REBIRTH....

This one is supposed to be a lost piece of writing... one i had composed when i was 12-13 years old, trying to find my own style of writing... thanks to an old friend who mailed me a copy of the document i had sent him.. so here it is..



REBIRTH

Any deed that's bad can be hidden under the cover of business. No one ever said that I was murderer, though I killed people; lots of them, yet I could breathe inside my skin. They did say I had sold myself to the devil, but always behind my back, and I never minded what they said, I had the perfect excuse- I had the license to kill.
Though if I'm true to myself, I certainly can't deny that it's left marks on my soul; I had changed, from the simple, innocent boy of the village to one of the most feared and hated men alive. I had grown petrous and fierce, the way I had to be to act my job. No, I wasn't a felonious slayer, I was an armed law keeper, I killed those who killed the law; it was my job.
Armed as always with my trusty sabre, I was exploring the streets of the town that pluvial night, a drenched piece of parchment clutched in my fist as I turned round the corner. A sudden crunch of footsteps caught my ears as I swiftly turned around to find a blurred figure walking out of the liquid shadows of the houses. I narrowed my eyes as the figure became clearer and soon the man's gaze met mine, a pang of recognition raced through me as I looked down at the parchment in my hand; he was the face I had been looking for. He walked further ahead as I gently crumbled the shadowy vignette of the fugitive, my armsliding over the sabre as I waited for him to advance, my grip tightened as he looked at me, and then I was set back by a strange gesture, he smiled, not the ominous smile of one ready for a fight but a smile that meant welcome… how many humans had I seen smiling at their death? A sharp flash of lightning forced him to cover his face as I saw his weapons- a loaf of soaking bread and a bottle of diluted whisky.
"A fine evening, isn't it?" He shouted though I stood only a few inches from him. For once I was certain that he was out of his head; the weather that night was far from fine.
"You wouldn't mind giving me a hand, Oliver, would you?" he said, stumbling on the gravel so that I dropped my sabre and jumped forward, grabbing him by the shoulders to prevent his fall, something I wouldn't have done for anyone, I was surprised at myself.
"I beg your pardon, fellow, my name is not Oliver. I'm Jack," I helped him sit on the footpath as more rain poured over us. He didn't seem to have heard my words as he hungrily munched on his bread with sudden sips from the whisky.
"It was so nice of you to have stolen the keys from the guards, Oliver. I couldn't have escaped without your help, thank you" so that's how he had escaped, and he thought me to be a thief who steals keys, I snorted in disapproval, "You've been so nice to me, I wish I could do something to repay you!" He seemed over drunk, I smiled.
"I was sent here to kill you," said I, my eyes gliding to the sabre that lay a few inches from my hand, but this man seemed least bothered about anything I said, he couldn't hear me, engaged in his food as water trickled down his round, scarred nose and another bolt of lightning blinded me for a split second. Then with a certain jump he turned to stare at me, his innocent gray eyes full of what I recognized as tears.
"I know you must be hungry, they didn't give us anything to eat in that dreaded prison! But don't worry, those days are over now," so saying, he tore a piece of bread and stuffed it into my mouth without warning. I tried to speak but the bread prevented any words from escaping and I had to give up and begin chewing.
"You know what Oliver? You are my only friend in this whole wide world! They killed my wife and daughter, but I have no regrets, I've already slain their murderer, he shall go to hell!" I felt sorry for him. But now, as he stuffed more bread into my mouth, I seemed to enjoy this Oliver character. He seemed to be taking me for his friend back at the prison. I liked the way he sat there, innocently munching on his bread. Could he really be a murderer, did he deserve to be killed for running away from a prison where he had been imprisoned for killing a man who had killed his family? Wouldn't I have done the same if I was in his place?
"I'm sorry I had to run without you when they caught you at the doors Oliver, I'm ashamed. But now that you've come, we shall both leave the country together and never return!" I was compelled to a temporary imprisonment in his pure speech, "But there's this one last thing I want to do before we leave,"
"What is it?" I asked, forgetting my real name.
"I want to give something to my old mother, would you like to see it?"
"Oh, yes!" said I, excitement filling me as I forgot the inner bitterness that had been ruling me for years. He turned around to scan the corners of the streets, as the rain gradually grew harder, then with an unsatisfied click of his tongue he looked back into my eyes.
"I'm sorry Oliver, I can't trust this night, there might be someone lurking around whom we can't see," my face drooped slightly as he picked up the whisky bottle and tried drinking from it before discovering that it was empty and angrily throwing it onto the stone path.
"Oh, but I can tell you it's safely kept here," he dabbed at his chest as the sound of breaking glass melted into the splattering of raindrops on the footpath.
"It's in your chest?" I asked.
"No, my heart! Do you want to hear it, Oliver?" I nodded my head; he bent forward and whispered it in my ear, "I love you! That's what I want to tell my mum. I want her to know that I love her before I leave," he smiled before crossing his legs and mumbling something that sounded strangely similar to a lullaby. I sat there, looking at him. His innocent and true words had made me believe that I was his friend Oliver for some time, the thought now brought amusement to me as I laughed before stopping abruptly, the five minutes spent with this fugitive had brought me back to the older me, the innocent, faithful Jack whom I had buried inside my own self for twelve years. And the stranger part yet was that I was granted freedom by a fugitive who was supposed to be dead five minutes ago, and now, as I looked at my sabre that lay away from me, I felt I had become Oliver for the time we talked, for him, and I liked it.
Certain sounds caught my ears as I suddenly jumped up. There were people all around us as a mass of shadows poured in along with the rain from all corners of the street. I hurriedly picked up my blade, holding it firmly as I had when I first saw the man who sat beside me; the only difference was that earlier it was to kill him, and now to save him from being killed.
I shouted for him to run as he stumbled to a standing position and began running.
The shadows grew distinct as the men ran to the footpath; one of my friends gave me a sharp pat on the back, signalling me to follow the fugitive whom I had to kill. They pulled me forward, I struggled, unsure of which option to take, this was difficult, I was strangled in the two souls that resided in me.
But just when I thought I knew which role to play, a loud, piercing howl of pain subdued the scream of the rain and I ran to the spot where a number of silent men stood, there blades placed innocently inside the sheathes that hung from their waists and the only thing clearly visible was the shining silver body of a sword held in the arms of the same man who had patted me, the edges of which shone in red life and as I looked down, the dead body of the fugitive lay staring at me with wild, lifeless eyes. I couldn't help it as a tear rolled down my cheek, this was the first time I had seen death and not business.
That evening faded away into the memories of the shadows that ruled the nights and none seemed to be aware of the cruel killing of the man who had selflessly shared his last bread with a stranger. A few weeks later, an old woman sat beside a grave, her face shining in clear tears, staring at the earth that had been evened by the stamp of feet and a wooden cross that stood penetrating out of the breast of the grave, resembling a knife dabbed into a human.
A shadow walked out of the elms that surrounded the graveyard, carrying something in his arms as he came. The lady seemed surprised to see this young man and the sight of what he was carrying made her crawl back a few inches, but the man simply walked forward, paying the least attention to the lady's fright as he placed a bundle on the grave, the metal grip of a sword protruding from the cloth wrappings. Then with a few solemn words, he turned around to face the old woman with a consoling smile.
"Do not be unhappy, your son had you in his mind when he died," said the man in a soothing voice, something very different from that of a person who could kill. The woman walked forward, her wrinkles stretching into grim curiosity.
"There is this one thing he wanted to tell you before he left…" so saying, the man bent forward and whispered three soft words in her ears. They seemed to have made her happy beyond measure as the woman burst into tears of joy. The man walked forward but she halted his progress, "Who are you?" she asked.
The man turned around to look at the bundle that lay on the grave and then with a smile, he patted her, "Oliver!" He walked slowly away, disappearing into the elms as the old woman slumped onto the grave of her son, tears of happiness flowing through her eyes as a sharp wind blew over the graveyard and the bundle was covered in a layer of soil, to be kept in the heart of the earth forever.


not the best piece grammatically, bt beats me hw i managed :)