[ WP ] A story where the villain/antagonist wins .

Most stories finish with a happy ending. They are told to make us feel happy. We sit around warm camp fires, or curled up on an engulfing sofa, or on a beach under burning sun, and share tales of triumph, of joy, of success. We teach our children that hard work counts, that good things come to good people, and that the bad guy always loses. This story is different. It ’ s a true story, although that ’ s not important. Despite being different, it still starts like most other stories: at the beginning. 
 
 A warm breeze gently lifted Sophie ’ s light, billowing skirt. She casually controlled the dancing fabric, and floated onwards towards the Saturday market. She smiled at the greengrocer as she passed by his stall. “ Funny looking vegetable!? ” “ Ah, morning Sophie! Yes, new in today, straight from Thailand. Well worth a try miss, lovely flavour. Here… ” She pulled a silly face at a pudgy young toddler idling in a buggy, and laughed with her. She passed the clothes stalls, pausing to examine one or two items, and then continuing her journey. “ 4.50 then miss ”. “ Thank you Charlie ”. Sophie grinned as she tucked into her fresh pastry, taking in the sights, the smells, the sounds… the taste of crispy dough, cream and glazed fruit. Sophie ’ s mind wondered to the evening ahead. She needed to find a good cut of meat, preferably lamb. That was, to her sisters great surprise, her nieces favourite food, despite being pretty ‘ grown up ’. 
 
 She approached her preferred butcher, near the edge of the market, just beside a small alleyway. The butcher ’ s knife flashed in the sunlight, and crashed down upon flesh and bone, thudding into solid wood. She had her eye on a particularly good looking shoulder, but as his knife shimmered she glanced to the right. The lid of a dustbin clattered to the ground, shattering the normal sounds of the market. Now Sophie ’ s full attention was on the alley. She still moved forward, but not with purpose. Something was there, in the darkness, at the end of the alley. Something was moving. She could barely see it, and her natural curiosity guided her onwards. The market behind her faded away, the air was cooler, darker, heavier. 
 
 “ Excuse me? Can you hear me? Are you alright? ” The shape in the black extremity of the alley looked to Sophie like a person. She wanted to help. That had been the headline the next day. That was what the police told her sister, and her young niece. It was what they ended up telling five more distraught families, as the disappeared bodies piled up. “ They were just trying to help ”. “ They just wanted to check everything was alright ”. Well this time, they shouldn ’ t have. 
 
 So what ’ s the moral of this story? It should probably be about living your life to the full, exploring and always asking why. Or maybe it should be about helping the needy, and giving your time to others. Or perhaps it should be about friendship, and family. Or politeness. Or humour. Yet at the moment it seems to be about not helping. Helping is dangerous, helping is risky. “ But that ’ s all wrong ”, you exclaim! “ Stories teach us to be good people! ”. Well, this story is different. 

