Two hours seemed to just fly by, the story of Clere seemed perfectly put onto paper in his numerous diaries, leaving the whole class to be seemingly happy and intrigued by how the lesson had taken grip of their emotions and laboriously toyed with them.

History was always a pleasure but one boys face seemed untouched as though his ear was wrenched toward whisperes of fate instead of the present. His face was sweaty, his expression dreamy. The class vacated but he remained, pen in sweaty palm held firm and still digging into the wood of mint chizzled wood. Something ate at him, something of menacing teeth gnawning relentlessly at his very soul. His name should have been Mark, Clark or something of a sort but then he had been an outcast, nobody spoke to him and noone knew he existed. What a sad thing to be of no consequence with no power to alter the rotation of somebody's earth.

His life had been a pain that stung with every pump of blood through his veins, his parents burried, his only sister left him for dead to instil into him the feeling as if he didnt deserve to breath the air that brought pain to his every cells.

School was over and his every step brought him closer to his torture house where his aunt waited to make him a cup of coffee then force him to lick it off the same floor he forgot to clean in the morning. He took the detour.

He seemed like a zombie guided by mindless emotion and bitter hate and when at last his senses came around he was alone, it was dark and he was lost with a heart pounding away in the silence. In a hurry he tried to replay his steps, to the right, to the left, he was circling his fate in the shrub. He almost gave up to wait until light ruled but a loud scream of terror shrieked through the bush, murderous gun shots fired and footsteps thronged the air. He was only 19 but death riddled his mind. He rembered vaguely how Clere had been a soldier burning with ambition, the thought amazed him for it was as stupid as his underwear. He moved toward the rackuss. Hidden in the darkness he lurcked like a shadow.

Moving closer he thought his eyes betrayed him, it was Mugabe, held prisoner by white men. One of the 7 foot monstrocities emerged just centimeters from where he was quivering at the gruesome sight staring a torn apart face, torture perhaps? The giant brought in the woman who had made the scream then ran wildly on her doomed escape. Clark was astounded to witness what he thought to be the asassination of his beloved president barely 5 years into office. The shock rode his body like a wombat, his body made to leave only to be betrayed in the hands of a dry branch. Machine guns roared through the crisp dark night, the smell of fire power mated with oxgen to become one only to be dimissed by the deeper smell of death. Mark was nomore and his eyes can nolonger tell the tale of his president...