The knife entered just below his rib cage and had been drawn across his body violently, tearing a wide gap in his flesh. He lay on the sidewalk with the March rain drilling his jack and drilling his body and washing away the blood.
He could hear the faint sound of music now, coming from a long, long way off. He wondered if Laura was dancing, wondered if she had missed him yet. Someday he would Marry Laura.
I'M ANDY!!
The man came down the alley. He walked, and then stopped to lean against the brick of the building, then walked again. He saw Andy then and came toward him, and he stood over him for a long time.
He was very close to dying, and when they found him, he did not want them to say, “Oh it’s a Royal.” With great effort, he rolled over onto his back. He wanted to take off the jacket. If he had no been wearing the jacket, he wouldn’t have been stabbed. The jacket was as stupid meaningless thing that was robbing him of his life.
The cop slung the jacket over his arm. He took out his black pad, and he flipped it open to a blank page. “A Royal,” he said. Then he began writing.