by Aldo Orlando

Created on: August 17, 2009   Last Updated: August 18, 2009

Caged Lions

The screech of the car's brakes was loud. The sound of the impact was horrifying and with the last thud and gasp there were no lingering doubts that someone was seriously hurt. A steady drizzle continued to fall. Swarming curiously onto the road, one by one people formed a faceless crowd, to observe the final breath of the unknown man hurled to one side, onto the cobblestone footpath. No one took responsibility for the pain he suffered nor did anyone shed a tear for one so bedraggled; a scruffy ending to an obviously failed existence.

Sirens blared as an ambulance and a police car arrived onto the scene with just enough time to draw shut the eyes that had caught the final glimpse of the rain clouds above and to toss a brown blanket over the limp body.

A police officer, who was scribbling something into a small notebook asked, Does anyone know who he is?

A middle-aged woman, sporting a large shopping bag, came forward to speak to the officer. I don't know his name but he looks like one of the men who live in a nearby boarding house. It's the one up the road for old alcoholics, derelicts, drifters and burnt-out schizophrenics. I know the woman who owns it, she may know, the woman announced quickly.

The policeman conversed briefly with her while he continued to write down a few more notes. He put away his book and marched straight toward an open doorway where an elderly woman in a pink and white dressing gown stood immovable, stunned and speechless with both hands cupped over her mouth.

As the officer approached the street-front house, a short distance away from the milling crowd, the woman burst into a nervous chatter as if to free a heavy heart. He's one of my boarders, it's Mews; he'd been living here for some years; in one of the rooms on the first floor. I heard the noise and came out to see what was going on. He couldn't see well; his eyesight was failing, you know. He was probably talking to himself, as he usually did, he was not well. He had been ill for many years but he was a good man and he wouldn't have seen it coming, he was easily distracted. This is terrible, reported the woman anxiously, unaware that the officer was again taking notes.

What's your name? The officer asked.

Rose Bellano, the woman replied. I live here and I've been running the boarding house on my own since my husband's death, five years ago. Mews came here from Canada about twelve years ago, I think. He kept to himself. He was very quiet she

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