Memories, of regrets

He picked up the alarm clock from the bed; it was the last thing to go in the bag. He never took much; he never wanted it to feel like home, especially when he was going for so long. For three months. With that much time you could become attached, could forget why your there, the real truth of it. You we're there to baby-sit, not be a friend, just do the work, nothing else. He had done that once before, done more than he had been asked. A bit of lawn mowing for a nice lady and her granddaughters, and become something else. But that was the past, nearly ten years ago, he was older now, and understood the consequences of it.

He walked over to the fridge; once again he had had to empty it out. As once again his job involved living, something he hated but could live with. The money was good very good, which gave him suspicion. But still the money was good, and he need ed it, that was for sure.

So as he picked up the bag, and left the room turning of all the lights and giving it a glance the windows where shut and nothing left on. He picked up his keys, and left the small apartment, not to return for three months.

He took a tram, and then a bus, followed by a walk. There was no direct way of getting there, he had looked but surprisingly not it didn't exist. Why would it? No one would want to go there, from around her. She lived in the fancy old part of the city, somewhere he had once lived himself, and before it all went wrong.

But now he lived downtown, a small apartment over a Chinese restaurant, which you had to walk though to get to the flat. The rent was cheap, not that there was anything wrong with the flat, so it was small for a guy on his own that was nothing. And it was quiet clean, compared to some of his friend's places, but there was the smell, something e didn't mind, It was the sweet smell of Mark Chun's and his family's cooking. Oriental cooking smothered his flat, but it was better than some of the things he had smelled in his life.

He walked along Prescott and Pine, looking for the house, and there it was, but it wasn't knew without knowing it he had been there before. It was a old Victorian home, burgundy in colour, with the same paint pealing away as he remembered. Its garden had become slightly scruffier; he liked to think it has been without his care that had made it this way. For this had been the house, the one that took up his teenage life. He had been their gardener and they had been his life.

He looked up at it, his bag skunked over his shoulder, and then back to the house, it was amazing he had left it with that bag, and now he came back to it. But it couldn't still be them; it couldn't still be the Halliwell's could it?

But the man had called himself Gordon, Mr. Gordon, so it couldn't be. But why would they of left, Penny had always been so proud of it being in the family for so long. But still time had moved on, they had all grown up, even if it was them they wouldn't remember him, they hadn't at her funeral.

He thought back to six years ago, Penny Halliwell died the one women he still knew from there. She was dead, it was finally dead al links, all ties where ceased. An so in memory of the one women who had never judged him, or his actions, h went.

He sat at the back, watching the funeral take its place, and then at the end had taken the nervous walked to the front, scare someone would recognise him. But no one did, not even the one women he wanted to recognise him, or her sisters.

So now with the final breath he took, he began to step up the weeded path, and towards the battered door, it was finally time to face the on thing he never could, after all the things he had seen in wars, there was one thing he couldn't cope with seeing. Her.

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