I’m not allowed in here. I’m alone in the empty concrete room of an unfinished house. The walls are all grey and rough. There are no windows installed, only holes where windows ought to be. The builders are all away and I’m not supposed to be here. Oh man, there it is: the excited nervousness of a childhood memory. Butterflies in my belly, bringing me back to days of innocent trespass. Simpler times, happier times, times of pl-- hold on, there’s the bloke I’ve got to murder, be right back.
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