The day has arrived.

Issac Morgan, son of Gabriel Isaiah Morgan and Mary Coleshill, is to be executed for his crimes against humanity.

That may seem overboard, for he is convicted of murder and theft, but he has taken more from me. I see him in such a negative light.

I never understood why he turned to the path he did. My grandfather had been a sweet man- my grandmother was as kind. My grandparents died when I was too little to understand- perhaps two years old, but I remember my grandfather's face regardless- even if it's pitched together memories from the paintings I used to observe. 

He was a tall, pale man with a jolly smile. He had grown plump with age, his whiskers fading from grey to white. He had more facial hair than he had hair on his head. I wish, at times, he was alive. Maybe my father needed more love, but he had been stingy in the first place. For the first four years of my life, dad was an excellent man- a role model. Then he pushed it all away. Drinking, gambling, and thievery. His parents didn't raise him to act in such a way. It must break his mother's heart to see what he has become. 

Of course, they had so much to be proud of him for. He's a decorated veteran of the 7 Years' War right along with grandpa, a man in the Roman Catholic Religion, and he was happily married to a young woman- my mother. Was.

But I hate him.

Every ounce of respect I could've had was washed away the very moment I was four. I pity my mother for not being able to escape him- no matter how often she tried. She wanted to run away- go to the other side of England to her parent's land. They passed away before I was born, but I remember the stories my mother could tell of them.

Grandma was a tall woman married to a short man. The family was better off, remaining in the high middle class. On my mother's side, I have two uncles, both living in the New World- from the last I recalled. They used to send letters every other week. My father was an only child coming came from a financially stable family. Issac's parents loved and raised him well, yet he turned into a monster a while after they were gone. 

A monster that I was doomed to look like. Dark eyes and brown hair, I wish I had taken my mother's auburn, as James did. No, I have to stare into the mirror and remember that I am a fraction of that cruel man. Instead of a lively green, my eyes are grossly brown. Yet, when you look in different lighting, they become honey brown. I like it better. 

Damn that cruel man to hell- a curse of my life. A crooked scoundrel that sleeps around- avoids his kids- and ends the lives of innocent beings. He is a no-good, two-faced inconvenience. 

I can't wait to watch him hang.

Lifting my gaze, I glance to my side. Willow wasn't beside me, instead staying with Hugh. His mother found out that I wanted to go to the hanging, and she readily offered for Willow to stay for a couple of nights. Again, another reason why I was thankful for the family's hospitality. 

The wealthy are bound to crowd the streets, looking to get a good view of the gallows. Or- whatever way they plan to hang him. I'd love to watch him dangle from the tree branch- he doesn't deserve to be hung at the gallows.

I began to feel giddy. Would it be cruel to think in such a way? He's been no more than a burden, so why not be happy that he is slaughtered? 

Regardless, I closed my journal. I dug away at a loose brick, setting it to the side. Behind it was an open cubby where I could safely store my things. I accidentally discovered the brick was insecure a while back- and I've been using it to my advantage. It keeps my items dry and hidden.

Satisfied, I placed the brick back into place- patting it to ensure it was in place. 

Now I began to ponder. If I'm heading into town, I may need to brush up. The thought was almost funny- I had no means of being able to clean myself, though the rich are much filthier than the poor. I was confident I could find a way. 

I stood, glancing at the sky. It was roughly nine in the morning, granting plenty of time. Thankfully, the autumn felt relatively moderate- or perhaps I've grown used to the cold. 

Taking a deep breath, I stared at the path. Well-worn from years of travel, even some of the cobblestone had been carved away. Yet, as I began walking, the heavier the idea dawned on me. I was walking to the plot where my home once stood. I believe I'd preferably wash in the harbor and smell like sea salt and fish before I return there.

"Where are you off to?" 

I turned at the sound of the voice, smiling. Micheal. He must've returned from whaling. "I was going to clean myself up. I suppose I just slipped into a daze."

A Viking, that's what he looked like. I hadn't been able to pinpoint the word before, but looking at him- he is like a Viking. Tall, muscular, and with a face full of hair; his beard was tied neatly with blue and white beads. And when he laughed, the ground around felt like it shook. It's almost strange to see him dressed in English clothes. 

"What's the occasion?"

"My father's execution," I know I must've seemed crazy- the mere thought caused my smile to widen. Though, his reaction was similar. 

"It's about time." Micheal offered a quick smile before realization popped onto his face. "Oh- I suppose I should get to my purpose of finding you! You still read, aye lad?" 

"I do."

"Well, I got a book for you." 

I gasped, eyes widening. "Oh- Thank you!" I could hardly contain how excited- my hands stimming at my side. My love for reading had grown over the years- as did my fondness for writing. A book? What a wonderful gift.

He dug through a bag for some time, lifting the novel. "Ah, here we go. The Man of the World, a book by Henry Mackenzie. Published just last year." The Irishman offered it to me, dusting the cover some. "It's not quite a history book- I gave it a read myself. I believe it had a good lesson in the end."

I flipped to the first page, scanning over the first few words. "Thank you, Micheal. I'll be sure to read it. Perhaps we can discuss it the next time you return." 

"I'll be home for a few months, lad. We'll have plenty of time to talk. The weather will start getting worse, I assume. And looking at it, illness is beginning to peak again. Those seamen come in all wet and cold- followed by rats carrying disease. Those ships smell like death-"

"Due to the Atlantic Slave Trade."

"Aye. It's become bothersome. It doesn't matter how many papers we published- people ignore them for self-benefit."

"The New World is the worst for it, I presume. At least for regions of English territory."

"I think the worst part is opposing tribes in Africa are selling each other off."

I enjoy the way words sound in his accent. The Irish are interesting, carrying such lovely accents. Though, I shouldn't concentrate on such a thing at the moment. "Yes," I muttered. "Thinking about it is rather sickening. But people will do what it takes to survive. I've begged, borrowed, and I've stolen some things."

"Jon, you had no other choice. These people are adults who think this behavior is alright."

"I know. Look at the Portuguese- the slave trade started with them in roughly- 1526. Consider that- people for hundreds of years have taken advantage of races they see as inferior. Romans used anyone that wasn't part of the empire, Egyptians enslaved Jews, and for roughly seventy years, Athens's population was one slave per four persons. "

"All of those are Ancient civilizations, lad. In the new world, the southern colonies- Virginia especially- are full of slave labor."

"You've been?"

"I have. As you move further south, you'll realize how massive plantations are- a land of cotton commonly surrounding it. I had gone to many of their southern ports for trade until I realized how sickly the people there seemed. It wasn't too long ago my grandfather traveled to the Colonies. He told stories about how quickly the men seemed to die."

"Really? What happened to their properties-?"

"If their children weren't old enough? It's placed into his wife's hands. She was usually left to care for the farm, the wee ones, and their property as a whole. That's only in the Southern colonies. Northern men tend to live longer,  and they force more strict rules. Well, maybe those have settled since my grandfather and his fathers before him." 

"Did your father never travel?" 

"No, father was a sick man, lad. He struggled with tuberculosis and couldn't escape the house due to his fevered fits. When our family lived in Ireland, things were stressful. Our crops wouldn't make yield. So, my mother decided that we were heading somewhere new. I was probably seventeen when I arrived here; Hugh's father was edging thirteen." 

 "You didn't travel to the colonies?" I felt almost appalled. Many people escaped to the colonies, seeking religious freedoms or new starts; why come to the United Kingdom? Particularly the Irish- I wouldn't think they'd willingly come here.

"Well, truth be told, lad- we were hoping to find well-paying jobs. Whaling brings in enough profit for me, but the others still need work." 

 I gave a quick nod, lowering my gaze for a moment. Tilting my head up had begun to hurt- he's much too tall to stare at for long. Though, I do like looking at the style of his hair. It was shaved at the side, but the remaining hair was tied neatly at the back of his head. He looked lovely with his beard. 

There seemed to be a long silence before I felt a hand on my shoulder. "You said you wanted to clean up, aye? There's a creek not too far from this point. I would say it's only a five-minute walk into some of the woodlands." 

"Alright, I'll be sure to head in that direction. Thank you for everything."

"It's no problem, boy. You're thirteen. You're going to need help sometime." 

I clenched my teeth, bowing my head. He was right- I wasn't supposed to be in this situation. I should've been in school- or at the least in a home. I sighed, moving away from Micheal and hurrying into the wooded area. The world around was lively- which was nice. Knowing that the Earth sings even if death awaits someone it's more comforting than anyone could imagine. 

The birds will sing, the winds dance through the hanging limbs, and the flowers hum a backing chorus. It reverberates through the cool springs, even as winter wears away. Everything blooms again. No matter the loss. 

I tilted my head to the side, running a hand through my hair. The creek wasn't much, but at least the water was clean. Kneeling, I could tell the water was going to be chilly. And sure enough, a shiver ran through my body as soon as my fingers made contact. 

Well, no problem.

---

As the evening set in, I hurried down the street. I grunted, turning a corner sharply. Micheal stood, waiting for me. 

"There you are, Jon. Are you alright?"

"I am."

"Good. The hanging will be soon. Shall we get going?"

"That would be nice," I whispered, walking alongside him. The walk wasn't long- a crowd signaled we were close. High-class men, women, and children all gathered around. Strange, letting children watch such things. 

Without much care, I shoved my way between the people, glaring. As I stepped to where I could see the tree, I grinned. Truthfully it was going to be a grand execution. 

"All gather!" A man shouted. I smiled, plucking a stray stick from the ground. I glanced around the crowd- most appeared with serious faces- while I had likely the giddiest expression one could offer. 

"Today, the execution of Issac Morgan will commence!" 

I nodded excitedly. Across from where I stood, I noticed a couple of familiar faces; the boy I had bitten, his father- and his younger brother. The youngest seemed to have a staring problem- his eyes seemed to pierce right through me.

How strange.

"This man is here under the accusations of theft, breaking and entry, and cases of homicide, arson, and abuse." The executor shouted over the talking. I grinned. From the corner, I could see my father. He was in baggy clothes, his hair a complete mess. The bastard finally met his fate. A man, once standing six feet, was slumped over. He looked defeated- and that made me ecstatic. All the pain he had caused me- caused anyone- it was being paid for.

"Now, 15 steps to gallows." 

The guards shoved him forward, and he stumbled. He seemed beaten and abused. God, a pitiful sight. He struggled to walk, wouldn't lift his head, and panted loudly. Pathetic.

I grinned, watching as he straightened his back once he touched the wooden surface. His face seemed hollow, and he looked tired. Though he scanned the crowd, his eyes landed on me. Again, his eyes pierced through me, sending cold shivers down my spine- an evil glare he held.

"Issac Morgan, what do you have to say."

"I've never felt guilt for the things I've done- hell, I'd do it again. When I burn in hell... I'll drag you down with me."

I took a step back, snarling. He pointed right at me- that bitch! How dare he have the audacity.

"Now, you shall be hung until dead." 

 The lever was cranked, and he dropped. I heard a quick gasp, yet the look of the man struggling- even though he kicked and tried to swing- didn't bother me. Instead, I leaned closer, watching his face turn red, veins bulging. 

God, a sight I've waited for; seeing him die. 

First, his lips turned blue, and his face followed suit. And he quit struggling- his body went limp- after so many minutes- he was finally gone. 

They cut him down- and I felt I could faint. He was gone! He was gone! 

I ran through the crowd, finally finding Micheal. "He's gone!" I laughed, nearly tripping. "God, thank god! He's gone!" 

He placed a hand on my shoulder after a moment, chuckling a bit. "You need to calm some there, lad. You're about to fall over."

I nodded, quickly balancing myself. My face burned due to how angry- perhaps excited I had been. 

He was gone! He was finally gone! He is out of my life! My mother and brother- it was revenge for them both.

Finally- 

I may be able to rest easy- for one night- if no more. 

Thank whatever is out there. You did one justice. 

What comes tomorrow is no longer a concern to me.