Writing Prompt Picture #2

“Is there another way,” I asked.

A white bushy eyebrow twitched, “when did you start caring what the general public thinks about you?”

“I don’t,” I grumbled staring down at the busy street below, “I would just rather them not hate me.”

My butler placed a liver spotted hand on my shoulder before slipping out of the room.

He was right. Of course, the old man was always right.

I sighed and walked away from the window back to my desk in the center of the room. It was covered with maps and letters, and I had scoured over for hours on end.

I dropped into the well worn leather chair behind the desk. I leaned my elbows on top of the desk and glared at the offending map directly in front of me.

A red line ran along the blue that indicated the river that cut across the land. A dot ended the line an inch from a city. Most likely filled with people with their own lives, children and women.

My butler’s words came back to my mind and echoed around in there until my head ached.

“Sometimes, we have to do bad things to get good results. When that happens, people often forget all the good you did.”