THE MANSION

There it sits, atop its artificial hill, half a burnt out skeleton of what it was, black against the cloudy sky, the rest intact but barely, charred and ing. The gardens once beautiful gardens are barren wastes, remains of trees clawing to the sky like crows feet. No furniture is left within the building, it was either destoryed instantly in the blast or taken by rioters or the homeless. Nowadays you can find, the homeless curled up in corners or huddled together around fires, sharing food, remembering.
Former mansion owners, bussiness men, wives. This used to be a place of Happiness, of family but now only mourning. A place of I miss those times. A palce of darkness, a skulking place for a , a rememberance place for his masterpiece; the assassin, waits for his time.