Thomas Martin waved his hands in his father's face in hope of some response. Nothing.
"Father!" shouted Thomas. "I'm standing in front of you..." he trailed off.
Benjamin Martin was preoccupied in thought. Mulling over what he and the only other three men sitting there were going to do. Jean Villeneuve and Dan Scott glanced at one another and quickly got up to leave him alone. They knew when Benjamin started rubbing is temples, it was time to leave him be.
Thomas watched them leave, looked at his father, and sat down next to him on the log.
"Father, why can't you hear me?"
Benjamin looked around and tried to tend to his headache once more. He rubbed his temples and then slammed his fist to his knee in frustration. After several moments of silence, he took a small bag from his jacket pocket. Thomas recognized it and gave a half smile.
"Oh Father, my soldiers!" he said excitedly. Perhaps his father was not ignoring his son, only waiting to give him the figurines. "May I have them..." began Thomas, "Wait, Father, hold on, what are you doing?" he asked worriedly. Benjamin had taken out a bullet mold and placed one of the small soldiers into it, then set it up over the fire in front of him. "Father, don't do that you'll melt them! Mother gave those to me! You know that, stop!"
Nothing. Benjamin couldn't hear anything. He continued to melt the figurine of his diseased son.
"Well Father, if that's not sadistic, I'm not quite sure what is!" And with that, Thomas walked off into the woods.
As he knelt down by a stream and splashed his face with it's water. Thomas wiped his brow with his sleeve and looked down in the water. Nothing. 'Odd.' he thought, 'There should be a reflection.' He splashed the water again in hopes that it was just murky. Chrystal clear down to the bottom, and still nothing. An awful feeling began to fill up in his stomach, creeping into his chest, and then surrounding his throat. He looked down at his top and saw in it a perfectly round hole and around it, the shirt stained blood red. Real blood. His blood. Dead. He was dead. Now, only a ghost. And the memory of his own death came flooding back to him once more. His father was making bullets from the only thing he had left that belonged to his dead son, for vengeance.
Thomas closed his eyes, but no tears would fall from his eyes anymore. Blood would no longer spill from his body. He would never experience anything human. He was only a ghost. Thomas lay on the cold ground, but he could not feel the discomfort of the earth, nothing could phase him. And he wind carried him to his resting place once more, hoping the boy would remember he was dead, and cease haunting his tormented father.