I am one hundred percent convinced that there is no greater terror than being responsible for violence.

"Oh and Mick, get some sleep. You sound terrible. I'll be up there in the morning." I told my drunken friend. But he had hung up on me before I could finish. I sighed and put down the receiver.

I picked my pencil back up and continued to edit the song Peter and I had written several weeks earlier. I marked and slashed through all the parts I thought should be changed. So basically anything written by my associate.

I couldn't focus though. I kept thinking of Micky in that house by himself. I thought about how stoned he was and how he was capable of anything. My mind flipped through scenarios where awful things happened to my lonely friend.

A sick feeling bubbled and boiled in my stomach and rose to an overpowering high. I threw down my pencil and leaned back in my chair, covering my face with my hands. Calm resolve flushed upward through me. And then suddenly a mix of dread, fear, and panic, exploded within me. I sat straight up with a gasp. The stab of emotion overtook me.

What was it?

I don't think I could explain it to you without sounding like an idiot.

But have you ever been stuck thinking about a certain person; a friend or family member, and then a few days later you find out that that person had experienced something awful or amazing, and you knew you had felt it along with them? This was one of those times.

I couldn't shake Micky from my mind and decided that I was going to drive up there and check on him. I resolved to call first though. I picked up the receiver and dialed my friend's number. It rang on and on. I willed for Micky to pick up. To answer me with a drunken slur, but no. He didn't. I was worried beyond comprehension by now. I called Peter.

"Hey man, it's Mike." I said.

"Mike?" Peter asked surprised.

"I think Micky's in trouble." I rushed.

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" Peter had sounded annoyed at first, but now he seemed concerned.

"He just called me up drunk and told me that he was saying 'goodbye', and I just tried to call him back again and he didn't answer."

"I'm on my way!" Peter hung up. I assumed that he was going to the country house, so I stood up and ran out of my office. "Christian come on! We need to go check on Uncle Micky." I yelled down the hall. My son walked into the front room and I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the car.

"Dad, what's going on?" Chris asked me.

"I don't know." I sighed as I sped out of the driveway and pulled recklessly into the street.

I reached the white house just behind Peter. Pete had called Davy. Davy had arrived first. The two were banging on the front door vigorously yet in vain. I parked the car and told Christian to stay inside it. I ran to the door and joined my colleges.

"What's the news?" I asked, winded.

"None!" Davy said frustrated. "He didn't answer the phone, his car's still here so he's got to be inside."

"But he's not coming to the door either." Peter informed me.

I ran my hands through my hair, and let go of the breath I'd been holding.

"I'm gonna see if there is a window open." I trotted to the widow beside the front door and push hard on it. It was stuck tight. The same went for all the windows at the front of the house. I moved to the side of the house. I couldn't reach most of the windows, but the ones I could reach were all locked. I knew the ones I couldn't reach were locked as well.

I jogged to the back of the house and tried the laundry room door. It was locked just like all the other entryways. I banged on the outside as loud as I could. I waited for an answer. None ever came. I kept waiting for Micky to open the front door slowly and curse us for waking him up from his drunken sleep. If he would just open the freaken door and cuss us out I would hug him.

I could hear Davy and Peter yelling at the house. They were trying to get Micky to hear them and answer back. But as all of our other attempts, this one proved to be the least effective. I walked back to the front. On the way I crossed paths with Peter. I jogged up and grabbed him by the wrist.

"We need to break open one of those windows." I suggested.

Peter pulled his hand from my grip and nodded. He searched the ground for something to smash against the glass. He picked up a gigantic rock and handed it to me. He took up another one for himself.

"Get Davy." I directed as I made my way onto the porch.

"David, we're gonna break in. Come on!" Peter yelled.

Davy fumbled awkwardly onto the porch and stumbled to where we were.

When Peter was beside me I counted off one, two, three, and Peter and I threw our rocks at a window. They effectively smashed through the glass.

"How are we going to do this?" Peter asked. "Not even Davy is small enough to fit in there."

I turned around and motioned for Chris to join us. My son eagerly emerged from the car and ran up to be of assistance.

"Chris," I said. "We need you to crawl into that window and unlock the door."

He nodded. I felt sorry for having to send him into that house. He looked at me with frightened eyes. The eyes his mother used to flash at me when she was scared. It hurt me. But I had more on my mind than Phyllis. I stood and patted my son on the back. "Hurry on, son!"

Christian climbed into the window and unlocked the door from the inside. I've never been so happy to see a door open. Peter, Davy, and I rushed inside.

Chris tried to follow us but I wouldn't let him. I had a bad feeling about the situation, and as much as I wanted Micky to be asleep in his bed, I figured it wouldn't be so simple.

Davy, Peter, and I split up.

Davy took to the office, Peter searched the bathroom. And I ran down the hall to Micky's bed room. I stood in horror at the door. His bed was empty. Even worse it was made. I searched the whole room for my friend and did not find him.

The first thing I notice about the house, was something that made my stomach churn, although I couldn't say why at the time. I noticed that the air had a funny smell to it. A combination of iron and gunpowder.

I exited the bed room and moved on to the bathroom. All the while calling his name. The others had moved on as well. Davy was in the kitchen and Peter was in the second bedroom. All of us were yelling.

I can't tell you why none of us noticed the living room. Davy even walked through it to get to the kitchen. Maybe it was providence. Maybe it was just our worry forcing us to focus on finding our friend that kept us blind for so long to what was set out in the open in front of us. Or maybe we all knew it. Maybe we all knew he was there, in our hearts, and we were just trying to convince ourselves it was not true. Or maybe to ease ourselves to the truth.

We had searched every room.

I walked into the kitchen with Davy and he followed me as I made my way into the living room. Upon entering the room I froze. Directly to my left laid a prostrate Micky.

"Micky..." I breathed. I seemed to be unable to inhale as I rushed to his side. Davy stood with wide eyes behind me.

"Oh Micky!" He yelled.

"You found him!?" Peter ran in from the bedroom. He slowed down as he entered and noticed that at his feet laid our friend. In terror Peter backed away from us.

"Did you find him?" A little voice said from the hall. I panicked, not wanting my son to see the death thus so displayed.

"Uh, Uh, yeah! But don't, don't come in here. Christian go back to the car and wait for me." I said disoriented. When my son had done what I asked Davy broke down.

"No! Oh Micky!" He wailed and fell to his knees. He clutched his hair. "What are we going to do Mike!? Is he dead? What are we going to do?" Davy cried.

I rushed to check Mick's vitals, but I already knew the answer to David's question. I knew because of the gun laying just outside of Micky's mouth. I knew from the pools of blood that stained both the walls and the floor. By these signs alone I knew our friend was dead. However the biggest reason I knew was that Micky's lifeless shell seemed almost at peace.

Neither I nor Peter showed any emotion. We were in shock and didn't know how to respond to the situation. We could only think of the things that must be done. I told Peter to handle Davy and that I'd call... someone.

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