Fate, indifferent to the suffering of men, had dealt Michael Smith a bad brain. But it was his fellow man who went beyond indifference into the realm of cruelty, who conspired against Michael without conscience, who stripped him of his humanity when they violated his body for their own gain and on a frozen January morning, discarded him as if he were a bag of trash. It was his fellow man who left him in a dark alley in Midtown Manhattan, left him to wake up alone, freezing under a wool blanket, a pain in his side, a severe pain he didn’t have before.
He couldn’t remember. He had lost a chunk of time somewhere.
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