"How could you do this to me?" I seethe through gritted teeth.
Instead of an answer I get a jab to the side, which I narrowly avoid. I'm panting heavily, which is making me feel slightly light-headed. Tucking myself tight into my chest, I roll forward, feeling the kiss of a blade barely a breath away from chopping my ponytail in half.
Stopping on my tiptoes, I use the momentum to stand up, only to slam to the floor again to avoid being decapitated. My quick reflexes are the only thing keeping me alive. I jump up and turn around to face my attacker—only to be met by the sharp end of a sword.
It's gone straight through my stomach. The only thing I'm aware of is the gut-wrenching pain (see what I did there *wink*) and the sound of screaming. I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure it's me.
Now I'm sure you probably want some context.
Well, I'm going to give it to you. I'm being attacked right now. There is a sword in my stomach. It really hurts. The sword belongs to my best friend. Rather confusing—right? If you're going to understand, then I'm going to have to start from the beginning. So, about twenty years ago my mother gave birth to me—
I'm kidding. I'm not honestly going to tell you my whole life story. Just the last few years of it.
All joking aside, what I'm about to tell you might be disturbing. It's definitely sad.
What you may think is that—because it's my story—that I'm the hero, that it's not my fault I've been betrayed by someone close to me, or even that you relate to being stabbed by a friend (figuratively, I'd like to hope).
In my opinion—there are three sides to every story. The abuser, the victim, and the truth. In most instances, both are to blame and both are victims. We are all human and we hurt people when we are in need of help ourselves.
My name is Ruby Whyte and—though I don't think I deserve all I've been through—I have definitely played a vital part in the things that have gone wrong along the way. However, just because I think this of myself, doesn't mean it's necessarily the truth. The truth is for you, dear reader, to figure out.
This story starts around two years ago, with my best friend and I squabbling over firewood.
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Heather nudges me in the shoulder, offering to take the flint and stone from my hands, but I refuse and hold them out of her reach. "I'm almost there," I insist, despite the cold seeping in through the cracks in our small cottage.
"Ruby, please just let me do it—we're both freezing here and you've never managed it before. Now is really not the time," she pleads.
I ignore her, focusing solely on the wood in front of me. Rain patters rhythmically on the windows as the weak morning sunlight illuminates my hands. I furiously rub the two tools together, almost dropping them in surprise as a spark finally catches on the tinder in front of me. Letting out a yell of excitement, I turn my head to find Heather smiling at me. I let out a sigh of contentment and fall back against the stone wall to bask in the light of my newly lit fire.
"I think you were lucky the sunlight hit at the right angle."
"Don't take this away from me, I was still the one who lit it," I pout.
Heather laughs and scoots closer to the fire, taking her delicate hands out from under her legs to hold them in front of the flames. As much as I wish to do the same, I have places to be and a very busy day ahead of me.
"Right," I say heavily, stretching the stiffness from my muscles.
"Where are you going?" Heather inquires.
"Market." I tug on my boots, shrug on my jacket and grab the satchel I packed yesterday evening.
"You want me to buy anything while I'm out?"
"I think we're running low on milk."
I nod and advance towards the door as Heather says: "Be careful out there Ruby."
I sigh, noticing the concern etched on her face.
"I will be." I try to reassure her, but even with my promise she still seems tense. Knowing that nothing I say will ease her worrying, I swing the door open and trudge outside before she can say anything else. I move slower than I would prefer to, as the wet mud pulls on the soles of my boots. It rained the whole night and it feels as if it's getting heavier the closer I get to the city. I purposefully didn't bring an umbrella, using the rain as an excuse to keep my head down and avoid drawing attention to myself.
Heather and I live on the edge of the Tiberias forest, a ten-minute walk away from civilization. Although, Heather thinks it's just because I'm not a people person and would prefer the company of the trees and birds to nosy neighbours, it's only partially true. The primary reason is my profession—and the constant presence of the security guards that patrol the area.
The sound of laughter and music fills the air as I approach the outskirts of the city Mortendia. Keeping my head down, I blend in with the crowd heading towards the monthly festival.
I must admit I was a bit worried that the downpour would cause the festival to be cancelled. However, the people of Corta seem to be enjoying themselves nonetheless. As I enter, I'm greeted with food stalls lining the cobbled pavements, tempting me with their delicious smells and making my stomach growl. The street is filled with numerous stalls selling items ranging from jewellery and handwoven fabrics to stationery, books, and even pets.
I wander through the cobblestone streets, admiring the joy that refuses to be dampened by the rain. As I approach the white stone fountain in the middle of the square, I feel a pang of loneliness. A part of me wishes I had brought Heather with me as I observe couples dancing to the live music, musicians having a good time with their band mates, and children playing in the overflowing fountain. Everybody happy and free from the burdens of the world—if only for this moment. This thought reminds me what I'm here for and I quickly snap out of my thoughts. I can self–pity once I'm home.
I wander in the direction of a well-dressed man who reaches into his pocket to take out some money for a bracelet for his wife, dropping a gold coin in the process. I strike as fast as a snake, my hand darting out from my jacket and snatching up the coin before it hits the ground, all without breaking my stride.
Neither he nor his wife notice as I continue weaving through the crowd, deftly snatching fallen pennies and slipping bracelets, necklaces, and rings off those too absorbed in their enjoyment to notice. Soon my pockets are filled with valuable items.
Before entering the tailor's shop, I check to ensure that no one has followed me. Once inside, I look up to see there are no other customers present. The sounds of the outside world are silenced as the door closes behind me, and I hear the gentle ring of the bell above my head.
As I gaze around the shop, I'm captivated by the vibrant array of fabrics on display. There are soft shades of pink, like cotton candy, deep blues that resemble the night sky, and regal purples like plums. The walls are painted a soothing sunset orange and the shelves are a complementary shade of yellow. The high ceilings add to the spaciousness of the shop. Rather than venturing further into the store, I remain where I am, enjoying the cosy warmth of the shop as it dries me off.
A head pops out from behind a shelf.
"Hello." The man greets me with a warm smile.
Presumably in his late forties, with his kind dark eyes, wispy grey hair and a slight limp, he immediately strikes me as a sweet person.
"As much as I love the monthly markets, it isn't very good for my business; you're the first customer I've had all day," he tells me.
I smile at him awkwardly, unsure of how I should respond. Whether he notices or just decides to change the subject, he asks me how he can assist me.
"What can I do for you young lady?"
"I would like two dresses, fit for a ball or an important occasion please."
"All occasions are important," he remarks as he walks over to a desk behind me and grabs a measuring tape.
That's a bit random, but okay.
"Are both dresses for you?"
"No, one's for me and the other is for my friend."
He grabs a clipboard and jots something down before asking me my name.
To protect my own identity, I decide to use Heather's full name, Heather Karney.
"Will your friend be joining us? I'm afraid it's rather difficult to make a dress for someone without their measurements."
I reach into my satchel and take out a list of Heather's measurements and hand them over to him. He acknowledges it with a nod, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips.
"Any preferences?" He looks at me expectantly. "So that I can determine the colour and style of the dress," he adds when I don't respond.
"Well, her favourite colour is red and she likes tight fitting dresses." I shuffle my feet uncomfortably. I usually rely on Heather to do the talking because she always knows what to say.
He responds with a simple hmm before hurrying over to a stack of fabrics, gathering them up and placing them on his desk. As he works, I gaze out of the window to see that the rain has intensified, making it difficult to see outside. Despite this, I still appreciate the beauty and calmness of rain. It reminds me of those romantic scenes in books where couples argue in the middle of the road until they realise they are deeply in love with one another and make–out in the rain. Even though it's cliché, I still hope I have something like that one day.
"What about you madam."
I snap out of my thoughts and my brain takes a minute to process the question. "Um, purple," I stutter.
He chuckles at my nervousness and I feel my face flush with embarrassment.
"My favourite colour is purple and I would like a ballroom gown." I know I should probably give him more information then that, but if he wants me to tell him more he doesn't say anything; he just nods and makes his way back to the table to jot something down.
"Today is Sunday, correct?" he asks. I nod in affirmation. "Then your dresses should be ready for pickup by Tuesday. Is that all?" I nod once more. "That will be twelve gold coins then, please."
I almost choked on air. Twelve gold coins? I hurriedly grab my purse from my bag, giving him all the contents, including the gold coin I'd swiped earlier on. I'm going to the pawn shop a little bit further away from here after this, to turn my stolen jewellery into more gold coins. He smiles at me as I leave and I can't help but smile back.
As soon as I open the door the wind smacks me in the face, a stark contrast to the warmth inside the shop. The rain is like small needles piercing my skin. I pull up my hood, which is already drenched from the rain.
The majority of the crowd has dispersed, and I make the mistake of glancing behind me. I see the patrolling officers in their distinct white uniforms, marching up and down the streets. Panic sets in as they approach me, but I quickly remind myself that I've done nothing to warrant their attention.
Keeping my head down low, I cautiously weave my way through the mob of people all heading in the same direction as me. Most of them live in the nearby village, while those who are only visiting—like me—are staying longer or getting in carriages. I should be safe, so–long as I don't panic and cause a scene.
That's when I hear them; the patrol dogs.
My heart races as I freeze in fear. They can sniff out pickpockets, as the belongings smell primarily of the person they belonged to. I must reek of different scents. I check behind me once more and see them still advancing in my direction.
They don't think I'm suspicious, do they?
My mouth suddenly becomes very dry. If I get caught, the punishment would be death—as is the punishment for anything here. I can't let that happen—it would certainly ruin my plans.
Something small collides with my legs and I glance down to see a little boy staring at something on the ground.
"Hey little one, are you okay?" I ask softly, bending down to make sure he isn't hurt.
The boy looks up at me slowly, then back at the ground. Following his gaze, I notice a gold bracelet lying there—one that I recognise as one I pick-pocketed. It must have fallen from my pocket when he bumped into me.
The little boy picks up the bracelet with his chubby fingers and looks me straight in the eye before raising it to the nearby patrols. I don't need to look to know they've spotted it because I hear barking almost immediately.
Without hesitation, I leap to my feet, ignoring the small stones embedded in my knees and sprint in the direction of the city gates. It's a risky move, as the patrols could cut me off, but I'm not familiar enough with the village to risk going up there. The wide arc I make appears to work though, as their shouts soon fade.
However, as the barking gets louder, I realize they've let the dogs off their leashes and I curse. All I can do now is run as fast as I can and pray they don't catch up with me.
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My nimble feet fly through the undergrowth of the forest. The sounds of dogs barking only meters behind me keeps the adrenaline pumping through my veins.
My jacket catches on a tree branch and rips loudly, my focus sliding away from the ground in front of me and causing me to face-plant a tree trunk. I scramble to my feet—mildly aware of a pulsing bruise on my cheek and the smell of dew in my nose. Even harder than trying to carry on running is resisting the urge to look behind me. I've learned the hard way that looking back made me slower.
Relief washes through me as I see the end, but I don't dare slow down now.
Pushing myself as fast as my legs will go, I let out a cry of desperation at my safety being so close.
I reach the door and swing it open, skidding on the rough hay carpet from the left over momentum, and hurriedly slam the door closed behind me.
I collapse to the floor in a panting heap, my lungs burning. Exhaustion leaves me unable to move.
Heather comes running from another room, a startled look on her face.
"Ruby, what happened!" she exclaims.
"I didn't get milk," I cough before slipping into unconsciousness.