"911 Emergency."

"I need help. My dad... he's... he's..."

"Calm down, honey. Take a breath. What's your name?"

"Eric."

"Eric, I want you to take a deep breath."

"Okay."

"Where is your dad?"

"In the kitchen. He's on the floor. There's so much blood!"

"Is he conscious?"

"You mean awake?"

"That's right."

"No. I think he's dead."

"How old are you, Eric?"

"Ten."

"Okay, I've dispatched an ambulance to your location, but I need you to tell me a few things before they get there. Can you do that for me?

"Yes, ma'am."

"You said there's a lot of blood. Is there a wound?"

"Yes. He got stabbed."

"With a knife? Is it nearby?"

"It's still in him."

"Where is it in him? In his arm or his leg?"

"His stomach."

"Leave it there, Eric. You could do more harm if you take it out."

"Okay."

"Do you know how to take a pulse?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. I want you to check and see if your dad has a pulse."

"Oh, God, I can't find it! He's dead!"

"Eric, sweetie, don't panic. I still need you."

"Okay."

"Is he breathing? Can you see his chest rising and falling at all?"

"No."

"Stay calm for me, Eric."

"I'll try."

"Do you know CPR?"

"I don't know what that is."

"That's okay, the ambulance will be there soon. Can you tell me what happened? Do you know who stabbed your dad?"

"Yes."

"Who was it, Eric?"

"I did it. I killed my dad."

The prosecuting attorney pressed the stop button on the tape player and surveyed the jury, a mixture of feigned sorrow and sadistic satisfaction on his face.

He turned to the witness on the stand. "Eric, is that your voice on the tape?"

"Yes sir." It was painful to hear the childish pitch in such a strained monotone.

"So you confessed, on tape, that you murdered your father."

"That's not what I meant! It was my fault, but I didn't-"

"So you lied to the operator?"

"No, I just-"

"Oh, you were telling the truth? Then you're lying now? Which is it, Eric?"

"Can't you see that-"

"You've already confessed to murder, and now are trying to insist it was a lie. Either way, I don't see how a jury can possibly believe anything you have to say?"

"Objection!" Eric's attorney stumbled gracelessly to his feet. "Mr. Graves is badgering the witness!"

The charge was patently true. Before the judge could sustain the objection, the lawyer quickly raised a conciliatory hand. "Withdrawn," he murmured gently.

"No, wait, I'd like to answer, if I may," Eric said, turning to the judge for permission. Her Honor shrugged her consent. "Mr. Graves, I didn't lie, and I didn't kill my father. I said...what I said on the phone, because I thought..." he shook his head. "I thought I had done it. But I didn't," he finished lamely.

"I see," Mr. Graves said, in the tone of voice that suggested that what he saw wasn't altogether flattering. "If you hadn't actually killed your father, what gave you the idea that you had?"

The boy's lips thinned into a pale line. "I don't want to answer that. I take the... the... whatever that number is that says you don't have to answer."

"You have to answer, Eric, or your entire testimony will be stricken from the record."

The threat didn't appear to phase him.

Mr. Graves approached the witness stand and leaned in closer. "Why won't you answer, Eric?" He asked the question gently, as if it was just the two of them chatting in a private room, not in front of a crowded courtroom. "Why won't you answer my question?"

"I promised I wouldn't lie. And I can't tell you the truth. And you wouldn't believe the truth even if I could tell it to you, so what's the point?" The boy suddenly seemed near tears.

Mr. Graves quickly backed off, not wanted to jury to view him as the wicked attorney who made children cry. "Your Honor, I request that this witness's entire testimony be stricken from the record, the jury instructed to disregard."

"So noted. The jury will disregard this witness's testimony. Eric Jeckner, you are dismissed.

The boy slowly climbed down from the stand and crossed the floor to the table where his attorney waited, his face a grim blank. He felt miserable, but helpless. He could never explain to Mr. Graves about the visions, about the prophecies. How could he explain to this man how the world was constructed like a delicate spider-web, each event a link, and Time as a wicked spider who would descend upon anyone who dared try to change what was meant to be? He didn't have the words, only the images, and besides, there was no vision of him trying to explain it, and he didn't dare try to. Not after this last attempt to break free. Never again. Never, never, never...

The judge looked sternly in the direction of Eric and his lawyer. Eric couldn't read her expression, but he was sure it wasn't kindness or compassion. She addressed counsel.

"Do you have any other witnesses, Mr. Kirby?"

Kirby threw a helpless glance at Eric, who shook his head vigorously. With a resigned sigh, Kirby stood. "No, Your Honor. The defense rests." He sounded defeated, as if he already knew what the verdict would be.

"Very well, then," Her Honor said. "You may proceed with closing statements, Mr. Graves."

"Thank you, Your Honor," replied the opposing counsel in his smug, ingratiating way. Addressing the jury, he began to pace, gesturing dramatically as he spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, over the last two weeks, you've heard very disturbing testimony. You've seen pictures that no one should have to see. And you've heard the taped 911 confession of the defendant, Eric Jeckner, saying he murdered his father in cold blood. Don't let his youthful appearance fool you. The innocence you may see is nothing but a mask designed to deceive."

He took a moment to pick up a particularly graphic picture taken at the murder scene. Eric's father, lying on the kitchen floor with the very large, very sharp knife still standing straight up just below the sternum. Just as the tape had said, there was blood everywhere. Thankfully, the picture was black and white. Still, it was effective.

"This is the result of actions taken by that boy over there. He would have you believe that he's just a kid, riding his bike in the neighborhood, playing basketball with the other kids at school." He shook the picture to draw eyes back to it. "This is his after-school activity. Death. Pain. Murder. Eric Jeckner is on trial -- as an adult, I might remind you -- because he... killed... his... father. Plain and simple. This was a pre-meditated act that he carried out of his own free will. Return a guilty verdict so he can't grow up to meet his blood-soaked potential." He held up the picture one final time before returning the exhibit to its place on the evidence table and taking his own seat.