He lay there in the foetal position. As far as luxurious lives went, he was packed to the brink with luxuries and accessories. But still he lay there… Curled up into a ball and holding the demeanour of a cooked sausage. That was that when a sausage was cooked, it was usually put aside with all the other cooked sausages because there was very little you could do with it anymore. He had received what he needed and he shouldn’t want, nor ask for more. Yet, aye, there he was. In the foetal position. And the cooked sausage, that was, the boy, was asking for help.

“I need help…” It didn’t make much sense. What help did he need? Was help an option? He had already received all the help that could be afforded him and yet, still, he lay there, “I need help…” Strangers came wandering past. Some stopped and looked at him. They got down on their knees to listen to his pleas. He just kept on repeating the same thing, “I need help…”

Some strangers were kind enough to take his hand in theirs’, holding his hand, they would say, “I know you do. I know you do.”

And the boy would reply in turn, “I need help… I need help…”

And the strangers would reply, “I know you do. I know you do.”

And the boy would say, “I need help… I need help…”

This type of venture would go on like this for some time. The repetition of words and throwing back sentiments from themselves to the other person. It was a trade of words. But the trading of words would never go anywhere. As the strangers and the boy traded words, the stranger would get tired and then move on to the next cooked sausage type of person and hold their hand and say, “I know you do… I know you do…”

It seemed like a long line of strangers walking past these cooked sausage type of people, and these sympathetic types would stop and hold their hands for a while. It kind of looked like two circles. And these two circles would revolve around one another and create this great pattern and display of human emotions. The cooked sausage types and the sympathetic types.

Nobody knew what should be done about the situation. So they just let the situation continue on like this. Every so often a sympathetic would have had enough and look at the cooked sausages. They would look at the cooked sausages and then they would look up the sky and scream for all they were worth, “I can’t take this anymore!”

Then the sympathetic types would commit suicide in a number of numerous ways. They would drink themselves to death, they would take ten too many pills, they would hang themselves or if that failed a quick gunshot to the head would do the job. Decorating the many walls of the cities with the floral patterns of brain splatter.

There were other types too. Usually they would avoid the cooked sausages all together. Other times they would go up to the cooked sausages and look at them. Then say something like, “Bloody cooked sausage.” Or, “Look, it’s a cooked sausage.” Then they would walk away.

And the cooked sausage. That was the boy. There were many other cooked sausages. Cooked sausage girls and boys alike. But they would lay there and repeat themselves, over and over again, “I need help… I need help…”

And for some reason, nobody really helped them. Nobody really did anything. They would just stop and look, or hold their hand, and make comment on the fact of the cooked sausage.

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