75

What do you do when you realise you're the bad guy. When you find yourself opposite those advocating personal freedoms seemingly despite a lack of rational thought. Do you stand fast in your belief and argue against their cause, or do you simply slip away into the shadows and leave it all behind.

74

The clock is slowly creeping towards midnight. My father lies in his bed and breathes irregularly. He's about to leave us soon, we all know it. His grandchildren has already said their farewells, as has his friends. Now it's just him and me, father and son. The only thing keeping the room from being totally consumed by silence is the clock ticking on the wall.

   I hold his hand, more for my own sake than his. He's barely conscious and at times I doubt if he knows I'm even there with him. His face is in a state of constant pain. He moans ever so slightly and his lips trembles. I help him to the glass of water on the night table.

   Suddenly he bolts up as the bell chimes twelve. He looks straight at the door. I turn around but see nothing. He doesn't reply to my attempts to talk to him.

   "Suzie" he lets out before slumping back into the bed. Dead.

   Two weeks later a burial is held. It's a private affair with only a handful of people. When the ceremony is over everyone starts milling towards the parking lot and the cars. I stay back and take a final look at the tombstone before I return to my family.

Suzanne Clifford

8 April 1938 - 4 June 1968

Harry Clifford

5 July 1931 - 3 March 2014

73

The watcher is watching.
Do not alarm.
The watcher is watching.
You'll come to no harm.

The watcher is watching.
There's no need for fear.
The watcher is watching.
Soon he'll be near.

The watcher is watching.
Don't turn around.
The watcher is watching.
Please, settle down.

The watcher is watching.
Don't make a peep.
The watcher is watching.
Do go to sleep.

The watcher is watching,
And let it be said:
"The watcher is watching,
Soon you'll be dead."

72

Here I write my last confession. I pray you read it well.
   I lived long as a mercenary serving many warlords all over the known world. I ended more lives than can be counted by all the adepts of the High Council. I have led regiments against ruler and peasant alike. Few can claim to have caused as much suffering for the widows and fatherless as I. Yet I feel no remorse for what I did, for I have given my sister and her children a life they otherwise would not have.
   The family I was born to lived as farmers on the republic's edge and were often harassed by bandits and raiders who stole food and coin alike. They came one day to claim their loot but found none, for the harvest had been poor, and instead they burned down the houses, killed the adults, and enslaved the children. That day I was torn from my whole family, including my sister who was sold to a wealthy merchant at first notice while I remained with the slavers.
   I was brought across the unclaimed territories and eventually sold to a fighting ring as fodder for the audience's entertainment. Miraculously I survived far longer than they had expected and joined the regular roster as a fighter, slowly climbing to become the main attraction. My success was so great I managed to buy my freedom and pay for my way back homewards where I managed to track down my sister.
   The merchant owned many businesses in several towns and had decided my sister would be his assistant in taking care of affairs as well as keeping his bed warm for the nights. After weeks of planning I found out which tavern they were going to visit and when, and then I struck. My blade cut deep in the fat man's throat as he drowned in his own blood as he slept. My sister, not recognizing me, screamed for the guards and forced me to escape before my own life would be cut short. I left my sister again for the second time and would never meet her face to face ever again.
   I joined up with a band of mercenaries and headed off to war. We mainly plundered villages in the outskirts of the enemy territories, but at times we joined with the main forces to fight in the vanguard. My taste for blood grew even greater than it had been during my time as a pit fighter and my skill improved vastly. I took great care to make sure that parts of my payment found their way back to my sister, who would probably have been thrown out on the streets after the merchant's murder. The mercenary profession brought me far and wide as I unknowingly helped my sister build her business empire.
   After several years I decided to pay my sister another visit again. I found her having settled down in the nation's capital, but when I was going to approach her she was joined by her husband and their children. They were all clad in silks and jewellery while I wore a warrior's garb tattered by time. While we shared blood I would never be of the same world as my sister again, and so I left before any off them could see me. I continued sending my earnings but never attempted to visit again.
   Now as death approaches I consider myself lucky to die of age, even if I die alone, for I have lived a warrior's life of violence and death, and prevailed. I have no regrets for through my killings I have provided for what family I have left.
   This has been my last confession. I pray you read it well.

Ben 'Orphan' Intyre
Uncle, Fighter, Provider

71

I am being haunted by ghosts.
A ghost from the past.
Your ghost.
It shows up in my dreams at night and my thoughts during the day.
It is nice to me and teases me.
Yet it torments me with its very existence.
I am also being haunted by a different ghost.
A kinder ghost.
This ghost shows me what I wish for.
What I hope to have but probably won't get.
It still comforts me somehow.
Makes the other other ghost's present bearable.