Uncrowned

Ch 1: Killing My Favorite Pastime

Killing, my most prized pastime.

I tread lightly through the dimly lit alleyway, daggers sheathed securely around my waist. Gruff voices echo; I have reached my destination.

Bending down, I gently remove a broken shard of glass from the damp and diseased floor. Angling it around the corner, I look into the reflection, there are five large men; all have a dangerous and murderous demeanor.

In the center of the group are a duffle bag and a wooden crate. The men murmur to each other, distracted and open to an ambush.

Perfect.

Quietly discarding the miniature mirror, I creep forward, cloaking myself within the shadows of the towering brick walls. I hide behind a rancid smelling dumpster and select my first victim, a bald headed man with only a flimsy short blade peeking out his trouser pocket.

I make my move.

Dashing from my hiding place, I unsheath my knives and penetrate it through his spine, killing him instantly. The others shout profanity, but they are slow to attack. I rush at another man and slam my dagger into his thigh, he bellows a savage scream. I slash his throat at once and he drops to the floor, lifeless.

A long, sharpened blade lashes at my side; I step out of its path and drop to the floor, swinging the wielder's legs from under him. As he is falling, I leap up and stab his chest mercilessly.

I turn to the two remaining men, fear is prominent in their beady eyes as they slowly retreat. I allow their cowardly withdrawal and once they disappear, I swing the forgotten duffle bag over my shoulders. Using my daggers as a makeshift crow bar, I lift the lid from the crate; foiled bricks lay neatly stacked inside.

I search the dead bodies, fortunately the first corpse I examine contains a matchbox and complementary matches. I light the match and toss it into the crate.

With a satisfactory nod, I abandon the scene and flee into the secure shadows of the alley.

What an eventful evening.

~~~

I open the molding wooden door, entering my claustrophobic and unkempt home. There is a shuffling noise, then small footsteps moving hurriedly down the tight, wooden stairway.

"Lulu!" My five year old brother shouts.

"Hey, Ben." I greet, lifting him into the air when he nears me.

As I carry him, his ribs press against my palms; a frown makes its way onto my face.

He has lost more weight; but then again, we all have. With the war waging there is little money to be made, and little food to be bought.

I gently release him onto the squeaky planks of the floor and tussle his soft, amber hair.

My mother enters from the attached kitchen, dirtied blonde hair messily tied in a bun. Her cheeks have gotten dangerously taut and her skin the color of gray soot.

"Lucile," she chides. "Where have you been? The sun has already begun to set, don't you know how dangerous it is?"

"It's fine, mother."

"Fine!?" She bellows, quite manly as well. "It's fine to be on the streets so close to death? What's not fine then? Dying?!"

Despite her delicate frame, my mother was a force to be reckoned with. Even the well-muscled, hardened men at the docks scamper away when she comes into view.

Ben hugs my leg and sniffs, peering up at me with his dark, brown eyes.

"A-are you going to die, Lulu?" He asks hiccuping.