[/html]He had heard them, seen them, talking, talking, always talking, fake smiles, happy grins, a glance here, a glance there, nothing, nothing. He had not seen in them in so long (too long? Or not long enough) and he wasn't going to start seeing them now, not for real, never, never. This was too soon, they were too close, too close, too near go away, go away, go away. And there was blood. Blood, blood blood, so much blood, it was blood, red, sticky, warm (but cold now, cold and old, old like the rhymes his brother used to sing) and matted on her fur. Her fur, Aurèle's fur, his sister, sister, mean sister.
He did not want to see her again. He did not want to see his ghost sister again, his stupid, stupid sister who pretended she saw ghosts to get more love, more attention (and none for poor Barthélémy, none, none, none, none!) to get more love, to be looked at, noticed, anything. But Bart had never done that, never been noticed, never been important. But it didn't matter. Barthélémy did not care. Barthélémy cared about getting away, running, hiding, hiding from her, Aurèle, the mean sister, the one with the blood.
So Barthélémy ran. Ran faster than the wind, ran until his legs hurt and ran without looking back. He'd dodged behind a tree, snuck through a bit of a forest, hid behind the rocks and found something. It was a big building, big, tall, striped, called a silly name. A lighthouse. But it had no light. It should be a stripehouse. But it was still a house, a big, TALL scary house. Barthélémy didn't want to go in, but he knew if he didn't they would find him, (she would find him) and she would be mean to him. He didn't want that.
So he went in, further in, in, in, in, and then he stopped. He did not want to go in anymore. Not when someone had been murdered, not when that someone was Yehudi, his uncle, his nice, nice uncle who had never been mean to him (but had been mean to others). And there were others, one who smelled faintly like Yehudi, others blood that he had smelled on Aurèle's fur. She smelled like the murder, she had to be the murder (but why?).
But it didn't matter. Aurèle hadn't liked anyone, she hated them all, hated Barthélémy, hated him lots. Too much, enough to make him cry (and enough to murder him?) Barthélémy whimpered; he did not want to be killed next, not by her. She would make it hurt, and he did not want to hurt. No, no, no, hurting was bad, very bad. Aurèle was bad, very bad, too. He would have to make sure everyone knew it so no one would get hurt either. Not like Uncle Yehudi had, not like Barthélémy had (even if he had only cried). But now, Barthélémy had to leave and run far, far away.
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