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Revenge That Lasts a Lifetime
My heart is beating along with the rhythm of my steps, and each step I take assures safety and can reestablish my hope of living. This is the only thing I focus on as I tear through countless trees of the abandoned section of the palace grounds. A sense of fear creeps in my every nerve as I feel the presence of a beast so powerful. Its rage has the ability to hold the fate of war in its hand or rewrite the ending of an innocent man’s story. But this creature will not have a feeling of guilt in the end, for as it destroys one thing it sacrifices itself in the same way. Now this once-sleeping monster is counting down the seconds before it attacks me, its helpless prey. It is this thought that causes me to look back every few steps as a result of an anxious reflex. Each second of silence makes me wonder how much time is left. My movements become slower as my legs grow weary and my muscles begin to ache; my feet hit the ground like dead weights. This is not how I would have imagined my day to end.
Boom!! Suddenly, my body instinctively tenses, preparing for the shockwave.
November 2, 1915: it is a cool, crisp morning in England as I walk the familiar path to my job on the Metropolitan Police Force (otherwise known as the Scotland Yard). The Scotland Yard is not an easy task. We cover and protect a larger group of people than the normal police radius. This past week has been particularly hard for me because Charles VI, heir to the England throne, had an attempt on his life four days ago. As he was walking from his palace to the car, he stepped off of a curb, and the bullet intended for his head sailed over him, barely skimming his hair. His body guards quickly rushed him inside the palace where he has been ever since. The awkward attempt has caused us to do everything in our power to make sure it is not repeated. I feel pressured, trying to figure out who and why someone would shoot at England’s next king. Just as I had walked through the door, I was greeted by my boss, Addison Barkley, who seemed to be in a worse mood than usual. After quickly exchanging hellos, I made my way towards my desk. Before I can even sit down, my chief screams at us to grab our stuff because another attempt was made on Charles’s life. Upon our arrival, the first metropolitan police on the scene filled us in. Apparently, someone had tried to poison him. As a precaution, a loyal body guard drank out of it first and died no more than three seconds later. “The king says he will be given an honorable burial,” exclaimed my friend, Caden Braxton, after he finished questioning the other body guard on duty. I decided to go and question the butler who had brought the king the drink.
“Hello” I said, “My name is Eryk Darnell. Were you the man who brought the king the drink?”
“Yes, but I had no idea that it was poisoned. I feel so guilty and responsible for his death,” he said, pointing to the now lifeless body of the guard.
“It is not your fault,” I tried to explain. “As long as you’re not the one who poisoned the drink.”
“Of course not, how could you say such a thing?”
“It’s my job; sorry if I offended you. But I do have one more question. Has anyone been missing from your staff on both occurrences?”
“Actually,” responded the butler, “a man named Cedrick Bronson has been sick for the passed five days, but otherwise I can’t think of anyone else.”
“Thanks for your time.”
I turned around and decided to go to the residence of Mr. Bronson, who conveniently lived on the premises with the other servants. Of course, when I arrived and knocked on the door, there was no answer. “There has to be more to this than what meets the eye,” I said to myself out loud as I head back to the Scotland Yard to do a little research.
When I arrive at the building, I head right down to the file room to do a little research on this Cedrick Bronson character. After two hours of going through files, I discover one dated back all the way to 1642. It mentions the ancestor of Charles VI, Charles I. It says that in 1642 before the English Civil War had started, Charles I had stormed the Palace of Westminster with 500 soldiers to arrest five members of parliament, and a peer who he accused of treason, Arthur Bronson. “That cannot be a coincidence,” I thought to myself. As I follow the timeline all the way up to Charles VI, I find that all of the ancestors of Charles I died in an unfortunate accident before taking the throne. Suddenly it came to me. What if after the treason of Charles I, every heir to the throne was killed by a member of the Bronson clan in order to get revenge for their ancestor accused of treason? They probably didn’t want the same mistakes made by Charles I to be made again. But Charles VI doesn’t have any family or children, so this attempt will be the last, I have to warn him. I race to the palace as quick as humanly possible, only to hear a shot go off on the second floor of the mansion. When I get to the room where I believe the shot originated from, my heart sinks. There lying on the floor is the last member of Charles I’s ancestral line. But I wasn’t out of danger yet.
From the shadows emerges a tall, thin man no older than twenty-five. I presume it is Cedric Bronson. Suddenly, with one swift motion he runs toward the door. I jumped out of the way just before the bullet reached my chest. To my surprise he just kept running. I chased after him yelling, “This ends today!” I must have run two miles deep into the woods before losing sight of him. Before long, I stumble upon a building that Bronson must have run into. Just by taking one look at the place sends shivers down my spine. It is an old warn-down structure that must have been built centuries ago. Time had eaten away at its walls and structure leaving them corroded and unappealing. The flags and statues that once distinguished this palace had broken away long ago. As I walked through what was left of a door, I kept my gun pointed in front of me. My sight was only assisted by a flashlight that only allowed a certain amount of visual range. Every step I take into the building causes leaves to stir and crackle beneath my feet, making me to tip-toe on the possibility of being discovered. With every shadow I see behind each pile of debris, my heart leaps and my body freezes before I realize it is safe to move on. Then, I hear a faint noise from a far corner of the building. It becomes silent. I decided to slowly move towards the corner where I heard the noise to see what it was. Beads of sweat begin to drip down my forehead, stinging my eyes and reminding me of the fear ever present in this situation. This time when I heard the noise it was closer and clearer than before. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was Cedrick Bronson, dead. He had committed suicide with one bullet to the head. But now his jacket was open revealing a bomb that was strapped to his chest. He must have decided to dispose of me this way instead of shooting me. The bomb read five minutes. Time to go.
Each shockwave of the now exploded bomb was like a tidal wave of pain. It felt as if 200 pounds of weight was crushing me, keeping me in place. My lungs were now compressed to the point where I could no longer breathe. I’m not sure how much more of this torture I can take. As I begin to reach the point of unbearable pain everything went black.
As I attempt to arouse my aching body, all I can hear is the familiar voice of my chief, Addison Barkley. When I am finally able to put my vision into focus, I can only mutter, “What happened?” to my now relieved partner. “You survived a bomb explosion.” Addison began, “We figured out everything thanks to you. If you didn’t leave those files out on top of the filing cabinet, we wouldn’t have known where to begin looking for you. When we found the body of Charles VI, the bomb went off. We figured Bronson had run into the forest and you went after him. It didn’t take us long to find you but it took us an hour to find what was left of Bronson’s body. You did good Darnell.” With a satisfied grin on my face, I fall into a well-deserved sleep.