Until He's Gone

Prologue

"Show me what you could do, boy," said Monsieur Elliot, seeming uninterested.

"I'm not a boy. I'm a man just like you are. Unchain me, and I'll fight you."

Monsieur Elliot chuckled. The boy flung himself against the bars of the cell, his bleeding hand screaming its rage and pain. Suddenly, Monsieur Elliot slashed his sword across the boy's face so quickly that he didn't have time to jolt away. A hot line of pain burned its way across his left cheek; he lifted his chained hands to his face and felt blood slick his fingers.

A thin smile drove its way across Monsieur Elliot's face.

"You've always been a restless boy. From the very first day you came in here and until now, you never stopped fighting. I'm amused how you never got bored or surrendered. A restless determined French spy you've proven to be," Monsieur Elliot's cool voice was sharp as a knife. The boy struggled to say something but his bleeding cheek and wrists demanded a lot of pain to be felt.

"I thought that this World War would change you, or rather, destroy you. Unfortunately, you remain restless and confident. I'm done with you, boy. Let's see what happens at court tomorrow. I suppose you're not so ready to repeat all the lies you've been reciting to me all over the past years," Monsieur Elliot continued with the same sharp voice.

The boy pressed his back against the rocky wall. He felt like his heart could've stopped at that moment. The pain was much more than he could endure. Then, in a split second, he banged his head against the wall in hope that he could get rid of it. His vision blurred. Unconsciousness had always been his escape. He wished he could sleep forever.

"Look at you! You hurt yourself continuously but refuse to get hurt by anyone," he heard Monsieur Elliot's irritated voice in the distance. It seemed to be coming from very far away. He looked down at himself to see that his clothes were all covered with blood. He squeezed his eyes in pain and blacked out.

After what seemed to be hours, the boy blinked his eyes open. Darkness was so welcoming, he thought. He looked around to find that no jailers were there and that even Monsieur Elliot was gone. How long had he passed out? He struggled into sitting position.

"You're awake, at last!" a cheerful unfamiliar voice whispered in the distance. He froze, and searched for a figure in the profound darkness. He rolled onto his side, his torn wrist throbbing in its manacle. "Who's there?"

The figure that was hidden in the darkness came forward and he could see, in the dim light, a friendly face of an officer. There were a few wrinkles under his dark eyes and he wore the military uniform of the Nazi soldiers, though he didn't look or sound like one.

"You must be thinking I'm a Nazi soldier, but I can tell you I'm French. I used their uniform as a disguise," the strange man said, his voice so tender.

"And why did you do that?" the boy asked, confused.

"Because I know you're innocent and I want to help you. You know that's the only way to get in here."

"Oh, but thank you. I don't need any help. I can handle this." The boy sensed his own meanness and hated it.

"Well, the thing is that I'm not asking for your stubborn brain's opinion. I'm addressing your heart," the strange man smiled. "Your heart wants to be free. By the way, my name is William Deville." His smile was nothing like Monsieur Elliot's smile, the boy thought, and just nodded in response.

"You have to get out of here before tomorrow comes," Mr. Deville started. "I will help you do that. I've got a great plan for the escape. Deal?"

"I'm not running away from my fate. I want to face it. I want to fight the Nazi soldiers until the last breath I take." The boy's voice was firm.

"That's not wise, son; not in such circumstances," Mr. Deville said.

"Son?"

"You don't like to be called a boy, right? I just thought 'son' would sound better. Any problem with that?"

"No," the boy answered quickly. "It's just been a long time since I've heard someone call me that."

Mr. Deville smiled.

"Why are you doing this?" the boy asked suddenly.

"Doing what?"

"Offering your help."

"I'll tell you later. There's no time to waste now." The officer turned around to inspect the place. "You're coming?"

"Mr. Deville," the boy hesitated, "I've got no one to welcome me if I escape. I've got no family..."

"Hush," Mr. Deville interrupted him. "What am I here for?"

The boy felt his heart ache. He wanted to cry so badly.

"Besides, aren't you in love?" Mr. Deville suddenly asked, "I guess there's someone worth fighting for."

The boy gulped. He felt the scar on his cheek burn. "How do you know?"

"I'm really sorry, but I sometimes overhear you talking to yourself here."

"If you were someone else, I would have cut your ears off."

Mr. Deville chuckled. He came closer to the boy's cell door. He took out a key from his pocket and opened the door. "Are you coming?"

"No," the boy answered. He was almost stunned that he had refused freedom so easily. "I won't be proving my innocence if I go with you."

"Right, but you know they won't listen to you either way," Mr. Deville insisted.

The boy stared thoughtfully at the ground.

"C'mon," he heard Mr. Deville plead.

After long moments of silence, the boy looked up to meet the officer's hopeful eyes and asked, "When are we going?"

"What about now?" the delighted officer asked back.

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*This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Any form of plagiarism, copying of ideas, or reducing and rewriting any part will be detected and reported and will receive serious punishment. *

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~Mira xx