The Warlord (Short-Story)

This is something I wrote up for an essay in school. We were given a statement that said simply, "Write a story about 'The Warlord'" and this is where my mind ran to. I hope you like it. (:

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The Warlord 

            Daniel sauntered down the streets, pretending to be impervious to the whispers that tagged behind him. Kyle, a small boy of only age eleven spotted him coming his way and immediately dashed across the street with his friend. “Daniel could have beaten us to a pulp,” he mumbled fervently to Jimmy who nodded quickly in assent.

            Daniel was notorious for his legendary fights. He had the whole student body under his thumb. A boy accompanied by a burly body size, Daniel terrorized the school with just a flex of his arms. Everyone in school referred to him as “The Warlord”, treating his birth-name as a taboo. Not only did he have power that teachers prayed they could put an end to, but he also sported bruises, cuts and split lips that students just knew came from his continual wars with gangs down alleys; wars in which he would one day wind up victorious. Tales of his tussles with teenagers twice his size would spread throughout the school, blown up to epic proportions.

            “I heard,” Kyle continued to mutter, “that Frank – the college boy – got a broken arm because he mouthed off to the Warlord.” Jimmy exhaled and whistled lowly. The ignorant young boys chatted excitedly about the toughest and rowdiest boy in history, exchanging stories like candies between themselves. Neither had the nerve to peek over his shoulder and chance a glimpse of Daniel. It was common knowledge that sharing prolonged eye contact with him was as good as daring him to come right on over and knock out a tooth.

            Thus, neither realised that as Daniel neared his house, his pace slowed to a snail’s crawl. Neither noticed how beads of perspiration formed of their own accord on his forehead despite the chilly weather. Nobody saw the Warlord’s fists clench convulsively at his side while he stood on his own doorstep. No one witnessed how, after moments of hesitation, Daniel lifted a shaky hand and opened the door.

            Daniel forced himself to lock his knees as he stepped into the dark house. He could see a stirring figure on the sofa, knocked out, with fumes of alcohol whispering tell-tale truths of a drunk. Another lamp had been smashed to the floor. Daniel kneeled down, carefully picking up the shards of ceramic and throwing them away, wishing he could disappear from this place just as easily, without consequences or fear of being found.

             “Where have you been, boy?” Daniel stilled at once, forcing himself not to bolt out the door. A firm grip on his shoulders turned him around to face the man who had played a part in thrusting life upon Daniel, life that Daniel no longer desired. He looked at his feet and muttered something below his breath. His father reached around Daniel to close the door, the one thing in Daniel’s life that he despised yet appreciated at the same time. It was the devil’s advocate, Daniel’s portal from one universe to another, but also gave him the only means of leaving every morning for the chance of being someone he was not and less vulnerable.

The wooden door groaned on its hinges, shutting the world out from the hell that Daniel lived in – the place that no one saw. He closed his eyes and prepared himself for the blows, as he had for years. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind, he wondered if anyone would one day realise where the bruises, cuts and split lips truly came from. He wondered, feeling a fist connect with his jaw, if anyone would one day see the self-inflicted silver track-marks on his wrists, some raw and some healed, and guess that the Warlord was not all he was made up to be. That the Warlord had his own daily battles to wage; battles he wound up losing.