked down his front porch step. His robe wrapped tightly around his body, was occasionally blown up by the wind, sometimes revealing repulsive scars and wrinkled flesh. He walked slowly to his mailbox, and bent over to pick up a package. It was really bad timing for the wind, because just as he bent over, the wind blew up his robe revealing a disturbing sight, I don’t think he noticed.

“Hi-ya Mr.,” I Said. Mr. Dropped his package and held his hands in the air.

“Oh, Don’t shoot! Take my money, but please don’t shoot!”
“Mr., its only me, Albert,” I said. The old man turned around and scowled.
“Oh, its you,” he said bitterly.” “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?” he asked.
“How so?” I asked.
“Don’t get cocky with me boy,” He said. “I know that you killed Loretta.”
“I didn’t kill your wife, Mr., Pneumonia did, honest!”
“Don’t blame your fault on a poor defenseless child, boy.” He scolded.
“But I—,”
“Silence,” he said, and he walked away robe flapping in the wind.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Something was racking at my brain, what it was, I’ll never know. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I checked the time on my clock. I noticed it was 6:50. I slipped on my shoes and walked outside, I was surprised how chilly it was. I looked across the street and noticed Mr. was sleeping in his rocker .I walked up to him I carefully shook him—he didn’t wake. I noticed a small flask in his hand. I read the label: McKing’s pure Scotch Ale I felt so relieved to find that he wasn’t dead, just passed out. I shook him gently, and he awoke.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I, Uh—” I stammered.
“Don’t stammer boy! Just answer the question!”
“I came to see if you were alright, because, I saw you sleeping on your chair and I though you were…”
“Dead?” Mr. Finished for me
“Yeah,” I admitted.
“Well thanks, but I’m fine, now get, before I call the cops on you,” Then, all of a sudden, began coughing, wheezing, and spitting up Scotch. He began whining that he couldn’t feel his hand. I went inside, called the ambulance, and went outside to see how he was doing. I felt his pulse. He was still alive, bus just barely.
“I know, I’m going to die,” he groaned, “But I want you to know that my name is Albert M. Jones,” he said. And his eyes closed, and his pulse stopped. I just stood there looking at the body for the longest time. I finally accepted his death, and went home. I began walking down the sidewalk and I turned only to find that the body was gone, and the chair was empty. I repeated the name over and over. Albert M. Jones. A chill went down my spine, and that’s when I realized, the old man was in fact—me

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