Disclaimer: Err... really, do I need to? It's so upsetting...

So, here's the thing: I wrote this in my free period this morning as I had no homework, except at lunch, I realised I had geography... oops. Anyway, here it is.

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Men Don't Cry

Men don't cry.

Despite that, the tears pricked his eyelids as he remembered, mercifully stopping short of falling down his cheeks. He remembered opening the gate and hearing it squeak as it swung back on one hinge, and wondering how it had been broken. He remembered the front door swinging wide open with only a touch; not locked, not even closed. Then came the first twinges of worry and fear, and the realisation that the house seemed cold, icy even, even though the heating hadn't been turned off. He remembered the way his voice had echoed in a house that suddenly seemed to large, too quiet.

Men don't cry.

Especially not in front of men like Blunt, who couldn't seem to comprehend that this was the end. Or in front of priests who talked of God, and of beings dressed in white, and of rejoicing and happiness, when for him the world was the same colour as his suit: Black. Or in front of growling SAS units, who had never known anything about him, and now knew even less, and who didn't seem to realise that it didn't matter to him if he – or they – were binned.

Men don't cry.

Even when they knew that they will never see their friend again – their only friend. Even though he was the only person that made him feel 'normal' and the only person who would ever have tried to understand how he felt. He remained dry-eyed as he said his silent goodbye, even though he knew that he would never find another friend, and even though he was not just saying goodbye to his friend, he was saying goodbye to normalcy too.

Men don't cry.

They don't cry when they wake up feeling as though they are covered in somebody else's blood. They don't cry when they replay what must have happened in their heads, and see the struggle, the single shot and the single death. They don't cry when they remember how they found the body in the gleaming white kitchen, blood slowly staining the tiles deep red, and go to pick up the phone, to discover that she had tried to phone for help, and had been shoved away, leaving the phone dangling halfway down the wall on its cord.. They don't cry when they remember the blank unseeing eyes staring up at them, and close them as carefully as possible, leaving two bloody fingerprints on her eyelids.

Men don't cry.

So it's just as well that when he wakes up from his sixth nightmare in as many nights, and remembers that she hasn't heard the screams and isn't going to come, and never will again, that he isn't a man. He's only just turned fifteen, and he has run out of people that care for him. He's only fifteen, still a child.

He's only fifteen, and he's allowed to cry.

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Wow, that's depressing. I'm gonna end up with a reputation for depressing stories that no one wants to read... so, on a happier note: in English today, I discovered that education truly has gone downhill – we were discussing 'ambiguous toads' I mean really, 'ambiguous toads' are going to get me an A Level?

So, tell me what you think... please? (about the fic, not ambiguous toads)