A/N: This is Cassidy's last chapter. Before jumping in, I want to thank you for getting this far. I have enjoyed telling this story so much, and I can only hope that you have enjoyed reading it just as much. Leave a review if you feel up to it; I can't say how much I would love to hear your thoughts.

If you want to read more from me, I have started rewriting my Kali Black and the Prisoner of Azkaban story. Take a peek if you're interested, and please enjoy this last chapter.

Chapter Fourteen:

My Acknowledgements

Jean-Paul Sartre once said that Hell is other people, a phrase which is often misquoted, misunderstood to mean that our relationships with others are invariably torturous. But the meaning the French philosopher intended for it is far less antisocial. According to Sartre, Hell is other people because we are surrounded by their watchful gaze—trapped by it. There is no escaping the judgement of others, and it is this judgement which dictates our actions: how we must behave, dress, act. If not for the judgement of others, we would feel no shame, and without shame, we would be free.

He isn't wrong, but what would we do with that freedom? The cynic in me imagines a world of pure chaos, with no law or order. For if there is no judgement, what is to stop each and every one of us from acting on our worst impulses? Some people already do regardless of our laws because they believe that they can get away with it. But what of the others? Those who push down their worst impulses because they do not wish to be judged unfavourably by their peers? Without that judgement, there would be nothing to stop them. Then what would the world become?

I've been called a pessimist more times than I care to count. It is a fact I cannot deny, but we live in a pessimistic world, do we not? You need only read the news to see the proof—in terms of percentages, how many stories covered do you suppose are negative?

Open the morning paper and take a look. Reporters seldom write big stories about the good news because they know that our interest in those is limited. Instead, they gore us with details of angst and tragedy, theft and corruption, murder and death. Humanity has a morbid fascination with the macabre. It's why we slow down and gawk at car crashes, why we spread violence in our literature and our filmography, why our base impulses are, on occasion, so uncivilised. Perhaps we truly are nothing more than violent beasts who pretend to act as society dictates because we fear the consequences of judgement.

Or perhaps we're more than that.

My cynicism has been tempered over the years. I have witnessed too much human decency to be left indifferent. I know that there is good in this world. It might be hard to see it some days when the darkness is so overwhelming, but it is always here, plain to see if you can look away from the bad. It is what gives me hope. Perhaps one day, when everyone decides to focus on the good, the world will become brighter.

Kindness and respect are what will get us through, as they always have.

Perfection might be an unachievable goal, but we must strive for it never the less. We cannot sit back and let things happen, not when we can make them better. So let us make them better. Let us be kind, respectful, and optimistic. Let us look on the bright side and see hope wherever we go. But let us also be realistic. We shall not allow our hope and optimism to blind us. We shall not turn a blind eye to injustice and wrongdoers. We shall forever strive to make the world a better place, not just for ourselves, but for everyone. And we shall not be disheartened when we run into setbacks and obstacles.

Anyone who has studied history knows this: humanity goes through endless cycles of war and peace. I'm not naive enough to believe that this peace is any different. It isn't permanent—it can't be—because there will always be someone who sees things which are different as broken and wrong, and they will want to get rid of them. But with each new war, battle, and struggle, we learn, and we evolve, and hopefully, we become better.

Despite the heartache that the wars caused, I truly believe that what we gained is more important. We won, and in doing so, we came a little bit closer to true equality.

I dream of a world where difference is celebrated, where saying that someone was born twisted and broken is an act so inconceivable that no one is ever made to feel lesser no matter what or who they are. We aren't there yet, but I hold out hope that someday we will be. I won't be around to see it, but know that when it happens, when you achieve that level of tolerance and acceptance, I will smile down from wherever I end up, and I will thank you.

My time is nearly up.

I admit that when I started this story, I never imagined it would be so hard to end it. I never thought I would care so much about all of you that seeing you walk out that door for the last time would cause me such distress. I might have asked you to stay—just a little while longer—but that feels too much like begging, so I won't do that.

Know that I have appreciated your company more than I dare say and that you have made an old woman's last months brighter and happier.

Know that I have meant every word I have ever spoken to you.

There is still so much I want to tell you, but I'm afraid this is goodbye. I hope you found what you were looking for when you came to me. I hope that I helped. But most importantly, I wish you well.

Thank you.

And goodbye.