A Whistle in the Dark

By Dewald Rupping

The world is confusing, isn’t it? Definitely no walk in the park.
This rings particularly true for protagonist Curtis Miller - mildmannered
realist and introvert. Curtis has had many views of
the ever-churning fire that is our world - but the challenges,
injustices and hypocrisies of the modern flame he has yet
to decipher.
As he faces many fronts he never imagined he would, Curtis
soon discovers that logic, reason and justice seem to have
an ever-diminishing habitat in modern society.
This is his story. This is his reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781728379890

Book preview

A WHISTLE

IN THE DARK

Dewald Rupping

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AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: UK TFN: 0800 0148641 (Toll Free inside the UK)

UK Local: (02) 0369 56322 ([phone] from outside the UK)

© 2023 Dewald Rupping. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/09/2023

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7988-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7989-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Preface

PART 1

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

PART 2

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Part 3

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Part 4

Epilogue

About The Author

PREFACE

The idiomatic expression to whistle in the dark has many different meanings according to diverse sources. It could mean to make a show of bravery despite one’s fears, or to speak of something despite having little or no knowledge of it. If someone is whistling in the dark, it could also mean they believe in a positive result, even though the general consensus is the absolute opposite.

Though all the above are in some way relevant, the definition appropriate and that should be taken into consideration in the reading of this book is the following: Pretending to feel confident about a situation when in fact you feel nervous or worried – Macmillan English Dictionary, Bloomsbury Publishing, 2002.

Any actual names or likenesses are purely

coincidental and do not represent the character

of a real human being. It is emphasized that

any and all existing persons and localities

that are mentioned are solely for fictional

purposes, and the content of this book does

not necessarily portray any semblance of the

relevant cities, counties, countries or individuals.

This book is for my family,

my friends,

and my teachers,

whom helped shape my past,

my present,

and my future for the better.

Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide,

No escape from reality.

- Freddie Mercury

What’s in a minute? Sixty seconds; and in an

hour, sixty times that. But the truest clock,

only ever showing fifty-nine,

is perfect only in its imperfection.

PART 1

PROLOGUE

It was around the close of the century when a young doctor had a challenging decision to make - naturally, one of life and death. His name was Curtis Mathew Miller, and while bearing in mind his Hippocratic Oath, he weighed the plethora of pros and cons of euthanasia on his mind. Miller’s heart wanted action, but his conscience forced him to reason.

With his newborn son on his lap, the young doctor jotted down scraps of his thinking onto the tawny pages of his personal journal. He wrote of baby Michael of and his bedridden, severely brain-injured wife that had fallen victim of a street bludgeoning. Even in her condition her beauty had been unmistakable.

A blonde nurse stared intensely at the side of Dr. Miller’s face. Her nametag gleamed with the letters ‘Jocelyn, D.’ etched into the smooth metal. Even in this unpleasant business she was the doctor’s right hand, and he trusted her with his son’s life. She asked him for the umpteenth time if he was sure about his decision. We could get in serious trouble for this – it is wrong, to say the least, she said. They were at his wife’s bedside.

Dr. Miller did not speak initially, but after a while he said: I’m not sure, no. Jocelyn took his arm lightly then and told him that there was always the chance of a miracle, but that if it would ease his conscience, the odds of it were very low.

He shook his head in pain, squinting to fight back the tears.

The nurse nodded. I share your distaste towards suffering.

Then there was silence.

By late afternoon Dr. Miller had changed and made up his mind countless times, and though he still wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing, he kissed his baby boy goodnight, went to the hospital and in his office prepared himself. Having in hand a syringe filled with a clear fluid, the doctor rounded up Jocelyn and together they went to the room of Marilyn Miller (nee Mendel). The door was locked behind them.

Dr. Miller moved his unwilling, quivering arm in the direction of drip. He hooked the tube leading down into the patient’s arm so that it dangled from his forefinger; then held it steady between his thumb and pinky. Go ahead, urged the blonde.

He nodded. He faced the patient again; the syringe still clasped in his left hand. He caressed his wife’s caked brown locks. He breathed softly that he couldn’t do it and then sniffled once. I … I can’t.

Dr. Miller didn’t react immediately when there was a sharp and uncomfortably stabbing pain in his back. As if somehow his brain had to first comprehend the occurrence, and then react. As if all natural instinct had left him... He then slowly fell to the floor, and it wasn’t long until he was unconscious. The nurse yanked the tranquilizer from his back and whispered into Miller’s ears: I’m sorry, Curtis. But I’m doing this for your own good. You have to believe me.

The doctor woke up at noon the next day, and in his mind-muddled state he was thrown into the business end of a police transport van. His hands were cuffed - and so was his tongue. Despite trying desperately to utter a word - any word - he was unable to get it out. The next thing he knew he was within the confines of a courtroom, the inside of which he saw afterwards for about a month. The case persisted and ultimately his sentence was uttered. Twenty-five years based on circumstantial evidence that connected him with six alleged murders and two illegal performances of euthanasia, none of which he was actually guilty of.

Dr. Miller’s fate was a tragedy worth trapping in an oil painting, and it had been framed flawlessly.

Dr. Miller had decided long before this point to arrange for his close friend, Henry, to take in his son in the event of something going awry with his initial plan. A godfather position - and Henry was not opposed to it, so he accepted the vacancy. They had had an in-depth discussion about the matter and had made it official by law, all without Miller letting slip a single particular detail. Henry had promised to do exactly as agreed upon, and so he did for the next nineteen years.

CHAPTER 1

What is up, and what is down? In a world so confusing as it is today, it’s easy to lose track of right and wrong, up and down, just and unjust. It just seems that nothing is simple anymore, am I right? Well, as much as I would like to now come up with some inspiring ‘but’-statement to contradict the topsy-turvy-ty of our world, unfortunately I cannot. I don’t have one. There might not even be one. All I can say is buckle up: chances are it might not get better; it may just as well get worse. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not being a pessimist: I used to be as much of an optimist as you can find. But lately, I have been inadvertently converted to a new perspective: realism. A stone-cold philosophy - let’s call it my attempt to represent subject matter truthfully. It’s no major change: I just see things for what they really are. No made up nonsense, no unrealistic expectations; fewer disappointments.

My name is Michael Kent, and this is my story. By all means, welcome to my reality.

I suppose every story needs a good place to start. For me, that’s just before things started falling apart at a preposterous but somehow comical rate. It was the year 2019, summer, and to paraphrase a renowned saying, the world never did give anyone hell. It just told us the truth and we thought it was hell. As your run-of-the-mill Average Joe (most average as they come), I lived in an average neighbourhood, went to an average school and led an average life. My parents were my only close relatives of whom I had knowledge, but we didn’t really get along very well. Back then it was easy for me to whine about any little thing that didn’t go my way. Yes, I was a brat at this point. But don’t judge just yet, I would come to learn the error of my ways before long.

This story starts like so many before it. It was on a warm evening when I went to one of the few house parties that I would ever attend. We had just graduated high school so it felt like one of those events you just have to attend to be able to tell the grandkids you did it. I sat there, watching in silence from a dark little corner of the living room as my smiling so-called peers were busy ‘whooping it up’. With a tall glass of water with a lime wedge in my hand, I entertained myself by nibbling on my left pinky nail. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of red-haired Albert, my kind-of, sort-of friend – he spent his minutes ogling pretty much every girl that did not immediately glare at him with contempt, revolve, and then veer away. He came stumbling up to me and exclaimed: This place is lit! as he dropped right down onto the couch and into my personal space. He laughed loudly into my face and his halitosis made my eyes water, so I leaned back somewhat to spare them any prolonged exposure to his yellow choppers and the dark outline of his uvula. Not even a box of mints could mask the stench of cheap (illegal) beer and Cheetos. Luckily years of firsthand experience with Albert and my tobacco-loving mother had made me an expert in holding my breath. Albert downed the remains of his plastic cup, belched and then drifted back into the crowd after I had turned down his offer to join him in his pursuits.

Most everything that I despised reared its ugly head that night, all of which contributed equally to my dislike of the modern-day social gathering. Exhibit one: hubris. I could see at least half a dozen buff, steroid-infused gentlemen walking around with imaginary watermelons underneath their armpits, ready to assault anyone or anything that just looks at them funny. I’m all for the notion of pride and confidence, but there is a fine line.

Exhibit two: arrogance. A scuffle had started not far from where I had been sitting. There were shoves and thrusts, and malign was rife. The pair of boys seemed like dogs quarreling over a mate: neither one thought the other to be eligible to court her; each of them thinking none was greater than themselves. Then I suddenly realized that the smaller of the two dogs had a magnificent red mane... it was Albert - he had ogled the wrong lass. The first watermelon-carrier (I cannot recall his name if I’m being honest - they all sort of looked the same, so let’s just call this one John?) pushed Albert into some other guy and caused him to spill his drink all over his shoes. The other guy (let’s call him Dick) was not impressed. Dick started roaring like a gorilla; which brings us to exhibit three: plain stupidity. From then on it was a war zone – fists flew like rockets, and curse words like bullets. Naturally, I (a non-partaking coward) was caught helplessly in no-man’s-land, with only soft cushions and footstools to use as cover. With ample experience in stealth, gained from years upon years of bullying and running away in my school days, I managed to sneak out without a scratch.

What about Albert, you ask? Well, I left him there. Cowards only save themselves, you see. Again, don’t judge, I was not perfect. Life is about learning, after all. Albert was fine. He lived to ogle another day, but the brawlers were barred from the house as well as the campus due to the extent of injury they caused, so they were properly on their way to a life of anger and substance abuse after that. Perhaps they would one day find redemption and it would be a great tale - if so, can we expect Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels to star in the production of Fun with Dick and John? Pardon my dry humour - it’s just how my brain works.

I went for a walk then. Outside in the dark: round and about Westlake, Sacramento. The benefit of a safe neighbourhood was that I could actually take these walks without being mugged or kidnapped. Or so I thought - you see - I now believe there is a catch-22 situation here. The more people think they are safe, the more liberties they take. The more liberties taken, the greater the opportunities to potential crooks. Many times, a crime takes place only because the opportunity to execute it existed in the first place. It’s a relentless triangle between incentive for the crime, rationalization of the crime and - you guessed it - opportunity.

Back to the point - I liked to start my walks by blocking out the world with music in my ears, so I installed my AirPods into my ears and tuned in to some of the classics, like the jazzy pop song It’s Magic by Jule Styne. I kept walking in the dark. It was right around the middle of Bohemian Rhapsody that my chronic melancholia kicked in. I had this tendency to overthink everything in my life (as you’ll notice), and this time I wondered why I constantly found myself so alone and forlorn. A question, I suppose, that many people ask themselves from time to time - and one that would only be aggravated later on in the pandemic of 2020. But we’ll get there.

At least I had Olson. Olson worked in a bakery for an old man named Danny Russo (just about the Karate Kid) and he was one of the few escape hatches that I had from the prison that was my mind. I walked up to Dan’s Bakery that night and found the lights were still on, and I knew it could only be Olson. Pushing aside the door of the bakery, I spotted him in the back by the industrial ovens. He was the best baker in all of Sacramento, next to Dan himself. Just the smell of his bread opened your mouth’s floodgates. Which was why I took lessons from him on occasion: I enjoyed whipping up a treat for myself when my parents weren’t home.

Olson grinned. You’re late, he said, and handed me a small white box that contained my usual Tuesday éclair, and another with a Wednesday Danish. But that wasn’t all: along with the goodies he gave me a small but stuffed notebook with a red leather cover. I looked at it with horror, as I knew the secrets it held within those covers.

He had been wearing plastic gloves and one of those fishnet-like caps that serve to keep the baker’s hair out of the mixing bowls. His apron was brilliant white - the Olson standard. No longer my private property. Take from it and contribute to it as you are able, said Olson, still smiling.

This is your life’s work. I can’t take this from you, Olson. These aren’t just family recipes, they’re your own and they sell like toilet paper. Why would you give it to me?

I’m retiring, he declaimed.

I good-heartedly reminded him that he was twenty-seven.

He said: Well, retiring from Dan’s, anyway. I’m opening my own bakery. A fresh start: with no one to tell me what to do, just my own rules to live by. I’ve been waiting for this day all my life!

Again, I brought it up that he wasn’t that old. He chuckled, and I went on to speak. Does Dan know yet? In my opinion the grey store owner was the one that needed to retire, but he was too stubborn for that. He was like my mother, in a way. If truth be told, I’d always imagined Olson behind the counter, as grey and warm as Dan himself. I never pictured the shop without the pair of them, but assumed that should Dan’s time come, Olson would take ownership and carry out Dan’s legacy until it became his own.

He knows.

It must have rattled the poor man to have Olson resign. Olson was like a son to him, his one and only. I reluctantly asked Olson when he was leaving. That day was to be his last.

Where will you go? I asked despondently, clutching the goldmine of recipes between my thumb and index finger.

He took a deep breath and unpacked several loafs of steaming bread into the display area before he retorted: Dunno yet. Definitely somewhere along the coast. I’ll let you know where I am once I’ve settled.

I’ve been meaning to ask you - that pie on the windowsill. Is it real? The pie that always looked so good… No, Olson admitted. It’s not. It’s a plastic display. Even the steam you see when you walk past - it’s just dry ice vapour that filters through the little holes in the crust. Well… fake crust.

I acknowledged him with a half nod.

The pie in the sky. But a little closer to home.

I said my farewells then, as best I could. Olson wanted to give me a ride home, but he couldn’t leave the bakery due to his need to wrap up, wind down and hand it over to the new guy that I only then noticed in the back office. It wouldn’t be long before people would start rolling in at the crack of the new dawn, looking to buy fresh bread and pastries, and Olson was not one to disappoint. I had to say goodbye there and then to one of the most concrete figures in my life.

Clearly he could see that I was upset.

Cheer up, won’t you? Sunshine can yet be found behind a cloudy sky. Olson assured me as he shook my hand in farewell. He looked me in the eye as he told me: Keep that head of yours straight – if you live in there, you don’t get to live out here in the real world like the rest of us. I nodded my understanding again, and then I left, feeling alone and forlorn all over again. From there I went straight home and got to bed only around 1:30AM. I swore to myself I would never subject myself to such torture as a adolescent house-party ever again, and with that thought still fresh in my mind, I drifted off into my sober slumber.

I woke again at noon. No place like home, I thought as I ambled to the kitchen and found the house in its usual icy desertion. While having my first cup of coffee out in the front yard to wrestle with my own kind of hang-over, my mother pulled up to the gate and came rushing up the driveway in her cherished black BMW coupé. She parked right next to where I stood, jumped out and breathed a quick greeting at me as she ran inside the house. I leered at the automobile. Before long my mother came running out again with a bunch of documents and brochures clasped between her fingertips. She polished a spot on the side window where a bit of dirt found its way to the paint.

Mom, before you go —

Not now, Michael, duty calls. I’m about to seal the deal with a French tycoon!

But it’s important, I lied in monotone.

"I’m sure it can wait, but this deal cannot. I’ll send the Frenchman your sincerest regards, maybe it will make him feel more generous. Au revoir, Michael!"

Be seeing you, Mother, I said as I watched her back down the driveway and out the front gate again. I soaked up another minute of sunshine and then headed back inside and faced the quiet. I would be lying if I said that the tranquil atmosphere didn’t have its upside. My room, for example, was secluded and on the southern end, which was good, because that way the sun rarely crept in through my window. If I wanted light, there was always my enormous crystal chandelier to supply just that.

I fell back down on my unmade bed. Unbelievably, I fell asleep again right there and then (caffeine had yet to woo me with its fabled effects). I suppose that’s what a night of sitting in a dark corner and then fleeing from a throng of drunken adolescent aggressors does to a person.

For a while, I felt like I did not have a care in the world – much like the feeling of health after a long illness.

CHAPTER 2

Waking up from my eightieth wink, I decided to get up immediately and do something productive. My eyes drifted to the guitar in the corner. I didn’t play – I couldn’t. And I didn’t have the patience to teach myself. I suppose I could have gone for lessons at some overpriced tutoring school where we sat on small pillows on the floor, ate funny-tasting brownies and talked a whole lot about ‘zen’ and ‘woke’, but could never bring myself to do it. It felt like a waste of so many hours. The same went for the surfboard mounted above my window. Who has the time?

I decided to weigh my options over another cup of steaming coffee – and yes, I had an addiction. Not to the effects of it, no, just to the stigma that went along with it. As I poured it, I stopped thinking about what to do with my day, and started pondering some of life’s infinite mysteries, as I usually do in my free time. See, I considered myself to be relatively headstrong and capable of overcoming anything that I put my mind to, and what is addiction if not a state of mind? If I wanted to stop, I would. Caffeine, Facebook and other drugs only have power over people because they allow them to. Nail-biting, hair-twirling, thoughtless fidgeting… If you were raised without being introduced to sugar, would you ever crave it? If you didn’t know that marijuana existed, would you know that you wanted to try it? But if you do know of it, but you also know it is bad, why would you continue to use it? What triggers that response in the brain that lets you succumb to temptation?

I couldn’t come up with an answer just yet. Weakness perhaps? Human beings aren’t as in control as they think. Not really. I walked barefoot out to the rear end of the house and into the idyllic green gardens with my cup of comfort. I heard voices not far off, but hushed. It was my mother’s. I approached unintentionally cat-like and decided to sit with her, but then I suddenly froze.

"… he’s here sleeping his life away when he could be working. What do they teach him in this ridiculous college: sciences that cannot be proven, histories that will never repeat itself, and math to count your money. But it doesn’t teach you how to make that money, does it? That is all he needs to know, not a bunch of old theories and formulas."

Calm down, Regina. Would you be in your position today if you didn’t attend school and college after that? It was my father’s voice. He spoke calmly, as he always would, even when in argument. His name was Henry, and whenever I think of him I have the same picture in mind. When he’s not working, he always wears a collared shirt with a tie, and a one-coloured jersey or pull-over. With it he’ll wear jeans (or something more formal for work) and a fresh pair of Oxfords. The bald patch on his head has been there for as long as I can remember, although it might have grown in size over the years. His remaining hair was dark black and attempted a comb-over. His eyes were large and buggy, and were emphasized even more behind his spectacles. He never even had as much as a stubble on his cheek.

"There are only two