Prologue
My name is Cuit, well it’s not really but most people call me that. My real name is Cuitadella Sanda but no one calls me that. Most people just call me Cuit. I have lived a strange and terrifying life and nearly died about 7 times. Well, here it is the story of my life for the first time ever and in it I will explain all. I promise, including what really happened to me and my family all those years ago and my life since. But I can’t say I would have it any different, cause I wouldn’t.
I am only 16 years old and I know very, very few people write their autobiography at this young age but then few people live the life that I do and I feel now is the time to tell my story to the world so please if you dare read on and discover my terrifying life that is told in the pages of this book.
What do you think? Would you read it? Could I improve it? Contact me and let me know!
I am only 16 years old and I know very, very few people write their autobiography at this young age but then few people live the life that I do and I feel now is the time to tell my story to the world so please if you dare read on and discover my terrifying life that is told in the pages of this book.
What do you think? Would you read it? Could I improve it? Contact me and let me know!
Chapter One
My earliest memory is that of when my parents were killed.
We lived in South Africa, a beautiful country, and I was exceptionally fortunate that my parents were owners of a large safari park, near Cape Town, called Aldera. We were all really happy together and life was peaceful and reasonably carefree, well at least that is what I am told, I don’t really remember. I had learnt to walk and talk at a young age and so was getting myself into all sorts of mischief. But I was still my parent’s wonder child; I was doted on day and night. The world was my toy, there purely for my enjoyment and I loved it.
Nature fascinated me; I adored it, not that I could really understand much of it. I mean a tree losing all its leaves at certain times of the year. I couldn’t work it out no matter how hard I tried, yet I still loved it, the new born cubs that played lovingly in the depths of the scorching hot safari, and the massive buffalos that stampeded through the park. I felt at home here in this wild unpredictable atmosphere. It all amazed me. All the animals there, I considered my playmates and I flourished in their attention.
As soon as I woke up I was running out the door before my parent’s could tell me not to, just dying to discover something amazingly, brilliant and new every day. On the go from dawn to dusk, no time for rest. Knocked over more times than I care to count, I never gave up and always came out the other side smiling. Often the rough and tumble with the other animals ended in scratches and bruises. Mum and Dad were always nearby; but they couldn’t understand why I loved being a wild child. In fact both my parents had taken to calling me that, and so Cuitadella was reserved for those occasions when I had done something I shouldn’t and in doing so had annoyed and upset them both.
I will now tell you a little about myself before I get too far ahead of myself. I was born on the 26th of July in the year 1996. At eleven o’clock, if you want to be precise, and that was the day this story starts.
It was at that exact moment in time that my parent’s killer entered South Africa.
Now I personally don’t believe in coincidences but that was incredibly strange. It was to be another eighteen months before he managed to find us, hidden deep within South Africa, living a perfectly peaceful life.
I know that at this point I probably should tell you now he killed them and what happened on that fateful day, the 7th of February 1998, and if you do the maths that DOES make me only eighteen months old. Scary. But I just can’t bring myself to do it, so please allow me a few more paragraphs of happiness, will you. After all from here on in it is destruction and pure horror with only a few rare glimmers of hope.
Maybe I should just do it, better sooner rather than later, as they say. Ohh, I don’t know. What would you do?
It’s just so difficult to do. I mean I have so very rarely told this story and certainly never sat down and put the words on paper, just like I am doing now. That day, my whole world shattered, I was plunged head first into a world of chaos and destruction, oh, not forgetting death. Back then I couldn’t really understand what had happened to me and how it would affect the rest of my life. I know that I really should explain myself but I can’t, not just yet anyway. I have tried many times and failed but here goes. Deep breath. One. Two. Three.
At noon on the 7th of February my family and I were out on the reserve, in the jeep. It was a beautiful day, I remember, there was not a cloud in the sky. We were hidden in the depths of the forest, which was located in the centre of Aldera.
The dappled sunlight was streaming through the tall trees, which towered above us, illuminating the young leopard with her new born cubs, only a few days old. I was desperately trying to climb out of the jeep which was parked as close as we dared to the den in which the tiny new born cubs were playing gently with their mother. I was dying to play with them and no matter how hard Mum tried to explain to me I couldn’t, I wouldn’t accept it.
I was squealing in delight for all my half hearted tantrums about not being allowed to play. I remember Mummy and Daddy laughing, sharing some private joke between the two of them. I think Mummy was singing in between the fits of laughter. Her wavy golden brown hair flowing down to her shoulders, with her long slender arms gently wrapped across my waist. Daddy was holding Mummy close, her head was resting lightly on his broad chest.
They really love one another; it was a very pure and true love. The kind you read about in fairy tales.
Then the peace was shattered.
The bullet shot through the air as fast as lighting. It hit Mummy right in the chest killing her almost instantly, she just had time to scream, and those screams are engraved in my soul forever more. A man burst out of the bushes, knife in one hand, and gun in the other. The silver blade ripped through the air, catching Daddy and spilling the crimson liquid, which flowed through his body, called blood. The scarred man ran forward.
I screamed.
Daddy picked me up and held me close, I was really frightened; I have never been so scared that I was shaking out of sheer terror.
I whirled through the air as the man chucked me across the jeep. I felt a sharp pain in my arm turning slowly I let out a piercing scream once again, it was so loud that even the man stopped, if only for a second. My Daddy was desperately trying to stop him but was helpless. The man had slit my arm open from shoulder to elbow down to the bone thinking that I would die a slow and painful death. How wrong he was.
Daddy reached out for me and as he did, the mad man, grinning slyly, shoved the knife, up to the handle, into my Daddy’s gut. Then he pulled out the slimy, long, red stuff that made up his digestive system. Daddy had soon fallen unconscious through the pain. And here I was at the age of 18 months watching my parents being murdered. NO ONE should have to go through that, it is torture.
About 15 minutes later my Daddy died, one last breath escaped his body and no more was this amazing, funny, caring man, so full of life on this Earth. I like to think that they are waiting for me in heaven, taking care of me. But I don’t know.
The man then left.
For awhile I just lied there, in agony, not sure what I had just seen and why I was in so much pain. Then I slipped into unconsciousness.
When I awoke there was a man standing over me, I knew him but couldn’t put a name to his face. Suddenly it came to me; he was Aaron, our driver. He picked me up without saying a word. And lying limply in his arms I surrendered to the unconscious world once more. That is all I remember.
Afterwards I found out that I was left on the doorstep of the nearest hospital. Aaron had spoken to the police, made a statement telling them what he knew, and then left the country as soon as he could. He was appalled by what he had found.
I was placed in intensive care as I had lost a lot of blood, my arm was excruciatingly painful. I was trembling from shock, what I had seen that day would haunt me in my nightmares for many years to come. The police decided to keep me in the hospital for several days longer than usual as I had nowhere to go.
There was a long investigation into my parent’s murder but those at the hospital were more concerned with keeping me alive. I had given a statement to the police soon after I regained consciousness but they never found the man behind the murder.
I have though and know him all too well for my liking. Most unfortunate for the both of us, you could say. I hate him, he hates me. A mutual agreement we have.
In the end the officials made arrangements to send me to live in England with my grandparents on my father’s side of the family. I mean seriously I had just lost my parents in a gruesome, horrific way and was now being shoved in a big plane and being flown to a country I had never heard of before let alone visited. And it was cold and rainy there.
Anyway I was meant to live with my Grandparents in London but the officials had mucked up and got all the papers confused and it turned out that when I got to England there was no one to look after me.
You see my Grandad had died two years before I was born and my Grandmother was suffering from Alzheimer’s. She had been diagnosed with it 7 years ago and now could barely remember her own name most of the time. So now I really was alone.
Now with no one to look after me, the officials were confused as to what to do with me. All I wanted was to go home. But no one asked me as to what I wanted. Why would they I was only a little toddler. I was sad and lonely with no one to run to when I cried or was hurt, there was no one to protect me and hug me and no one to tell me that it was going to be okay. I was alone. I spent many nights in London crying myself to sleep. I grew up during those few days. I found out that you can’t rely on anyone but yourself. This was a lesson that was going to be enforced many times over the coming years.
Yet I was still young. I could still heal easily. I was going to have many happy times ahead but this I didn’t know and so wished many times each day that I wasn’t here living this seemingly horrible life.
And just when I felt things couldn’t get any worse, they did just that. I was sent to an orphanage the other side of London.
I hated it. It smelt funny was dark, damp and dirty. Not really the sort of place you want to live in. Waiting in hope that one day someone will rescue you. It is not a nice feeling. I disliked it intensely. I couldn’t speak much English and no one could understand anything I said in Casa Miena Leeva ,my first language. It is not my native language. That is Afrikaans of which I speak a little. It is quite a difficult language to learn but it came very naturally to me as it was my first language. I found English far more complicated.
My carer was called Sara, and I could tell straight away that we weren’t going to get along. She didn’t like me. I knew that, but what I didn’t know was why. I mean I was a tiny child with big blue eyes and really curly blonde hair, according to all the other carers there I was adorable but Sara didn’t think so, she hated me. And so I grew to hate not only her but also the orphanage.
It was a piercing pain, that sadness, tearing right through my heart. Slowly ripping it in two, she didn’t care, not really, she pretended to, but she never loved me, no one did, but Sara hated me. Over time her black anger consumed me. Love was no longer visible in my life; it had been swallowed up in the mist of hatred and anger. My past haunted me day and night. Tears danced down my face more and more often.
I really loathed it there. It was unbearable, lying there, at 10 o clock at night, just wishing for someone to come and tell you it will be okay, that things will turn out right, that you will be happy again. I felt so alone, totally isolated from everyone. Slowly, I gave up hope. Everything I loved had been taken from me. My whole world was crumbling around me.
Sunk deep inside me, I lost all interest in the world around me. Miserable and alone, I slipped away, losing hold on reality.
My room was large and painted a pretty pink which gave off an appearance of happiness but my heart was black with sorrow, all happiness killed along with my parents. I missed them, their joyful laughs, smiley happy faces, the feeling of love. Her arms were gently holding me. Yeah, I missed them. Why were they killed? I asked myself over and over again. I am still no closer to finding the answer. Days of misery passed, not knowing or caring whether it was night or day. I had given up. Hoping got you nowhere, why bother.
I remember that soon after I arrived at the orphanage, a man came to adopt me, he seemed nice enough and I went to go and live with him for a two week trial. Those were two weeks spent in hell; I only ever saw the four walls of my room. And when he came to see me, and that was a rare occasion, he beat me, with a belt and sometimes a knotted piece of rope.
When the two weeks were up he sent me back with a scarred and bleeding back and no hope in ever finding happiness again. I had been broken once again but I was determined to survive and not let anyone ever break me again. For a girl of two I knew a hell of a lot more about life than most people ever do.
Yet I was scared, frightened and really worried, I couldn’t understand where my happy care-free life had gone. The life that was so perfect with the loveliest family had gone, and I didn’t know how to get it back. Had I been a bad girl and so Mummy and Daddy had sent me away? I didn’t know. I cried over and over that I would never be bad again if I could get them back.
Then after I had been there a few months a miracle appeared in the form of Minerva Christenson. She had come looking for a little girl to adopt. I was only two and a half yet I remember that day like it was yesterday. She spent hours with me, playing with me. I laughed so much, more than I had done for ages. I had such a good time and even though at that point I couldn’t speak much English at that point but we got on so well. Then my heart was broken once more.
As Minerva left the room she said to Sara “She is lovely but I think she would be too much hard work, I don’t think I could cope. I am really sorry” I understood most of what she was saying even though I couldn’t speak any English; my understanding of it was reasonably good. I cried for hours afterwards.
Four days later my fragile world was shattered once more. The man who had murdered my family arrived.
I was tottering along the corridor towards Miss Slater’s office when I saw him standing talking to Mr Rice, they were talking but I wasn’t close enough to hear what about. I froze. Scared stiff, my brain was screaming at me to run yet my feet refused to move. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins. There he was. What should I do? What could I do? I didn’t really know. Run. And so I did. A couple of minutes later, there I was, pounding out of the gate to the orphanage, my feet flying over the cobbles. I dashed round the corner out of sight of the miserable orphanage that had been my home for the past seven months. Tiring quickly, I hid in the doorway, hoping that the cloak of darkness would hide me.
I must have fallen asleep, as when I next opened my eyes, they met a horrifically scary sight. There he was, my family’s murderer, standing over me, a gleaming knife in his hand. A scream erupted from my lips, piercing the frosty night air. Quickly, he put his slimy cold hand over my mouth. And there he stood, whispering to me.
“Well, now I’ve found you my little death cheating darling. Let me tell you something, this time you won’t survive. I, Saldinio Kelenze will make sure of that.”
My muscles froze, I could feel my whole body screaming out in fear, I felt my eyes widen with shock, focusing on the blade of the knife that was shining with cold. Suddenly he grabbed me by the shoulders and drew the shining blade of the knife across my arm. I screamed in agony but he just laughed and dug the knife deeper, into the same arm he had opened just under a year ago. Blood spurted out over the pavement. My old scar was ripping open again. Dizziness over came me. Slipping into the blissful relief of nothingness, I fell unconscious.
We lived in South Africa, a beautiful country, and I was exceptionally fortunate that my parents were owners of a large safari park, near Cape Town, called Aldera. We were all really happy together and life was peaceful and reasonably carefree, well at least that is what I am told, I don’t really remember. I had learnt to walk and talk at a young age and so was getting myself into all sorts of mischief. But I was still my parent’s wonder child; I was doted on day and night. The world was my toy, there purely for my enjoyment and I loved it.
Nature fascinated me; I adored it, not that I could really understand much of it. I mean a tree losing all its leaves at certain times of the year. I couldn’t work it out no matter how hard I tried, yet I still loved it, the new born cubs that played lovingly in the depths of the scorching hot safari, and the massive buffalos that stampeded through the park. I felt at home here in this wild unpredictable atmosphere. It all amazed me. All the animals there, I considered my playmates and I flourished in their attention.
As soon as I woke up I was running out the door before my parent’s could tell me not to, just dying to discover something amazingly, brilliant and new every day. On the go from dawn to dusk, no time for rest. Knocked over more times than I care to count, I never gave up and always came out the other side smiling. Often the rough and tumble with the other animals ended in scratches and bruises. Mum and Dad were always nearby; but they couldn’t understand why I loved being a wild child. In fact both my parents had taken to calling me that, and so Cuitadella was reserved for those occasions when I had done something I shouldn’t and in doing so had annoyed and upset them both.
I will now tell you a little about myself before I get too far ahead of myself. I was born on the 26th of July in the year 1996. At eleven o’clock, if you want to be precise, and that was the day this story starts.
It was at that exact moment in time that my parent’s killer entered South Africa.
Now I personally don’t believe in coincidences but that was incredibly strange. It was to be another eighteen months before he managed to find us, hidden deep within South Africa, living a perfectly peaceful life.
I know that at this point I probably should tell you now he killed them and what happened on that fateful day, the 7th of February 1998, and if you do the maths that DOES make me only eighteen months old. Scary. But I just can’t bring myself to do it, so please allow me a few more paragraphs of happiness, will you. After all from here on in it is destruction and pure horror with only a few rare glimmers of hope.
Maybe I should just do it, better sooner rather than later, as they say. Ohh, I don’t know. What would you do?
It’s just so difficult to do. I mean I have so very rarely told this story and certainly never sat down and put the words on paper, just like I am doing now. That day, my whole world shattered, I was plunged head first into a world of chaos and destruction, oh, not forgetting death. Back then I couldn’t really understand what had happened to me and how it would affect the rest of my life. I know that I really should explain myself but I can’t, not just yet anyway. I have tried many times and failed but here goes. Deep breath. One. Two. Three.
At noon on the 7th of February my family and I were out on the reserve, in the jeep. It was a beautiful day, I remember, there was not a cloud in the sky. We were hidden in the depths of the forest, which was located in the centre of Aldera.
The dappled sunlight was streaming through the tall trees, which towered above us, illuminating the young leopard with her new born cubs, only a few days old. I was desperately trying to climb out of the jeep which was parked as close as we dared to the den in which the tiny new born cubs were playing gently with their mother. I was dying to play with them and no matter how hard Mum tried to explain to me I couldn’t, I wouldn’t accept it.
I was squealing in delight for all my half hearted tantrums about not being allowed to play. I remember Mummy and Daddy laughing, sharing some private joke between the two of them. I think Mummy was singing in between the fits of laughter. Her wavy golden brown hair flowing down to her shoulders, with her long slender arms gently wrapped across my waist. Daddy was holding Mummy close, her head was resting lightly on his broad chest.
They really love one another; it was a very pure and true love. The kind you read about in fairy tales.
Then the peace was shattered.
The bullet shot through the air as fast as lighting. It hit Mummy right in the chest killing her almost instantly, she just had time to scream, and those screams are engraved in my soul forever more. A man burst out of the bushes, knife in one hand, and gun in the other. The silver blade ripped through the air, catching Daddy and spilling the crimson liquid, which flowed through his body, called blood. The scarred man ran forward.
I screamed.
Daddy picked me up and held me close, I was really frightened; I have never been so scared that I was shaking out of sheer terror.
I whirled through the air as the man chucked me across the jeep. I felt a sharp pain in my arm turning slowly I let out a piercing scream once again, it was so loud that even the man stopped, if only for a second. My Daddy was desperately trying to stop him but was helpless. The man had slit my arm open from shoulder to elbow down to the bone thinking that I would die a slow and painful death. How wrong he was.
Daddy reached out for me and as he did, the mad man, grinning slyly, shoved the knife, up to the handle, into my Daddy’s gut. Then he pulled out the slimy, long, red stuff that made up his digestive system. Daddy had soon fallen unconscious through the pain. And here I was at the age of 18 months watching my parents being murdered. NO ONE should have to go through that, it is torture.
About 15 minutes later my Daddy died, one last breath escaped his body and no more was this amazing, funny, caring man, so full of life on this Earth. I like to think that they are waiting for me in heaven, taking care of me. But I don’t know.
The man then left.
For awhile I just lied there, in agony, not sure what I had just seen and why I was in so much pain. Then I slipped into unconsciousness.
When I awoke there was a man standing over me, I knew him but couldn’t put a name to his face. Suddenly it came to me; he was Aaron, our driver. He picked me up without saying a word. And lying limply in his arms I surrendered to the unconscious world once more. That is all I remember.
Afterwards I found out that I was left on the doorstep of the nearest hospital. Aaron had spoken to the police, made a statement telling them what he knew, and then left the country as soon as he could. He was appalled by what he had found.
I was placed in intensive care as I had lost a lot of blood, my arm was excruciatingly painful. I was trembling from shock, what I had seen that day would haunt me in my nightmares for many years to come. The police decided to keep me in the hospital for several days longer than usual as I had nowhere to go.
There was a long investigation into my parent’s murder but those at the hospital were more concerned with keeping me alive. I had given a statement to the police soon after I regained consciousness but they never found the man behind the murder.
I have though and know him all too well for my liking. Most unfortunate for the both of us, you could say. I hate him, he hates me. A mutual agreement we have.
In the end the officials made arrangements to send me to live in England with my grandparents on my father’s side of the family. I mean seriously I had just lost my parents in a gruesome, horrific way and was now being shoved in a big plane and being flown to a country I had never heard of before let alone visited. And it was cold and rainy there.
Anyway I was meant to live with my Grandparents in London but the officials had mucked up and got all the papers confused and it turned out that when I got to England there was no one to look after me.
You see my Grandad had died two years before I was born and my Grandmother was suffering from Alzheimer’s. She had been diagnosed with it 7 years ago and now could barely remember her own name most of the time. So now I really was alone.
Now with no one to look after me, the officials were confused as to what to do with me. All I wanted was to go home. But no one asked me as to what I wanted. Why would they I was only a little toddler. I was sad and lonely with no one to run to when I cried or was hurt, there was no one to protect me and hug me and no one to tell me that it was going to be okay. I was alone. I spent many nights in London crying myself to sleep. I grew up during those few days. I found out that you can’t rely on anyone but yourself. This was a lesson that was going to be enforced many times over the coming years.
Yet I was still young. I could still heal easily. I was going to have many happy times ahead but this I didn’t know and so wished many times each day that I wasn’t here living this seemingly horrible life.
And just when I felt things couldn’t get any worse, they did just that. I was sent to an orphanage the other side of London.
I hated it. It smelt funny was dark, damp and dirty. Not really the sort of place you want to live in. Waiting in hope that one day someone will rescue you. It is not a nice feeling. I disliked it intensely. I couldn’t speak much English and no one could understand anything I said in Casa Miena Leeva ,my first language. It is not my native language. That is Afrikaans of which I speak a little. It is quite a difficult language to learn but it came very naturally to me as it was my first language. I found English far more complicated.
My carer was called Sara, and I could tell straight away that we weren’t going to get along. She didn’t like me. I knew that, but what I didn’t know was why. I mean I was a tiny child with big blue eyes and really curly blonde hair, according to all the other carers there I was adorable but Sara didn’t think so, she hated me. And so I grew to hate not only her but also the orphanage.
It was a piercing pain, that sadness, tearing right through my heart. Slowly ripping it in two, she didn’t care, not really, she pretended to, but she never loved me, no one did, but Sara hated me. Over time her black anger consumed me. Love was no longer visible in my life; it had been swallowed up in the mist of hatred and anger. My past haunted me day and night. Tears danced down my face more and more often.
I really loathed it there. It was unbearable, lying there, at 10 o clock at night, just wishing for someone to come and tell you it will be okay, that things will turn out right, that you will be happy again. I felt so alone, totally isolated from everyone. Slowly, I gave up hope. Everything I loved had been taken from me. My whole world was crumbling around me.
Sunk deep inside me, I lost all interest in the world around me. Miserable and alone, I slipped away, losing hold on reality.
My room was large and painted a pretty pink which gave off an appearance of happiness but my heart was black with sorrow, all happiness killed along with my parents. I missed them, their joyful laughs, smiley happy faces, the feeling of love. Her arms were gently holding me. Yeah, I missed them. Why were they killed? I asked myself over and over again. I am still no closer to finding the answer. Days of misery passed, not knowing or caring whether it was night or day. I had given up. Hoping got you nowhere, why bother.
I remember that soon after I arrived at the orphanage, a man came to adopt me, he seemed nice enough and I went to go and live with him for a two week trial. Those were two weeks spent in hell; I only ever saw the four walls of my room. And when he came to see me, and that was a rare occasion, he beat me, with a belt and sometimes a knotted piece of rope.
When the two weeks were up he sent me back with a scarred and bleeding back and no hope in ever finding happiness again. I had been broken once again but I was determined to survive and not let anyone ever break me again. For a girl of two I knew a hell of a lot more about life than most people ever do.
Yet I was scared, frightened and really worried, I couldn’t understand where my happy care-free life had gone. The life that was so perfect with the loveliest family had gone, and I didn’t know how to get it back. Had I been a bad girl and so Mummy and Daddy had sent me away? I didn’t know. I cried over and over that I would never be bad again if I could get them back.
Then after I had been there a few months a miracle appeared in the form of Minerva Christenson. She had come looking for a little girl to adopt. I was only two and a half yet I remember that day like it was yesterday. She spent hours with me, playing with me. I laughed so much, more than I had done for ages. I had such a good time and even though at that point I couldn’t speak much English at that point but we got on so well. Then my heart was broken once more.
As Minerva left the room she said to Sara “She is lovely but I think she would be too much hard work, I don’t think I could cope. I am really sorry” I understood most of what she was saying even though I couldn’t speak any English; my understanding of it was reasonably good. I cried for hours afterwards.
Four days later my fragile world was shattered once more. The man who had murdered my family arrived.
I was tottering along the corridor towards Miss Slater’s office when I saw him standing talking to Mr Rice, they were talking but I wasn’t close enough to hear what about. I froze. Scared stiff, my brain was screaming at me to run yet my feet refused to move. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins. There he was. What should I do? What could I do? I didn’t really know. Run. And so I did. A couple of minutes later, there I was, pounding out of the gate to the orphanage, my feet flying over the cobbles. I dashed round the corner out of sight of the miserable orphanage that had been my home for the past seven months. Tiring quickly, I hid in the doorway, hoping that the cloak of darkness would hide me.
I must have fallen asleep, as when I next opened my eyes, they met a horrifically scary sight. There he was, my family’s murderer, standing over me, a gleaming knife in his hand. A scream erupted from my lips, piercing the frosty night air. Quickly, he put his slimy cold hand over my mouth. And there he stood, whispering to me.
“Well, now I’ve found you my little death cheating darling. Let me tell you something, this time you won’t survive. I, Saldinio Kelenze will make sure of that.”
My muscles froze, I could feel my whole body screaming out in fear, I felt my eyes widen with shock, focusing on the blade of the knife that was shining with cold. Suddenly he grabbed me by the shoulders and drew the shining blade of the knife across my arm. I screamed in agony but he just laughed and dug the knife deeper, into the same arm he had opened just under a year ago. Blood spurted out over the pavement. My old scar was ripping open again. Dizziness over came me. Slipping into the blissful relief of nothingness, I fell unconscious.