AngstMy parents and and I lived in a little town house in central London. Mother was a tailor, she liked to make clothing and hats and sometimes costumes; She was always really busy with her work, and she usually came home late at night; Therefore, I usually stayed with Father until she came home. Unlike my mum, Father had an interesting and high ranking job. He was one of the sentries that patrolled outside the palace. I remember him the most. He was tall, but not lanky. He had deep emerald green eyes, and chestnut coloured hair that was nearly swept across his lightly tanned face. Father even had a bit of facial hair. Anyways, I would always go on long walks and explore the big city with him; I've been all over the place; I've walked these streets time after time, and admired all of the glowing golden lights; I've even toured the Clock Tower with him. The clock tower was probably my favourite memory. I'll never be able to forget getting such a beautiful view of the city in all of its glory, with all of its lights and the palaces and the great river Thames, reflecting every light, every dim glow, and every piece of brilliant architecture. I could see the whole world from up there. Looking through the face of the clock was something only very special people got to do; See, they had to be a well liked citizen, a resident of the United Kingdom, and they even had to be sponsored by the Parliament. And as I looked through the face of it, I felt like the second most powerful person in the world, next to Father of course. Father loved me a lot. He even let me wear his hat. The hats are very special, for they are made up of pure fur, and they usually cost a king's ransom; Seven hundred pounds, seven hundred pounds of pure Canadian black bear fur. And the things are heavy, too. And Father would always take care of me; I remember one night, I got really sick. Well, not exactly a fully fledged illness, but more of an allergic reaction of sorts. He'd held my hand tightly and pinned my hair from my eyes and just stayed there by my side throughout the whole thing, even though I was bloody disgusting. But he didn't seem to mind.
One day Father went off to war; He left a cold and rainy night. I was around ten at the time. He never told me what kind of war he was going to, and he didn't bring the uniform either, which was strange. Mother told me that he might not be back for a few years or so. But I knew he'd come back for me soon. He had to; He loved me.
Seven years has passed, yet Father had never returned. Mother had once told me that he would be back on my eighteenth birthday, just a few weeks before I was to be taken into military training.
On the night he was to return, there was still no sign of Father. That same night, Mum called me into the bedroom for a conversation. What she said wanted to make me jump into my father's arms and cry, or vomit, or maybe both.
"Your father is dead."