I had always been fascinated by fire, the way that it destroyed, the way that it created. The way that it erased anything that crossed its path. I had always imagined it being that easy in my life, that I could escape the life I had lived and the lives I had impacted, and start a new life that was fresh, that could grow on the ashes and mistakes of the world that I had left behind. It was that same love for fire that caused me to end up here, crammed into a coach with three others, that forced me to stare out the cracked window in the back and look in awe at the city that burned behind me, the flicker of light the flames cast on the cracked glass and the shapes that danced gracefully inside the coach. It illuminated the darkness, occasionally catching the eye of the boy and women infront of me that were pretending to sleep, and casted enough light for the elderly man beside me to read his pocket watch and sigh as he said the rosary he clutched with what looked like every last piece of his being.
We were strangers, brought together on one of the last coaches to leave behind the great city behind us, to leave behind the memories that would curse us for the rests of our lives, that had plagued me my whole life. The memories of my family, of the oppression of the king and the civil war, the brutes at the military schools, and you, the one person who could pull me from my thoughts; all lost now, caught in the fire that would destroy them eventually, in the city that would soon fall in the war. The sighs and looks of darkness in the eyes of my fellow passengers told me they had the same thoughts as I, that they too were losing the things they held closest to their hearts.
The coach rode on, leaving behind the city and the light of the fire slowly dying just to cast the entire coach in darkness. I checked my pockets for what must have been the hundredth time since leaving the city, making sure everything was still there, that I hadnt lost anything else important. I had no money, I had given the coach driver all that I carried to squeeze me in on the ride. There was the story that you asked me to write, the one I had never finished, the one you promised would clear my mind, my way of letting you in, and your way of understanding. There was also a few pencils, that had mocked me every time I looked at them for being too weak to write, to remember and phrase things the way they should have been. My family had generations of writers, yet it seemed that it, along with many other traits, had skipped me, which left me great agony in writing.
My empty pockets only put me into further depression. I stopped checking and pulled out the story, neatly bound and held together in the small leather journal you had given me. It was going to be a long journey, probably not long enough for me to finally begin to write, but long enough to read over the pages of what had happened, to understand it once more the way I began to explain it to you, and would continue explaining all that had happened since you left. The darkness of the coach was nothing new to me, I had practically written the story in the darkness of my cot while the rest of my family slept, while I looked out my window down the alley to yours, pretending it was close enough to hear you breath as you slept, to see you smile at me as we talked all night as I told you my story.
It was only as I began to read the first line that I noticed the older man beside me had stopped reading the rosary and was examining me with a strange curiosity, and the story that I clasped in my hands with even more desperation then he had with his rosary and watch. The other passengers on the coach feigned sleep, leaving only the two of us and all of our thoughts in the air. He looked at me, perhaps waiting for me to speak, to acknowledge his interest, while I looked at him in blank subtleness. Life had taught me to keep my head down, to not draw attention to myself and blend in with those around me, to survive in hiding in the crowds while being in plain sight for all to see. "I used to be a very avid writer, back when I had to energy and time," The man finally said, with a hint of depression and a tad bit too much nostalgia for my taste, "My name is Harold, if it would not cause you too much trouble, would you tell me the name of that book, I cannot make it out in this light,". The grace at which he spoke and addressed me was shocking, the way his voice implied darkness yet also faint hope, the courage in which he had to break the silence of the coach.
"It really isnt a book at all, just a journal, a story to understand what has happened, what will happen." It had been awhile since I had spoken last, my voice was rasp and shaky, the words being forced out as I stepped into a zone I was not comfortable with and talked to this man, something I would not have done in a circumstance that would not have forced me being with this man for the entire coach ride.
"If it is a story that is meant to be understood, then perhaps you should read it to me. We all have trouble understanding, yet it helps to hear how others have coped, what others have been through. A friend, or a story, is all that it takes sometimes to help someone.." His thoughts trailed off, as he spoke with the courage and carefully formed words that only a writer would be able to use. Im not sure what it was that made me trust this man already, after exchanging a few words to the point that I began to read soon after. To read the story I wrote for you and that I had not told to anyone else.
"It is a very long story" I warned the man, a hint of worry that someone would not understand, that they would judge and frown upon me if they could not hear all that I had to say, the worry that they would leave before the end like you had.
"That is very well," The few words somehow erasing all my fears, "As this will be an even longer journey.." It was then that I had started to read, as if controlled by someone other then myself, forced to read his last will to those who would soon execute him, the story that was written personally for you.
"I want nothing more then to tell you the truth about my life. Something I had trouble doing, something I dont think I have ever done. I am a killer, a criminal, and a liar. I am a lost case, a child forced to survive, yet I swear this will be a true account.." It is there that a I began to read the story, to break the silence and escape it for the rest of the ride away from the city.
