Hi! It's me again! :D God I haven't written anything on here for SO long!! Been busy with college and my own book, lol. but hopefully back now! This is a rather random present tense-experiment oneshot that I wrote in the car on the way to Cornwall. Enjoy. :D

A gentle breeze ripples through the grass, making the seed-laden heads of the grass dance and sway above me. I take a deep breath. I can taste the purity of the air.

I don't now if it's true, but I like to believe that I'm the only person who knows about this place. In any case, I've never seen another person here. It's mine. It holds a special place in my hard heart. I can relax here, really and truly relax, not just fake it. Here, I feel safe even without my gun at my side, and I never bring it in here. It would be… wrong. It doesn't sit right in my mind to mix those two parts of my being: the part that lies here on the slightly damp grass; and the part of me that relishes in pulling the trigger, swinging the knife, watching the spray of blood. I jerk away from the thoughts and try to relax again.

It doesn't work. My quick mind is rolling down that path and I can't stop it. Mixing those two parts of me, even in my head, is a very bad idea, and my head is suddenly full of 'what if' and 'maybe' questions. What if… my parents hadn't been killed? What if… I'd never left Russia? Maybe I would have been married by now. Maybe I'd have children. And a house where I didn't have to know every exit, where the windows didn't have to be bullet-proof. Where I was no more likely to be shot than anyone else. I almost laugh at the thought; it's just too absurd. I've lived almost my whole life being chased and threatened. Since the age of… oh, about fifteen, I've never been completely safe. Well, until I found this place, at least.

With a supreme effort, I drag myself back to the present. No point in dwelling on the past, or on whatever possible presents might have been.

I sigh gently and sit up, my fingers lacing with the short blades of spiky near-to-the-ocean grass behind me. If I strain my ears, I can hear the gentle rush and sigh of the sea, just out of sight over the brow of the hill. It's a calming sound and I try to match my breathing to it. In and out. In and out, with the advance and retreat of the waves.

Despite my best efforts, my eyes flick the watch on my wrist. Shit. I only have an hour left. I should already have left. I should have been back on the road, heading back towards Devon. I won't make it anyway, but I have to leave.

Every time I leave, I feel like something is being torn out of my heart, and this time is no different. I grit my teeth as I slam the Aston's door shut. The pain is already starting. This place has gotten under my skin.

I shoot one last regretful look out of the window, and then I look away. I a spray of sand and gravel, I accelerate away and the peace and tranquillity falls away behind me.

And now I'm on my way back to life, back to reality. But a small finger of thought brushes my mind, a remnant of my disturbing thoughts earlier. Who am I?

I know that one.

I am… Russian. I'm a man. I'm a killer. I am Yassen Gregorovich and I'm trapped by my very nature. Trapped by what I am. Trapped by my entire life.