Following the incident, I didn't get much sleep. The days dragged on, turning into weeks. It wasn't long before an entire month passed. Not much. Toby went back to New Zealand, leaving behind a suitcase full of old photos that I never got around opening. I hadn't seen much of Sealand, and Wy seemed to be behaving herself. Life gradually became back to normal. 

However, something wasn't right. It was a recurring churning sensation in my gut, this feeling of apprehension. I've felt it before, but not ever in these circumstances. It wasn't quite painful, but exhausting in its own right.

It started when Wy conspicuously insisted on going to bed early. She'd been doing that for the past week, and while I did find that unusual, I never probed further into the issue. However, it continually nagged at the back of my mind.

Another week passed, and I decided to fix the issue once and for all.

"Jett!" I could hear Wy's loud footsteps running up the stairs, and checked the clock. 8:00 P.M. Just as I anticipated. "I'm going to bed!" She rushed into my room, grabbed her stuffed animal, and left. Like clockwork. 

"Night," I muttered, making a pretense of indifference. In fact, I was very, very alert. My fingers impatiently tapped against the bed frame. Each minute passed on with exasperating slowness, in complete silence. My ears coveted for the slightest noise, disturbance, anything. After I was sure an hour had passed, I checked the clock again. 

8:30 P.M. Damn it.

Sighing, I walked towards Wy's room. It was to the left of mine, easily distinguished by the pastel pink door she had painted herself. The interior was pink as well, but a darker shade. Pictures of her art were framed all over the walls, along with the works of famous artists, such as Margaret Preston and Fredrick McCubbin. Glow in the dark decals of dolphins dotted the ceiling around the light fixture. The flag of Wy nearly covered half of the wall over the headboard of her bed, hanging neatly from two nails embedded in the wall. Her nightstand was to the left of her bed, but the items on it only consisted of a digital clock and a lamp. There were also a couple of pots with flowers of various colors in it, which she referred to as her indoor garden. They sat next to her window, where they usually gained plenty of sunlight. 

But this time, something was wrong. The window was wide open, and the howling of wind echoed throughout the room. I looked towards the bed. There was a lump in it, but it didn't look like Wy. It was almost...rectangular. I slunk towards the bed, pulling back the covers. The 'lump', as I had hoped it wouldn't be, was a pillow.

I felt a pang of dread, and tried to collect myself, focusing on thoughts rather than hysteria. It seemed only logical that she had been sneaking out of the house for a while, which clearly explained her premature bedtimes, and her strange detachment from Sealand. She knew the streets like the back of her hand; it would take her little time to find him. Once she did, they'd have the entire night to themselves.

This is your fault, I thought. If only you had kept watch over her. 

If only you had kept watch...

That's when I saw that little girl.

She wasn't Wy, but a someone else. I met her family a long time ago, before World War I. Her daughter was small for her age, with brown curls that bobbed up and down, and piercing green eyes. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and a smile that was contagious. She was sweet, clever, all good qualities. I remember the tears falling down her face when I left to fight in the campaign, and how I promised her I'd come back. That I'd keep her safe. 

Then the outcome. The disaster. The shared feelings with the soldiers coming back, fed up with being bossed around by Great Britain. I wanted to be completely independent, and I was sure the 8,709 people who gave up their lives in the campaign did as well. I started to forget about my promise. I lost a grip on who I was, so caught up in political issues, my own selfish needs.

And the girl? She died on New Years Eve, 1920. Almost five years after I left. She was killed. And I wasn't there to save her. I wasn't there to be the hero that Wy thinks I am. 

The girl walked up to me. I knew it was only part of my imagination, a delusion, but I gave into it. She extended her hand towards me, her eyes alight. For a moment, not even the howling of the wind was audible. Only my heart pounding against my chest, adrenaline flooding my senses.

But, against all common sense, I stepped forward.

Suddenly, she morphed into Wy. Her features were exact, down to the band-aid hidden by her hair. My breath hitched as I slowly reached out to take her hand. The second our fingers grazed, she was knocked back by some unknown force, falling into a heap on the ground. I backed away. Blood trickled out of her mouth, along with a prominent black eye. Helplessly, she whimpered.

"Wy, no-" I pleaded.

She was hit again, and skidded across the floor. Scrapes and burns marked her arms, with various other injuries around her body. 

"Wy!" I called, my voice lost as Wy suddenly jerked. Blood splattered all over the floor, and I recoiled. Her eyes stared at nothing as she jerked again. More blood came, staining the carpet, seeping through my fingers as I hugged her delicate body. I closed my eyes, feeling a wave of nausea as a final sound rang out. A gunshot. Gradually, I opened my eyes.

And, in my arms, was that same pillow. It wasn't wet from blood, but from my own tears. The tears of the villain.