Shut in prison. Shut in prison. Shut in prison.
Those three words kept echoing in my head every day, as this was some kind of curse placed on me by him. The one I had always turned to and relied on. But as everything turned upside down, I felt my life crumble. It used to always be the two of us. Jonah and Kleitos this, Jonah and Kleitos that. But ever since the accident, as I like to call it, I just keep thinking back to when I swung the blade at him, and the blood gushing out from his chest and shoulder. It was my fault that he ended up there. But, I had no reason to say that it was my fault. To prove that I was wrong. Nevertheless, I still feel guilty about it.
And three years later, I can still recall the bloodshed on the field that day.
I turn around the corner, and off the cobblestone road, onto a dark, dank street filled with tiny shops, their shutters closed and doors shut tight. At the very end is a battered wooden door, above it a green plaque that reads 'The World's End' in gold block lettering. I push it open.
Inside, it's packed with people: pirates and thieves, drunks and vagrants. Most of them are already drunk, even though it's not much past noon and the bar has only opened for a mere three hours or so. There's a loud card game in one corner, a fight breaking out in another. A trio of musicians cower between them, trying in vain to play above the brawl and the crowd that cheers every time someone gets punched.
I spot Logan, a tall man with scars down his face and an athletic torso, and I head straight for him. As soon as I walk up, he slides a foaming glass of ale and watches as I nod and take a cautious sip.
"Well?" He folds his arms across his chest.
I nod again, this time chugging down more than I should. It tasted like normal ale, with a hint of rosemary and lemon. Then, the pleasant taste was replaced by something heavy and flat with a strange metallic taste that burns my throat every time I swallow. I choke slightly, before moving to a barstool near the fireplace and order some food – some bread and cheese and more of Logan's ale. The burning sensation has gone away, and it's starting to taste pretty nice again. The other patrons seem to think so, too; they're downing it by the bucketful and are louder and more boisterous than usual. I watched as they scooped up the bucket used to feed horses and filled it with ale to the brim, before chugging it down and going for another round.
I have no idea how long I've been here, drinking ale and watching the fights, until a man at the bar stumbles to stand, knocks his stool to the floor, and starts retching. He bolts for the door, and when he flings it open, it's pitch black outside.
Have I really been here all day? It seems like only a couple of hours. I guess I should go back to the attic, but there's nothing waiting for me there. At least nothing good. Apart from a good sleep, maybe. Another ale sounds like a much better idea. I jump to my feet.
Big mistake. The world starts to spin – fast. I reach out to stead myself, but as I place my hand on the wall, my arm gives away, and I smack into the wall instead. I felt the cool stone against my cheek as I peel myself off the wall, starting towards the door. I don't make it more than a few steps before everything starts spinning out of control again. I pitch forwards wildly and tumble to the floor in a heap before closing my eyes to stop the spinning.
"He drunk?" A voice asked. He sounds like the guy who nearly chucked up inside the bar.
"Roaring, then some," Another voice replies. Sounded like a guy. About my age, perhaps. "Absinthe. Damned Logan, put in the ale and didn't bother telling him. He's too young to be messin' with that stuff."
The boy loops his arm through mine and guides me back down the alley, before reaching the more crowded part of the streets.
"Where you stayin' at?" He asks, looking around.
