Never thought I'd make it to 20,000+ reads! Thank you! That's... a lot of people. Also, I'm done with final exams, so I guess you could say I'm in my LAST SEMESTER OF MY SENIOR YEAR (see what I did there hehe?)! I dedicated this to SantosPhillipCarlo (sorry I can't tag you... my computer's going funky), because in addition to the positive messages you sent me to help me get through exam week with flying colors, you haven't lost your dedication and mental prowess to develop a story idea to its fullest extent. So, thank you so much for working so hard to bring new stories to life - it's wonderful having you as a friend and inspiration!

When the man woke up, he found himself somewhere definitely not where he had been earlier. He wasn't even outside.

His head was pounding so badly he closed his eyes again and considered just sleeping on the spot. He did not immediately process what kind of a room he was in.

He heard sobbing from somewhere near him. Great, heaving breaths that were louder and more powerful than a tremor running through the Earth was emanating from a corner of the room.

His body refused to get up, and there was a loud ringing in his ears. He continued to hear the sobbing, as though it would never stop. He sighed and, with great effort, pushed himself up into a sitting position.

The first thing he could see properly was a gigantic figure in black, hunched over and shaking so badly that the shadows from the roaring fire to the left of him seemed to tremble in fear of the figure. Two women surrounded him.

He blinked, and saw the figure was in fact a very tall, very thin man. His broad back was curved in an almost graceful way as he wept over a bed. 

Careful not to make himself heard, the one who had arrived tried to get to the door. He heard the tall man say, "My poor boy, he was too good for this Earth..."

A boy no older than 10 or 11 years with a blank face was lying in the bed, unmoving, lifeless. Hundreds of little red splotches covered his cheeks, and his entire skin complexion was a sickly yellowish color. The stench of infection emanated off of him.

With a jolt, the man remembered how he had come down with malaria a few days earlier, but had to leave sickbay to continue fighting. He dismissed the thought and queasily watched the tall man. Cautiously, he approached the bed with the little boy.

"God has called him home. I know that he is much better off in heaven, but then we loved him so. It is hard, hard to have him die!" The tall man raised his face from his hands, not immediately looking at the other man. Nevertheless, the onlooker was surprised to see how gaunt and war-torn this man's face was. He suspected the eyes once had a glimmer of mischief in them, but now they looked like dull, greenish mirrors that had been cracked from the inside. His black beard seemed to surround the entirety of his face, making extremely prominent cheekbones seem more highlighted.

He seemed to have walked straight out of a painting made of old charcoal.

Never had he seen a man so sad since...

Since...

He sighed, and focused on the facial features of the tall man some more.

And then he caught his eyes.

They both stared at each other for a solid minute. The tall one squinted, as if trying to make out a certain detail of his presence. He turned back to his son.

Either that man was too grieved to care, or he genuinely couldn't see him. 

The onlooker hoped it was the latter. 

He left the room quietly and made his way through the elaborate maze of rooms and hallways...

...Going towards the room with the most light and most importance, trying to get a sense of exactly where he was...

...The walk towards that room never seemed to stop...

...Finally he entered the room shaped like an oval, with a stately-looking desk in front of three grand windows...

...He turned around, marveling at the spaciousness of the room—

Wait. 

No, that's not possible, he thought.

He was staring point-blank at a picture of a very familiar-looking man. Situated above an elegant fireplace with some plants on top, was the man he once knew. The man who everyone looked up to.

He crossed the room quickly, and stared up into the painted blue eyes of George Washington.

But that must mean..., thought he, that I'm in... in the future!

For a moment, he didn't move. Nothing moved. His ears were ringing, and he felt sick all over again.

Suddenly a shriek of agony erupted behind him and carried itself through the doors of the room the onlooker was in. The owner of this voice passed the oval room he was in so quickly that the onlooker was startled that it might be a ghost of some sort. 

Rather it was a female, quite human, and he shook his head, scowling.

He heard another voice from somewhere, but it was not contorted into a sob nor a scream. Rather it was simply mumbling and whispering in his ear.

Trying to ignore the feeling, he walked back into the room where the father was, staring at the bed absentmindedly. 

"Is someone there? Hello?"

The onlooker jumped and stood stock-still in the eyes of the father again. The whispering in his ears seemed to grow louder. 

When the father looked away, the onlooker felt safe and certain that he could not have been seen. 

He stared at the floor, wishing he could just go back to where he came from. He found himself hating this strange, new world.

He looked up... and staggered backwards in shock.

A single line of thick red blood dripped from the father's head, carving a path down the nape of his neck and disappearing down the black clothing. 

The onlooker rushed closer in horror—he was always one to run towards the danger—and saw that there was a...

A bullet hole in his head. 

The whispers in his head grew to a chatter, like a rich crowd at a theater before the performance. He was able to catch some snippets: "Clouds and darkness... Heaven is just... day of triumph... vindicated!"

He stumbled backwards, and fell back onto the floor, feeling like he was about to vomit. It was all too much to take in.

He faintly heard the other woman, the one who didn't go beyond the oval room, say something to the father.

The onlooker felt the blackness creep in around his vision, and soon he was motionless on the floor, unconscious.

Still hunched over his son, the tall man saw a tear splash onto his chest. The blood ran faster down the back of his head, but he couldn't give a damn.

President Abraham Lincoln did not feel the blood slide down his back. There was absolutely no pain in that aspect of his life. 

He couldn't care less.

Heaving a great sigh, he turned away from his son William, took a long look at the room, and vowed for he and his wife never to come in there again.