All his life Cyrus had tried to make people happy, other people said he was mad, he was too generous for his own good, but he just laughed off their comments and asked if he could help them with anything, needless to say there was usually something they wanted assistance with. Cyrus had never had a family of his own, his mother had been terminally ill since he was ten years old and he'd had to stay home to look after her, by the time she died he was in his late teens and decided to dedicate his life to training to become a doctor. Unfortunately after a few years of studying he found that the career didn't suit him and he quit and found a job in the local library. The pay was minimal and he spent many hours of the day with only the silence for company, but his smile never faltered and he greeted every customer with a cheery 'good morning' or 'good afternoon'. He was a handsome man, with beautiful, shoulder length chestnut hair that he usually wore in a ponytail fastened with an emerald ribbon. He had quite delicate, pointed features and unblemished, pale skin but his most striking features were his deep blue eyes, like the colour of a winter night's sky. He would have made some girl the perfect husband but by the time he'd decided to stop studying medicine everyone else seemed already to have settled, and Cyrus was left alone.
Cyrus was walking home, he was in an unusually unhappy mood – it was three days before Christmas – the anniversary of his mother's death. The evening was drawing in and the air was bitterly cold, it seemed to bite at his face and ears, the only parts of his body that were not covered by some kind of thick, woollen garment. There was nobody about, many shops had closed for the holiday that day and any that hadn't had already shut for the night, but Cyrus had got absorbed in tidying and not realised the time. He passed the church and slipped a few coins into the metal collection box that was fastened to the wall next to the great oak doors, it was nearly Christmas and he had no friends or family to buy for, so for the past few weeks every night he had been sliding as much as he could afford into the box. Now he had thirty pounds left in his wallet, just enough for the weeks food and a bunch of flowers for his mother's grave. His footsteps made little noise as he walked, just a small crunch as they hit the gravel. He was looking forward to getting home and having a mug of Horlicks, one of the few pleasures he allowed himself, his small bungalow forever smelt of Horlicks and it was a homely, comfortable scent that greeted him when he stepped foot inside his front door. A sudden noise shook him out of his thoughts, a sudden crunch of gravel that had not been made by his own footfall. It sounded as though someone had jumped and landed heavily behind him, but Cyrus was not a suspicious man so thought nothing of it until he felt a heavy hand weighing down his shoulder. He froze and tried to convince himself not to panic, there had to be some reasonable explanation why somebody would grab him like that.
"Don't move," a voice growled, menacingly. Cyrus did as he was told, a voice in the back of his head was telling him he'd run into a robber, but he was adamant that he wouldn't jump to such conclusions without hard evidence.
"Give me your money!" the stranger hissed. Cyrus turned his head slightly to try and see his attacker but he found himself staring at a gun pointed in his direction.
"Give me your money!" the stranger repeated, more forcefully.
"But I... " Cyrus began to stutter but he was silenced as the thief poked the gun into the side of his head.
"Just give me the frigging money!"
"I would but I need it... it's all I have," Cyrus said weakly. The stranger grabbed Cyrus by the front of his shirt and forced him up against a nearby wall.
"I'm no frigging carol singer, pal, I want your money and you're going to give it to me," Cyrus' attacker spat, his face centimetres away from Cyrus'. He wore a balaclava but Cyrus could see brown eyes and a wisp of blonde hair. He tried not to look frightened but the many small clouds of breath that misted on the cold night air betrayed him.
"I can give you ten pounds but I need the rest for food," Cyrus tried to negotiate, mentally crossing non- essentials from his shopping list.
"Nice try smart ass!" the attacker snarled and then hit Cyrus hard in the stomach, he crumpled and the thief took the opportunity to delve into Cyrus' coat pocket. He found Cyrus' wallet and then turned and disappeared into the night without another word.
Cyrus slid down the wall and lay in a heap on the ground, he buried his head in his arms and tried hard to stop himself from crying.