The Losing of Mr Brooks

The Losing of Mr Brooks

'Mrs Brooks. I think you should sit down.'

Mrs Brooks sits.

Dr Brown opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Then opens, then shuts.
The problem, you see, is that nobody knows exactly if Mr Brooks is dead, or not. Except Mr Brooks himself (if infact he is alive). But there is no way of contacting the said Mr Brooks because he is quite lost. Yes. Lost. So you must understand Dr Brown's predicament. He isn't sure how to explain to the neat woman with a blue cardigan and large, moist brown eyes looking up at him, that the hospital has lost her husband.

But even if he could tell her what happened, it's doubtful that the good Mrs Brooks would believe him. Because Mr Brooks has had what can only be called an 'Extraordinary Day'. It went something like this.
  _

At 7:30 Mr and Mrs Brooks got out of bed. It was Saturday, and the morning, as usual, had been set aside for some gardening. So, armed with shovels and trowels, stiff green gardening gloves and floppy white broad brimmed hats, they set about their tasks. Mrs Brooks started planting the jasmine vine, while Mr Brooks trundled down to the garden shed to get the lawn mower.

The garden shed was the shame of the garden. In summer, it was conveniently forgotten about because as the almond tree grew its leaves, it hid the shed from view. It was an old wooden structure, slumped half-heartedly against the fence near the back of the garden. From the outside, it just looked old. From the inside, it was almost repugnant. Cobwebs lined the air that was thick with mustiness. Stacks of flower pots collapsed on broken clay pots, which were dumped behind boxes, above which were shelves of dirty jars. Mr Brooks shook his head as he pulled out the lawn mower from the corner, where it had been collecting a thick layer of dust.

Behind him, his wife screamed. Mr Brooks jumped, and turned to see her pointing at the ground, her eyes so round they seemed to explode from their sockets.

'There was a spider,' she whispered fervently, as if terrified that the spider might hear.

Mr Brooks sighed.

'We really must clean up this place. It's turning into a nightmare.'

'I couldn't agree with you more.'

'I'll start this afternoon.'

But here is where the strangeness started. Though Mr Brooks was usually of such sure and purposeful step, as he exited his own garden shed, for no reason in particular, he stumbled, fell, and broke his leg.

That Saturday night, as Mr Brooks lay in his hospital bed with a bandaged leg and on the edge of sleep, he heard a little sneeze

His eyelids opened wearily. At first, he thought the figure bending over him was a doctor. But as his visioned cleared, he saw that it was not human at all, and he quickly shut his eyes again. He counted to three, and opened his eyes again.

It was still there. An elf-like creature, dressed in white with its hood pulled back to reveal a long, pointed face constructed of angles and planes. The sharp face drew nearer to Mr Brooks until its long, sharp nose was almost touching his.

'Dust!' the hallucination exclaimed suddenly in a voice as clipped and sharp as its features. 'Dust! I have no love for it myself. We are similar in that way, Mr Brooks. But wait, I am getting ahead of myself. I am Brein, Elf Guardian. And these,' the Elf stepped aside to reveal a dozen little creatures hanging around the room, 'are Dust Pixies.'