Moundsville

If Only Walls Could Talk

1893

    A sharp pain like wildfire lit up in the man's side as the guard rammed him hard with a baton right under his rib. His breath was taken away momentarily and, when it returned, he began breathing heavily. Air seemed to travel shakily through his mouth, not quite making it to the lungs. In this state, he seemed much older than he was, as if the pain had turned him frail and sickly.

As he hissed in air, it seemed as if every breath was pain to him. Like his lungs had just, at that moment, decided to fail and leave the man to suffer. His hair, dark and wet with sweat, hung over his face as he held his head downward. Through gritted teeth, he groaned almost inaudibly. No screaming. Not here. He knew what would happen to him if he screamed.

    He was a young man, not older than 26, and he had already done enough to ruin his entire life. He was a short man but hardly stout. In fact, he was very skinny, which was a surprise to most people. Although he was a man of smaller stature, he held himself the way you'd expect a very powerful man to. The vigor in his face matched that of one much rougher than he truly was. Almost all of his looks were taken from his father, and, if put side by side at the same age, they would look almost identical. Almost. If the man had anything of his own, it was his eyes. Those sharp green eyes. Neither his father nor mother had them, but his grandparents had and thus he bore them with pride. But he did wish he had taken something from his mother, maybe her pale complexion or that carrot red hair. To his dismay, he had all his father's dark features, including the dismal, sunken eyes. The common belief was that his father's face turned stern through hardship, age, and the more than occasional drink. But the man learned that it was just the face, and he could not rid himself of it. He appeared much older than he was, but then again he wasn't in perfect health as to look his age. Perhaps it was the poor self care that aged his once young features, hardened them to his father's face. A workers face.

Health was never a priority in his dangerously ambitious mind. No, work was above all else to him, and when he wasn't able to work he would run his routine through his head over and over. It was a comforting tick, or more like a compulsion, that he had grown to almost admire in himself. Not always that he appreciated this obsessive nature he had, but he discovered he could not rid himself of it so he embraced it. Others saw his love of work as his only vice, and he may have even said this for himself as well. No one believed he could do anything worse than work himself into a frenzy and forget his basic needs.

The man's voice was sultry and his smile was dull but inside he was hardly how he appeared to be. People always say you should never judge a book by its cover. No one who had ever met the young man through all his years would say he could do any wrong. But he had the look of a killer, the look of his father, and he despised it.

    He was the oldest of six children. Two sisters and four brothers, all within two years of each other. He cherished these siblings as if they were expensive rubies and he treated them like porcelain dolls or painted glass. They were too young to have the truth of the cold world break their hearts and souls. Thus, he protected them the best he could, despite his own flaws. The man was as family oriented as he was work oriented, and if he had to choose between them it would tear him apart. He had no wife, no children of his own, no family except his siblings. They were his world and he was a better guardian to them than his father had ever been and ever will be. And now he worried he'd never see their faces ever again except in his dreams. Or perhaps in that forever dream that some call death. This stung him harder than a baton ever could. If a man could truly die from heartbreak, he would have right then and there. But still he remained silent, wallowing solitary in his pain.

    The guard stabbed him one again with the baton. This time harder, knocking the man into the other guard next to him. It was obvious he was looking for some sort of scream or acknowledgment of the guards mischief. To his dissatisfaction, the guard still gained no major reaction from the man. The man could see his face grow into a sneer as he racked his brain for things he could shout about.