A man woke up from slumber. He opened his eyes to see grey clouds brewing above, making shapes from out of this world. He never knew so many shades of grey could exist. He would have relished in its beauty a month ago, but thirty days can change a man. He could feel the grass below him thru his clothes. He was suprised by it's comfort. Soft grass and hard ground, a perfect union; the thought caught in his throat. He sat up wiping a raindrop from his forehead. A meadow sprawled before him, he was sure he saw a wild deer afar. A storm in summer he mocked to himself with no humour. He stood up, a gun fell to the ground from his lap. Cursing, he picked it up and took aim of the deer. Corrected for the wind. The deer would never see it coming and he wouldn't miss. He could get it thru its eye and the deer would die before it would feel pain. He pulled the trigger. He counted down from three. Nothing had happened. A sigh of relief escaped him. Safety was still on. He took out the magazine and counted the bullets. Still full. He turned, putting the meadow behind him, his face stoic, bland. He faced the mansion. He longed for the happiness he had when he first came here.
"But that", he sighed, "was never possible again".
