July 27, 1997

Had my first holdup today. Man, a full year of workin' this newsstand and no one ever had the balls to try to hold me up until today. It was a kid, well, a teenager technically, but still too young to have to worry about money, 'specially from the look of his clothes. Those jeans looked brand new, though he needed a few years of growing and drinking to actually fit in them.

The gun was new too. It was one of those cheap things you'd buy from a thug on the street. Despite the no handgun rule, there are two types of people you can't force it on: criminals, and armed servicemen. He may have been the former, but unluckily for him, I was the latter.

"Gimme the cashbox," he said in a cockney accent.

"It's behind the Mirror," I replied as calmly as I could.

He bent down to check behind the Mirror display while I drew my own Colt Revolver and aimed it right at his head.

"It's not back 'ere, ye lyin' ol—" He looked up and stared down the barrel.

"Get the fuck out of here," I said.

He shot to his feet and ran off down the street and into an alley.

I sighed and holstered my gun. I hoped it'd be more exciting. You can't really help stupid teenagers. It's that phase where they're tryin' to be men, but the little boys in them come out when you're in over your head. I remember that feeling. Even after you're grown up, sometimes that scared boy you used to be comes back. The good part about it is that that's the part that gets you to run. You usually survive better that way.

Six o' clock finally came pretty much with no more excitement. I hobbled out of my stand, closed up everything, and limped down the six blocks to my apartment, or flat as they call it here. Maybe it's because the floors are flat or something. I dunno. I don't get these Brits. I don't think I ever will.

I moved to merry ol' London a little over a year ago. After dealing with a few family problems, I felt like I needed a change of scenery, and as if the Lord gave one himself, my buddy Cyrus from the Gulf called up and asked for help. Well, he didn't ask for help, but he sounded like he needed it. His sister died when a bridge over the Thames just collapsed with everyone on it. He was close to his sister, so I came by to help with the funeral arrangements. I stayed at his place to help him cope, and I ended up not leaving. I remember the funeral. There were at least five more in the same graveyard. I'm no engineer, but it seems strange that a bridge that huge and that strong could just collapse. I try not to talk about it around Cyrus, though. There are some things you just don't talk about.

Anyway, I sat around watching the news for a bit. There seem to be more murders and kidnappings than usual, but you'd expect it from a big city like this. Hell, it's a miracle anyone survives this long here from the traffic laws alone. Still, I just have a bad feeling about this.

Cyrus came in at about seven. "How's life, Your Highness?" He's called me that since we ended up in the same hospital. He got jealous of all the attention I got since my leg was almost shot off. That, and my last name is Prince.

I sighed. "All right, I guess. You?"

He walked into the living room. "No nickname? What happened?" I like to call him "Butterfinger" whenever I'm in a good mood. He got that since he lost his pinky in the same battle. He pushed some rookie out of the way and got his finger blown off. At least he doesn't have a limp.

I told him about the holdup. He probably would've laughed if the mood were better.

"So? Some idiot kid just got in over his head? What's the problem?"

"I dunno." I thought for a bit. "D'you ever get the feeling that the world's goin' to hell?"

"All the time. We're getting old. It's normal."

"I know that, but this feels like… well, we actually are goin' to hell."

He laughed. "I thought you quit church."

"Maybe not like that, but… you know what I mean, right?"

His lips tightened. "I think you're watching too many news programs." He got up and went to the kitchen.

I shrugged and turned back to the TV. I didn't really expect much from him.

Cyrus came back in with a beer. "Whenever I see the news lately, I think of Alicia," he said. "For some reason, I think there's some sort of connection, but it makes no sense whenever I try to figure out what it is." He shrugged. "I guess it's part of grief, right?"

I looked at him. This was one of those times where he actually seemed sincere.

"That bridge… that couldn't be a freak accident. But there's no evidence of bombings or sabotage or anything! I don't know who's fault it is, and it's pissing me off!" He stopped and started taking deep breaths.

I moved to get up. "You okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."

I managed to get back on my feet. "Here. I'll make dinner. Fish and fries sound good?"

He looked up at me. "They're called chips."

I grinned. "Okay, Fish and fries it is. I'll call it in."

I called up the local pub and put in an order. We have a deal set up with them for being frequent customers. They'll send someone to us with whatever food and drinks we order. It's not five star, but it's comforting, kinda like childhood.

The day ended pretty much normally. We ate, bantered, read for a while, and went to bed. I'm still wondering about that kid, though. I hope some gang thug didn't shoot him or something for failing to rob an old cripple.

July 28, 1997 3 AM

Holy shit! I had to write this down! Cyrus and I woke up an hour ago to a huge crash outside our window. We both stumbled out of bed and grabbed our guns.

I poked my fingers through the blinds and saw a man on the ground beneath our window. I pulled up the blinds to get a better look.

"Oh my God!" I gasped.

The man had scars all over his face and a glass eye whirling around in the socket. His clothes were mismatched and dirty, and his hair was thin and receding. He looked old enough to be my father. His other eye didn't even flutter or close. He looked dead.

"He looks dead," said Cyrus. "I'll check it out." He grabbed a flashlight from his night stand and left the room.

I hobbled closer to the window to get a closer look. He was dead all right. No movement whatsoever. There were no fresh wounds at all. He looked like he fell from the roof, but his body was parallel to the street. If he fell, or was pushed, he'd be perpendicular to the road. Unless someone threw him off sideways… but where else could he come from?

Then, the glass eye stopped rotating and looked at me. I almost shit my pants seeing that. I moved to the other side of the window, but the eye still followed me, just like Mona Lisa. Judging from the face, I'd say he was a veteran, and the clothes made him look homeless. I guess he could've gotten sick of the shitty benefits and killed himself, but again, no wounds or anything. What the hell happened?

As if to make life more confusing, the glass started frosting over. In the middle of summer? I touched the glass. I swear it was ice cold. Then, the ice faded away, and the body was gone.

Cyrus just made it out of the building and looked around. He walked up to the window and knocked on it. "Where'd he go?" said his muffled voice.

I opened the window. "I dunno. All this ice formed on the window and then…" I started to realize how crazy I sounded.

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Look, I'm just telling you what I saw. You saw him too. Could you believe he'd just get up and walk away?" I looked up at the raised pane. "Look! There's condensation on the glass! Where else could it come from?"

He paused trying to think of an argument. "Look, it's the middle of the night. We're both tired and probably seeing things. Let's just get some sleep and forget about it. Move over." I moved aside as he crawled through the window. He closed it and left the room to secure the front door.

I crawled back into bed, but I couldn't sleep. That eye kept chasing me around my head. I figured if I wrote this down, maybe I could get it out of my head and finally sleep. We'll see how that goes.