Everything went dark just like all the times before but this time it was different. I could feel myself moving and there was nothing I could do about it. I had been forced into the deepest darkest recesses of my mind where I had no control and all I could do was wait. Wait for what you may ask. Well now that is harder to explain.
The first time this happened to me or is it in me. Well any way the first time the world went black and I woke up in a hospital. The bronzed male nurse who towered over my hospital bed explained to me what had happened. He called it an episode. Some kind of mental break down or something like that, imp no good with medical knowledge, basically I have two personalities. One side me the normal me. Jane True. And then there this other side that I seem to get over ruled by, a strong force that seems to kill me every time it surfaces I end up in some kind of coma. I wake up and have to coap with the after math of my Alta egos terrible deeds.
In the hospital I was told of what my Alta ego had done. It terrified me. I begged and begged for some kind of cure. Surely medicine had advanced enough to cure mental illnesses.
"There's nothing we can do for you." The soft male voice replied he had a hint of an accent definitely from the Middle East although which region I could not begin to imagine.
I looked into his large hazel eyes and pleaded with him. "But there just has to be something a drug. A clinic. Even an institute"
His glistening water filled eyes said it all "Imp sorry there's just no space" He paused thinking of how he could justify his decision to me "Ever since the war... Our facilities are at breaking point there are just too many injured soldiers. I wish I could help you but we are even running out of doctors"
"I understand" I rolled over in the hospital bed.
This time the darkness felt stronger. I felt I might never resurface, and the evil that dwelled inside me would rule my body forever. My altar ego from what I can understand is a powerful woman. She seems to dominate most of the men within the local area. Killing all men who fail to take part in this war.
This horrible futile war. Women may have the vote and be able to have similar jobs to men and equal pay too. But government believes that a woman at war would have clouded judgment. Clouded judgment. Typical manly statement from the men on this cursed planet. This Earth is pitiful. There has never been peace between all the countries for more than two years. This war is formally known as the War of Loss. Partly due to the amount of men that have died at war. I believe the other reasoning was the amount of land that the British Empire had lost. We where the largest empire in the world. Now china owns most of the land and Russia owns a large amount too. The British Empire is reduced to the main islands, France and Spain.
I've gone off the track here but at least you have some back ground. Now where was I. Ah yes my altar ego? She calls her self Justice.

Just as Tom was waking up he realized that he could smell bacon and eggs cooking, and his stomach started to rumble insistently. The inky coils of unconsciousness soon evaporated, and as he lifted his sleepy eyelids, he saw mild autumnal light creeping through the gaps in the curtains, pushing the shadows back into the corners of the small bedroom. The muted call of a wood pigeon floated in from the trees just outside the window.
Tom laid still for a moment, feeling disorientated. This wasn't his usual bed, and this wasn't his usual room. There was only one bed in this room, and there were no bells ringing or house masters stomping down the corridor, shouting at all and sundry to wake up this instant. Then he remembered: it was the half term holiday and he was away from boarding school for the first time in two months, staying with his Auntie Jean in her little cottage in the country.
He held onto this light, joyous sensation for a good few moments, lying on the big soft bed with what was probably a silly grin on his face. No more of that place for a week; no more PE before breakfast; no more bible readings and prayers before bed; no more Peter blooming Prince; no more...
A musical female voice called his name from downstairs: "Tom! Breakfast, my dear!"
Tom pulled back the heavy blankets and sheets, swung his feet out of the bed and stood up, straightening his crumpled pajamas. He took a step forward to the window and pulled the curtains open, letting the morning light fill the room and chase away the remaining gloom. He looked up and through the increasingly-bare branches of the trees to see that it was a lovely, sunny day. Barely a cloud could be seen.
On one high branch he spotted the wood pigeon, proudly puffing his chest out, calling to his fellow feathered friends. To Tom, this large, ancient oak tree was fascinating. It had been in this place for longer than he cared to think, and stood with quiet, graceful dignity against the pale blue sky and emerald hills. Not like the trees at school, which was an altogether different proposition, especially at night?
Tom shivered and turned away from the window.
"Tom!" came the sing-song call once more.
"Coming, Auntie Jean," Tom called back. He slid into his slippers and headed for the bedroom door.

Alex glided through the streets of London. Unaware of what year it was. She was not her entire self, her physical body not with her at the time.
Alex's sprit roamed the streets rushing down each winding road covered in the debris of human life. There was no traffic and fairly few people out on the streets. The sky was dark, and the stars where covered by a blanket of smog. Small houses where covered in the soot belched out by the spiraling chimneys of the factories.
She stopped out side a small tavern. "The Boot". What a name Alex thought to her. As she gazed at the elderly women who stumbled out of the tavern and angry fat man who followed screeching.
"You old witches." He screeched "You ever come into my pub again and I'll have ya. I mean it."
Alex silently observed the women who tottered away from the taverns large brown doors. The women could barely stand. One broke away from the group.
"Oi. Where you going Mary?"
The woman seemed not to hear the others shouting her. As she stumbled down the street. She clung to bricks and window calls that jutted out of buildings she passed for support. The weight of her body seemed to be poorly supported by her wobbly legs. She turned around the corner. Alex followed holding her breath. Even though in this disembodied state she had no need to breath, she felt she had to in order not to be heard as she followed. The woman collapsed on the cobbles around the corner. Alex watched her form wrapped up in a small bundle on the floor. The woman was shivering. Alex heard footsteps coming up the street towards them and looked up.
The Man stopped a few meters away and looked directly at Alex. She began to feel hot like she was sweating. Her nerves had kicked in. Could he see her? Was he looking straight at her? Or could he just since her presence?
He took another step forward...

When Beryl Coal shed was knocked down by a passing ice-cream van on that sunny summer's afternoon, it was the talk of Suction Street for months! She'd only gone out to get a ninety nine they said.

Everyone had expected the fags to see her off, or for her to be brutally murdered by a family member or someone who knew her well, so this freak accident took everyone by surprise.

Only Gladys, her dearly beloved daughter found it in her heart to weep. Brian, Gladys's husband, feigned grief like the rest of Suction Street, but inside he felt elated, relieved, and joyous!

It wasn't her meanness of spirit that repulsed him so much, nor her reluctance to wash, not even in the way that the very sky itself seemed to darken whenever she was near, so much as her rampant obsession with Oliver Cromwell!

You could be talking about anything, anything at all, the price of clothes pegs, meadows festooned with buttercups, The Beatles, it didn't matter, Beryl Coal shed was sure to steer it around to Oliver Cromwell!

It wasn't even that she talked about him so much, as the way that she would get vehemently enraged and shout furiously at him as though he were all things opposed to Oliver Cromwell personified.

For most of his adult and infant life, Brian had been fairly ignorant, neigh, indifferent to the life of this famous man. He had heard that he was unpopular in Ireland, but apart from that, his interest in him was negligible. So, for the life of him he couldn't understand his mother in law's preoccupation with him.

It was a fluke really; Beryl was just coming back from Bingo, nipped into the public toilets, and was inadvertently locked in there for the whole weekend. Luckily for Beryl, but unluckily for everyone else, the toilet attendant had left her book about the life and times of Oliver Cromwell in the room where she stored her mops, and Beryl read it from cover to cover.

It must've been the only book that Beryl ever read, because, it made a heck of an impression on her. Brian often mused that had that book she stumbled upon been the life and times of Gandhi, Beryl could have turned out to be a very devout woman, but fate hadn't played

things that way. Anyway, always came the counter argument in Brian's head, It was much more likely that she was the reincarnation of Oliver Cromwell himself, and was led to that book by some mysterious, dark force.

It was twelve months to that very day of Beryl's fatal blunder when Brian was just about to empty the cat's litter tray, that he came face to face with the spirit of his mother in law, Beryl Coal shed, looking grim, even for her!

            Laura liked her friends, very much, and it would be a pity if any of them were to die.
            They were a clique, like any other. It was typical, teenage behavior. Form close-minded, closed-doomed social groups with narrow focuses of interest. And let everyone 'thrive' among their respective group. It worked, in principal.
            Laura had friends, but was not a cheerleader. She liked sports, though never enough to dance around one in a skimpy outfit. Nor was she an athlete, as competitive as she could be. She simply did not want sweaty, grueling chunks of her day absorbed by a muddy field.
            Laura was bright. She had academic brainpower; however, it was joined at the hip with a tendency towards procrastination. Surviving by a 'me time is free time' motto, she did not study much. She did not need to. It might help her marks, but pulling them up from high seventies and low eighties into the nineties was not her concern.
            She had adequate assets, and she liked attention as much as the next girl. However, Laura was not a tramp. She simply found it all chauvinistically degrading, to plaster her face with make-up and fill a push-up bra with cups.
            Nor was she a computer geek, a Japanese-animation fan girl, a science-fiction-and-fantasy-devoted zombie or a bookworm. However, she dabbled in what she could. And she did have a label.
            Laura Hamilton was a gamer, of all things. A video-game player. No, not the anti-social introverts who sits in front of their respective console without ever communicating with the outside world. And no, not the trench-coat wearing pessimist toting a Dungeons & Dragons set folded up in their backpack, and that happened to sign their student card 'High-Elf Pandora', 'Sir Hale the Paladin' or some such thing in a forgetful identity crisis.
            Laura's friends were gamers too. Some of them, perhaps, more introverted than others. And others, who couldn't get through a single-player game if their life, depended on it. And, yes, perhaps some of them, on some occasion, used their preferred aliases for their real names.
            The school was large enough that she liked being able to fit into a little niche like this. And she even had a decent boyfriend - perhaps because Phillip was so thrilled to have an emotional and physical connection with someone that was coupled with their shared interests.
            Yesterday, Andrew had given her four cartridges for the Nintendo Dual-Screen or DS for short. They were blank. Not the kind she'd ever bought in the store. Where there should have been stickers labeling the title, there was a black X in permanent marker. The DS game cartridges were tiny, rectangular chunks of gray plastic, with metal teeth that slid into the portable, multi-player device. She'd questioned the oddity, then and there.
            He had told her it was an excellent party-game. The kind you play with friends, to pass the time before exams when nobody wants to study. Or the kind you all play together at a sleep-over, late into the evening, when you should be sleeping. And when she had asked why they were untitled, he told her they were blank cartridges he'd downloaded. Not even licensed by Nintendo. To her, it seemed like a far-fetched, sketchy tale. However, she took the gift under his firm recommendation anyways.
            Little did she know, Andrew had died three days earlier, that weekend? She did not know this. And thus, when Laura invited some friends over to play the mysterious game the next weekend, they assumed her passing reference of receiving the game from him 'on Thursday' was referring to the previous week. And they all missed Andrew. After all, it's no fun to lose your most devious, witty and cunning friend.
            And, it would be a terrible, terrible pity if any more of her friends died.