Chapter One

William Johnson was an average man. He was the type of man you'd see everyday and just wave to when you were going out to get the mail. He did not stand out as much but if he never existed it would seem strange to not see that friendly guy anymore as you exited your house. Johnson never got married and never had children due to being sterile. This upsetted him because he wanted to be a father. He loved and took care of all of his young siblings when he was a boy and once worked at a daycare center. He considered adopting a child but he felt that he wanted to have a kid of his flesh and blood. He was an average man desperate to become a father and aside from that he did not have that many cares in the world, until April 6, 1955. On April 6, 1955, Johnson had took a walk to the park to clear his mind. He had had his 23rd birthday a few days back and just felt he needed to take a walk. It was late, but the son was still out. He went to go sit by the tree. He pulled out a cigarette and struck a match to it. He saw all of the families pass by with children. He envied families. Being part of a family meant commitment, and protecting them at all costs. That is something he wanted to be a part of, with all his heart. But obviously he cannot start the true family he wanted to. When it got late, and after Johnson's third cigarette there had gotten as short as a pencil eraser, he stood up and tossed the remnants of the cigarette onto the grass and decided to walk home. Once he entered his house, he walked over into his study room. He took out a fresh piece of paper and put it in his typewriter. Johnson was a writer, but he wasn't very successful. But it was a job he really wanted to do to keep his future family (if he ever got one) have plenty of money. He wrote short stories but never got any one of them published at all. He was not motivated at all this night, he kept typing different story plots but could not find one that we was motivated about. He stayed on their chair for hours through the night, thinking of a good idea for a story. When the blue of the morning sky was coming in, something was blocking it. It was an orange light that lit the room. Johnson stood up and stepped outside to see what it was. What he saw was a huge blaring fire, engulfing the park that he walked to. The wind blew Johnson's hair as he watched the fire. A few fire trucks came by and tried to put it out. It wasn't easy, but it was put out after a few hours. Normally, this wouldn't affect Johnson. But days later, he found out something that had devastated him. Over 60 families had perished in that fire and almost all of them had kids. He couldn't bear to think that so many families had died in that fire, but they did. What made it worse is that Johnson could have been responsible. He was the one who tossed his cigarette onto the grass. Maybe it burned down because of that. He was depressed that so many of something he wanted to be a part of were killed. After this had happened, Johnson had gone into a long depression. He never started a family, he never became an author, and never recovered from this depression. After intense feelings of guilt from possibly causing that fire, Johnson took his 357. Magnum and killed himself in an outhouse a few blocks away from his house on June 3, 1955.