Not knowing what to do, and how to address this situation, I paced the lounge. For some obscure reason I did not want to believe it was anything to do with Phil, although we had only just met. I had a little flutter of feelings for my neighbour, but I was also completely aware I could not pursue these, if I valued my own life. And, also, if I asked him about these, and he admitted it was a family member, I would not be able to react, as if I did, he would most likely discover my secret. But then again, he may know who it was... but I couldn't exactly go out on a murder spree and bump of a man who had pretty much legally killed my grandfather. It makes me sick. Makes me sick to think that just because he was gay, he was allowed to be killed. Given a lower status, no right to live. All of a sudden I felt dizzy, and I managed to make my way to the kitchen next door to throw up in the sink. I threw up thrice over, overwhelmed with grief and worry. Unfortunately, Phil was also in his kitchen, and as they are both conservatory-like buildings, he saw me. The next thing I knew was he was ringing my door bell, worriedly asking if I was ok. This was the last thing I needed, but I felt I had to let him in. He rushed towards me, and assisted me back through to the lounge, though I insisted I was perfectly capable. He sat me down, gave me a glass of water, and walked off to get a tissue. He was gone for over five minutes, so I went to investigate. Oh Shit. He was stood over the photographs, and had the last, unburned letter in his hand. I walked, as quickly as I could, over to him and pushed him sideways. "Don't look at that," I said gruffly, as I harshly gathered them up in a rough pile and threw them into the nearby shoebox. Then I looked at his face. He was crying, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. His eyes seemed full with a private pain. He was shaking, his hands not able to wipe his tears away. And he was looking out into space. Though I felt bad to feel so, I felt hugely relieved that he did not seem to wanrt to kill me at this precise moment. Instead, he gathered me up in a warm embrace. I stood there, a little awkward, as i was not sure how to react. Obviously, I wanted to discover why he was crying, though I felt a little intrusive; obviously I wanted to discover why he had hugged me, though I wanted him to calm down first. Once he let go, I walked back into the lounge, and of course he followed. He sat on the edge of the sofa, facing me, and began to talk fast, as if he would not ever get another chance to utter these words. "I grew up in Surrey, which had, and still has, extremely cruel views towards homosexuals. Each individual town has to watch their own punishments, or executions. At the age of 8, I had already been forced to watch seven hangings, three beheadings, nine whippings, and once a lesbian had been raped, by the mayor's son, as her punishment. She killed herself the very next day, her partner was one of the beheaded victims. My family is, and was, one of the highest ranking families throughout, which meant they were pure of blood" He spat the word 'pure' "and my father often organised these executions. So, of course, I grew up in a household where not only was homosexuality not allowed to be spoken about unless it was to do with the next execution or just 'dobbing' some one in, but also my father had made it clear that if any of us where, like my 'flea ridden uncle' was, he would not have any contact ever again. At least he did not say he would kill us with his bare hands, like my grandfather did to my great great aunt." Phil stopped to take a breath. "So where do you come in?" I asked innocently, though I guessed he meant that he was gay, but if my guess was wrong, I would be in grave danger. "I'm gay." He said quickly, as if wanting to push it out of his system. He reached into the shoebox for one of the photos. "And that there, is my father."
