A Sky-View of The Fallen Snowflake (Ch. 1)

(The narrator is the Snowflake-shaped bldg. that used to be an Old folks home, before it was shut-down due to a rape/murder scandal)1

The "Snowflake" is haunted by the soul of an elderly woman who was committed to the rest-home by her family...who was abused, raped and eventually murdered in a most heinous way by various over-night orderly employees. She embodies everything typical of a patient in a Nursing Home--lonely, embittered, desperate, needy, eccentric and a little senile (Snowflake's narration is delivered in the "voice" of each guard presently on duty to the abandoned compound. She follows each Intrepid P.I. Security Guard's persona until the end of their shift, unless, of course, that guard says, does or acts in a way that violates or offends her haunted inner-persona. Upon such violation, she insults and degrades the guard in any way she can during the process of her narration.) The Snowflake takes a "folly curiosity" towards the eccentric new-hire, Brady; relating his troubled upbringing to that of her own existance, and upon adopting his inner-soul as her own, she quickly falls in love with him, and stops mocking the persona's of anyone else...Ending in a tragic self-realization for her, and a brilliant explanation of the depths of Brady's eccentricity.  2

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The lively winds of the early Summer morn were as tranquil as ever for the newly-hired Intrepid-P.I. security guard. As had been instructed, the new bright and observant S/O Brady Patrick Passant arrived at The Snowflake Living Center of San Antonio for his first shift at precisely 6:45, to allow the Guard he relieved to show him the ropes with a 15 minute tour of the grounds whose aforesaid title was bestowed by it's sky-view appearance. 4

At 21 years of age, Brady appears to have already patrolled enough of life's uncanny pathways to hoist him from the sarcastic naiv'ete of contemporary teenage angst, yet not enough, it seems, to understand why the owner of a building, no longer active with nurses and patients due to a scourge of scandalous abuses, would need to hire Intrepid guards to patrol it's empty, symmetric halls 24 hours a day. This folly curiosity came to Brady when he walked through the automatic sliding doors and peered through the glass to observe that his CR-V was the only vehicle present in an otherwise naked parking-lot. He stood hesitant, gripping his lunch-bag and his new flashlight in the same hand, staring into the dawn while the doors repeatedly opened and closed, hissing like the broken vaccumm-seal of a Tupperware food-container.5

Finally, with a head apparently filled with un-equal proportions, tilting it towards his right shoulder, he shrugged it back into place, turned and commenced deeper into the front hallway towards an open door on the left. The staticky drones of a black Baptist preacher were flickering the flourecence of light protruding from the room, illuminating the sickly-pale white hall with an echoing buzz of Christian sobriety. S/O Passant's figure spilled a soothing shadow over the hall, as he paused once again in the doorway, staring into the Snowflake's front office. S/O Richardson was seated at the desk finishing off the Daily Activity Report, or DAR for short, for his shift. S/O Passant took a mental notice of the officer's appearance as he stood there unacknowledged: 6

"S/O Richardson seems a charismatic and professional black male, between the age of 30-40 years old, dressed--like all Intrepid Guards, in a very dark navy-blue uniform, looking very fitting to his robust 6'1" frame. His black leather combat-boots have recently been shined to a degree that resembles the reflection given off by his black, thin-framed sunglasses (which he is still wearing!); he is also wearing black leather gloves strapped tight to his knuckles and glowing in a hue equal to that of his boots."7

S/O Passant is puzzled most by the bullet-proof vest peering it's camo-green skin into the hum of light just below Richardson's collar, where his un-used neck-button separates the shirt into two blue waves at the hilt of his broad shoulders--one of which dons a walkie-talkie with a rather large amount of buttons on it's face.8

"He must be my sergeant, or something." S/O Passant thought to himself. With that rough hypothesis, he entered the office.9

"Hey, how ye' doin? I'm Brady Passant" he said, with a hesitant anticipation while S/O Richardson raised his head, reflecting two green young officers in his shades, "I'm scheduled to start at 7...I think?"10

S/O Richardson took off his gloves and shook S/O Passant's hand and said "It's nice to meet you, Passant. Just have a seat and give me a couple more minutes and I will be right with you."11

S/O Passant looked relieved by the generous tone in S/O Richardson's voice, and said "Oh yeah! That's no problem, take all the time you need!"12

With that, S/O Passant sat down in a chair up against a wall at an angle bi-secting S/O Richardson from the door while S/O Richardson strapped his gloves back on and continued with his DAR.13

The preacher on the radio took S/O Passant's attention once again, with an angry, metered and spiritually melodious tangent on the "DEL-I-rious, MON-strous, CAN-CER-ous WHITE cyst that PLAGUES our society today with the RA-cist, SEX-ist, FOUL-est..." and so on.14

S/O Passant resumed his concern with the suspicion that his overtly -professional co-worker might belong to the International Brotherhood of Black Panthers, or some other organization of that nature. His concern was doubly resounding in his motionless, unwavering silence.15

[Indeed, just beyond the buzz of the light and the radio was the medium for all us TRULY 'intrepid' guards (unseen by any naked eye) to observe and report all happenings at the Snowflake beyond the realm of flesh and breath!]16

As previously stated by the good S/O, Richardson finished with his DAR within a couple of minutes. He began his orientation to S/O Passant by murmuring, "Okay, I just need your signature there, and..." he paused while S/O Passant rifled through his pockets for the pen he didn't bring. "Here, you can use mine," he said as he handed his pen over to S/O Passant and watched him sign his much practiced John Hancock with a scribble here, a dip there and a few dots and slashes in-between, "there we go." S/O Richardson said, with a vocal undertone mocking that of an early riser's first stretch. "Okay...So, have you been given a tour of the facilities yet, Passant?" S/O Passant watched his four eyes shoot wide open as he shook his head no. "No?...First day, huh?" he said with a grin while S/O Passant watched his two mouths shift into a smirk as he nodded at the good S/O. "A'ight, I got'jo back, dawg. Follow me, Passant."17

They both rose out of their chairs, walked back up the main hall and stood before the front door as it began to zip open and closed once again. "I can't believe I didn't turn this off!" S/O Richardson said, in a voice a pitch higher than S/O Passant expected, "you should always turn this off, Passant," he said as he flipped the switch on the upper left-hand corner of the doorway, "'cause this door will constantly open and close while your in the office or on patrol...it's VERY sensitive! See, check that out!" He pointed to the crate myrdle blossom-infested cement of the patio, "Even those things'll swing't open! But since it's off now, you can just turn this knob to lock it when you go on patrol, 'cause sometimes a HOBO might try to sneak in here if they see that you're not in the front office, and believe ME Passant, if you get relieved by ANOTHER S/O, and tell them all's well and they find a HOBO sleepin' in one o'tha rooms here, it's YO ass! But I ain't like that, see? 'Cause I know what kinda shit goes down 'round here!--'SPECIALLY on the NIGHT-SHIFT!18