My Heart Beats Again

Part 10 ~ Where it all began

That night I had trouble sleeping. Hokil has always been so kind to me, worshiped me, in fact. Even when he got upset and raised his voice, he would always apologize to me. He didn't this time. I'd gotten used to the princess treatment, and that was a mistake. Maybe I should make good on my threat and leave him. There's still doubt in my mind that any of this is truly reality. 

Sighing loudly, I sit up and start punching and fluffing the pillows, even though I know it won't help me sleep any more than the meditating I had tried earlier. 

"Ugh, I give up." Rolling out of bed, I head for the bathroom but then pause. I could go for a midnight stroll. Well, an eleven o'clock stroll, I correct myself after reading the clock. I take each step intentionally, feeling the weird tingles that go up my legs every time I walk. I'm certainly not at a full recovery just yet, but Doctor Phinalstin said he is now hopeful I will make one. But hope is for the lazy. I will force it to be the truth. 

As I walk outside, the cool night air refreshes me in a way I didn't know I needed. Making my way down the same path that I had tried to drive away on, I found a bench shrouded by a bush topiary and lowered myself onto it. I stretch out my legs, feeling the strange achy sensation that runs up and down them. And as I sit, I ponder on my life before this crazy series of events. 

I had started leading a life of crime at the young age of eight, with a small and fairly innocent beginning. I pickpocketed foreigners, using their cash to buy myself food. Growing up in extreme poverty, Dad's market stand rarely raised enough money to feed the three of us. When there were four, it was worse. But my brother died when he was only four and I was seven. Eventually pickpocketing turned into stealing items from shops and tents, which I pawned off for extra cash. Then when I was fifteen, I killed for the first time. It changed me forever. 

I was walking through the market, looking for tourists to target. Everything was normal. The sun was beating down, no doubt worsening the putrid smell of rotting meat that was hung at one of the stands. The stand holder hollered at the two stray dogs attempting to grab a piece. Sweaty bodies pushed their way past me, and many voices clamored from all around me. It was the beautiful chaos that I was accustomed to. Then I spotted something near the edge of the market that grabbed my attention. 

Two fat and hairy men were laughing and jeering, walking past the market without looking my way. But it was not them I was interested in. Behind them was a young girl, wrists tied together with a leash that the one man was holding. She had hair black as the ravens gathered at the back of her head, and she turned to look at me for only a second. 

In that second, I saw a glimpse of her soul. Raging pain and despair crashed around, a tumultuous grief that hit me like an arrow. I choked. I did not know this girl, but she needed me. She needed my help. 

The man holding the leash gave it a strong yank, and she stumbled out of my eyesight. I had the advantage of knowing this area very well, however, and after making my way through some very narrow streets, I spotted her again. The men had stopped, and were no longer laughing. They were staring at the little girl, whose gaze was upon the ground. I crept my way closer, watching intently. My stomach felt strange. 

"My precious little girl," whispered one of the men. He ran his grimy finger over her chin. Then his hand slowly trailed down her chest, and he reached to unbutton her dress. I watched as her body started to tremble, and her eyes opened wide. But she didn't cry. I tasted the bile in my mouth, and felt frozen in place. The other man unzipped his pants. 

I don't know what went through my head at that point. 

Maybe nothing. 

Probably nothing. 

But this overwhelming, uncontrollable rage exploded through me, and I didn't realize I had run towards them until I was kicking the man. I kicked him as hard as I could in the penis, screaming. Kicking him over and over, my head filled with nothing but rage. 

The other man yelled something and leaped forward, but I dodged him and ran backwards to the trash bin I had been hiding behind. He chased after me, crashing into it and falling to the ground clumsily. I hadn't realized he was holding a knife in his hand until he dropped it as he fell. It fell right at my feet, and I bent over to pick it up. I paused for the shortest moment, looking over to the girl. 

She must've only been about six years old, and she had big brown eyes. It was as if she was begging me to do it. I could see her desperation to be freed, and the fear she had of these men. I looked back to the man on the ground, and consciously made my decision. 

I plunged the knife into the side of his throat. 

Blood immediately pooled around him, and his eyes rolled back into his head. It was an awful sight, truly awful. But knowing what they did to this beautiful little girl, I sickishly enjoyed it. When I stood back up and looked around, the other man was gone. He must have run away. So it was just me, the girl, and the body of the man I had just killed. 

I looked at him numbly, at his mouth slightly agape. At the graying hairs on his unshaven neck. I pulled the knife back out of his throat, watching in disgust as the trickle of blood thickened. I realize I have done a very bad thing. 

So why don't I feel bad? 

The girl suddenly stood up and ran away through the streets, not saying a word to me. She didn't thank me or even smile at me, but I felt as if I knew of her gratitude. 

And so marked the first day of my blooming career. It was only 2 months later that I was in a situation not unlike this one, except the man I killed then was coincidentally an influential man. He had beaten a little beggar boy to the brink of death, and I lost control of myself again. 

One of the weaselly men he was cahooting with witnessed the act, and offered me a spot on his team of street rats. I declined. He was so impressed, however, that he insisted I work for him somehow. He offered me a mountainous sum of money to work with him as a freelancer. I agreed on two conditions. 

He was to ask me no questions of who I am or pursue figuring out who I was, or else it would be his neck I came for next. And two, I reserved the right to refuse any mark he chose. I wouldn't let him know my reasoning, because I'm sure to a slimy scheming man such as himself, morals would have no place in his heart. But I was only interested in killing abusers. Rotten scum that beat children, rape women, kill the innocent. 

I told Momma and Dad that I had gotten a factory job, so that they wouldn't question it when I worked strange hours, or when I came home some days with the light gone from my eyes. I hid a large percentage of what I was paid in a box underneath the floorboards in my room, because I knew it was way too much and would raise suspicion. But I still gave Momma as much as I dared, and it wasn't long before we were able to afford things. We were able to replace the kitchen chairs, which were all falling apart. Dad bought a radio. We repaired some things, and eventually even renovated some rooms in the house.

They relaxed more. 

Laughed more. 

Life was ok. 

A few years passed, and things got better over time, I got better over time. I ended my partnership with that weaselly guy I never had the dishonor of learning the name of. I took to working on my own, finding I liked choosing my own marks better, with the occasional commission. I pawned cash off the bodies of those I killed, but it wasn't much. I didn't care. I didn't do this for the money, I did it to protect those who needed to be protected.  

And now, what mess was I in? I would have never imagined a life such as this one for myself. Now that I was getting over my fear, possibilities and new opportunities filled my head. 

I have a new beginning. 

What do I do with it?