The shower with clean water, rather than the lake water I'd been using during that week of camping, felt refreshing. I'd only had two proper baths at that time, so the feeling of cleanliness was a welcome change. However, during the shower, one thought nags at me—the old man's son, killed due to a false accusation. The old man was obviously very affected by it; there was no way he was not in mourning.

As the water poured down, I pondered whether I should seek vengeance for the old man. But the prospect of bringing more trouble to his doorstep, thereby adding to his suffering, made the guilt weigh heavier than the desire for revenge. While it might be a quest for justice, I couldn't help but feel that I, a murderer, shouldn't be the one to carry it out. I might become a hypocrite in the process.

I'd already made it clear to myself that once the manhunt for me was over and I was no longer wanted dead, I would voluntarily turn myself in. I didn't want to kill that woman; I was an outlaw, a criminal, a thief, and a robber, but I wasn't a murderer. Yet, in the course of events, I had become what I once despised.

In my three decades of existence in this wretched corner of England, I have taken the lives of two individuals, both within the span of just one month. It was astounding how swiftly a single month could transform me into the very thing I loathed the most.

As a member of my family's gang, I often found myself in altercations with rival gang members. I never initiated these fights; I merely asked for a drink and tried to peacefully coexist. Yet, time and again, they attacked me, forcing me to defend myself. I usually incapacitated them and left them alive. I couldn't bring myself to cross the line into becoming a murderer.

"You're a damn fool, Simon, an absolute prat," I muttered to myself as I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a grey towel around my lower half. I gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, gripping the sides of the sink to lean in closer for a better look. A slender, unkempt man with dishevelled hair stared back at me, a sight that filled me with disgust.

I shifted my attention to the clothes laid out on top of the toilet's lid and began dressing in them. Opening the bathroom door, I peered down the hallway and heard the faint sounds of a television series playing. I softly closed the door behind me and entered the living room to find the old man sitting alone, as motionless as a mannequin, his gaze fixed on the television with vacant eyes.

I didn't feel entitled to offer him my sympathy, but I understood what it was like to lose someone, even if they were family. My family, for all their criminal activities, treated me well, ensuring I was well fed and looked after. Even the members of my family's gang treated me with kindness; we were like a close-knit community. So, when the Southern Government began cracking down on the Midlands and that brutal battle ensued, I was traumatised by the sight of people I knew losing their lives.

I made a conscious decision to set aside my own concerns and focus on ensuring the old man's well-being before I left. I'd spent an entire week worrying about myself, and now it was time to ensure his safety.

"Hey, sir. Thanks for giving me these clothes. My old ones were getting dirtier than a hedgehog." I chuckled lightly, trying to inject some levity into the situation as I walked over and sat beside the old man on the sofa. The distant look in his eyes vanished the moment he heard me smile; that warm, paternal smile returned to his face as he chuckled.

The old man laughed and said, "Ah, you did have a bit of a smell, but it was not that bad." I responded with a small laugh before turning my attention to what was on the television screen.

"What are you watching, sir? It looks like some very old footage," I inquired politely.

"It's a show from 2023, before the civil war broke out. The year I was born," the old man replied.

"Wait, so you're 75 years old? You seem a lot younger, sir," I commented with a smile.

"Oh, stop it. No need to flatter me just because you're a guest for the night," the old man laughed, giving my shoulder a gentle pat. All I could do was smile back at him. It might not have been much, but I hoped it brought a little more happiness to his world. A kind man like him should never be sad; he should always be blessed.

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That evening, I dedicated my time to ensuring the old man's safety and staying far away from the abyss of sorrow that consumed him due to his son's tragic demise. His culinary skills were impressive; I wouldn't have been surprised if he had been a chef in a past life, or perhaps he had been one.

Before I departed from his house, I made a promise to return at least once a month, so he wouldn't feel alone. As I left the village and put some distance between us, I finally learned the man's name. He was David Allen.

David was kind enough to share some of his food supplies with me, as he was able to shop in town and didn't want me to risk exposure to the MacKenzie gang members who might still be on the lookout for me.

Eventually, I reached my camp, finding everything still intact and well-maintained. A smile crept onto my face as I positioned a wooden trunk beneath me and settled near the campfire. From my backpack, I retrieved the box of food supplies I had taken with me, and upon opening it, I discovered an abundance of meat. The sight of the meat made my stomach rumble in anticipation.

I swiftly retrieved my knife and thrust it through the middle of the steak I'd chosen from the box. Placing the steak beside me, I began the process of striking two rocks together over the campfire, rekindling the flames. I added more sticks and leaves until the rustic, earthy scent filled my nostrils.

The flames crackled vigorously and danced wildly as I held my steak above them, patiently awaiting its cooking. I observed the river in the distance, its waters crashing and the sound of birdsong filling the air as some of them drank from the river. It was a relatively warm morning, a welcome change from the cold that had gripped Northern England for so long.

Camping wasn't new to me, and this certainly wasn't the longest I'd spent outdoors. Being the son of a gang leader had its occasional advantages. I suppose our frequent need to be on the move and camp out in the Midlands played a significant role in shaping the nature-loving side of my personality.

The longest I'd ever camped was about two years, a period when the Southern Government just wouldn't leave my family's gang alone. After they had blown up a military base and looted everything inside, it had been chaos and exhilarating. We never stayed in one place for more than a week.

"Wow, what a strange life I've lived. You were a real bastard, father. But I suppose I won in the end. No more strict parents," I chuckled to myself, gazing through the openings in the leaves at the sky, where the sun spread its wings across the bright blue expanse.

As the steak sizzled and cooked over the flames, a flood of childhood memories washed over me. I remembered those days when I used to be outside, hanging around with the other children of gang members, fearing for my life, back when I was just a naive kid. I used to believe that Santa would leave me coal for Christmas.

I wouldn't say I was raised with a silver spoon in my mouth, but considering the circumstances of most communities during the lawless era of the Midlands, I lived quite well. I never went a day without food on my plate. I received a diverse education, learning how to read, write, fight, and shoot, thanks to the gang members and my parents. The one thing I didn't enjoy was the favouritism that sometimes came my way due to being the gang leader's son. But I had enough sense not to involve myself with insincere people.

My circle of friends was small but filled with genuine individuals—kids who were unusually mature for their age. In fact, I was often the most immature one among them. They enjoyed teasing me relentlessly.

"Ah, I wonder where they are now. My dear friends, I hope you're all doing well. And Lynn, I hope you're still out there, alive and kicking." I chuckled to myself, taking a bite of the steak. The juices ran from within it, trickling down my throat as I chewed and savoured each mouthful.

Lynn was, well, my childhood crush, I suppose. My first friend was Lynn, with whom I was friends until I turned sixteen, at which point Lynn was adopted by a well-to-do family. She pleaded with them to adopt me as well, but they knew about my background, and they didn't want a gang member as part of their family. I understood their decision and moved on with my life, but Lynn fought against it for a long time before eventually giving up and accepting her new life. I reminded her that she'd been given a second chance and should make the most of it.

I didn't get a second chance; instead, I found myself homeless for four months before joining a ruthless gang.

While chewing on a large piece of steak, I looked at the flames and was mesmerised by their movement in the wind. My knife, still stained with blood, drew my attention. I tore the last piece of steak from the blade and began cleaning the knife using a cloth I found in the box the old man had given me. After securing the knife back in my pocket, I stood up, slowly stretching my arms above my head while keeping my eyes on the lake.

"I need to get out of here. Perhaps relocate farther north to Scotland or move west to Wales. I can't continue living in this country," I sighed, placing one hand on my chin and tilting my head to the side, eliciting a satisfying neck crack. Then, I shook my head from side to side.

"My family kept mentioning Wadhurst, so I suppose I should start making my way there."