Alan was a 8 year old, living in Sicily. He had gone to bed on a normal night, after a normal day. His father, however had seemed very wary and distant. His father had never gone into much detail about who he worked for, or what he did, but they were fairly wealthy. Anyway, Alan was asleep in his bed, when he heard a creaking, the front door being opened. Alan had heard this many times before, the sound of someone breaking in. It didn't scare him any less, however. Alan gulped and tried to stay quiet, hearing very light footsteps outside his door. His door opened and a man, a hideous scarred man, whose face Alan would never forget, stepped into his room and before Alan could do, or say, anything, he pulled out a gun, a gun with scars to match the owner. Alan gulped and closed his eyes, expecting death. He heard more footsteps and a scream, his mothers. He heard a man growl loudly. A gunshot rang out and Alan opened his eyes, he wasn't dead, that much he could tell. He was hurting, however. He felt a cold numbness around his lower right side. Alan gasped for breath and fell, powerless to the ground. He saw the gun level with his face and closed his eyes once again. This time when the gunshot rang out, he immediately knew it wasn't aimed at him. All noise had ceased in the house. Alan, by this time, knew his parents were dead. He expected his death to come any moment now, but it never did. He opened his mouth and spoke the words, very faintly.

"Who... are you?"

The man smiled maliciously and aimed the gun straight towards Alan's face, before whispering:

"I am... Your worst nightmare!"

Then everything went black. Alan woke the next morning to find he had bled half to death. Then came the news that his parents had been killed. Alan felt himself devoid of all emotion. The next ten years were spent with very few friends, barely any relationships and work, non-stop work, day after day. Then he'd heard about America. It sounded as if his dreams existed their, as well as safety from the killers that had slaughtered his mother and father. He got on the boat the very next year, before finding his way into some sort of normality. Then had come a certain introduction.

Alan woke from his dream of memories past, days long gone. He sighed, shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memories, as he had done with whiskey and work, but to no avail. He was stuck with them. He looked on the pillow next to him, alone as always, apart from the gun, which was placed there. He grabbed it and holstered it, ready to face another day.

Comments welcome!