The Man I Used to Be

Prologue

Today I've turned seventeen. Seventeen years of life. A seventeen-year-old boy… or a man? Who knows? I've been treated like a grown man for as long as I remember, but deep inside I still feel like a boy, insecure, ignorant and very small. Pa says I have enough reasons to be proud of myself. I can ride, shoot and hunt better than many older men. Naturally, he would pride himself in my skills sincehe's the one who taught me all of it. But what would I know about others? How can I compare myself to other men when I know nothing? I'm totally clueless about what people do or don't do. We never see anybody… ever, particularly me who hasn't left this land in many long years.

My spirit and dreams often tempt me to flee from the place that is my home and has become my prison. I long to see other skies, other sights, other faces, but Pa would never allow me to leave. He always says it's not safe out there, and I'm the only thing that he has in this life. That disarms all my arguments. I don't have brothers and sisters, and my mother died many years ago when I was a very young child. I don't remember her, but Pa's always there to remind me of the horrible way she was killed, and why we are safe now from danger. That always manages to quench my thirst for adventure.

I could never leave my father alone, and I've never entertained the idea of condemning him to sheer loneliness. If only he could allow me to ride with him when he meets Al, the peddler, who sets his wagon full of goodies and tent downriver once a month. That wouldn't be asking too much, would it? When I was younger, he used to take me with him, but that stopped by the time I was around twelve. I'm not particularly interested in seeing the peddler. Al's rough manners used to intimidate me, and I always got tongue-tied in the minutes I was around him, so I never spoke a word. Now things would be different, and as long as I could get out of my neck of the woods for a bit, I would put up with anything. Yet, there's no way I can do that. Whenever I ask my father, his refusal is categorical, and if I insist, he becomes too distraught, going on about Ma and how she died. I've heard the tale so many times in my life, but it always manages to upset me, and I end up dropping the whole thing. I understand Pa, but I hope one day he'll let me break my isolation. Now that I'm seventeen, I should talk to Pa and tell him about my total dissatisfaction about the way we live. I'm almost an adult man, and nothing's going to happen to me just because I want to see something else other than our plot. I can look after myself, but if Pa doesn't let me show him how capable I am and how I can even ride to Rock Creek and back safely, I'll never feel I've grown up at all.

Pa says we have everything we can wish for here. We live in a very secluded area, almost a one day's ride from Rock Creek. Our cottage is comfortable enough, warm in the winter thanks to our fireplace, and quite fresh in the summer. We are flanked by sturdy mountains on one side, and leafy, impressive trees rising together in a forest on the other. Our field grows several crops we live from, and is generous enough to produce enough so we can exchange it for seeds, clothes, spices, or other household items with Al. In the stables we have a couple of cows and goats that produce rich milk, and we always have a surplus of cheese and butter all year round. Apart from the vegetables our land produces we also enjoy good meat in our dinner. Pa is a trapper, and when we check the traps he plants in the forest, there's always some unlucky animal there. Those furs also go to Al, who buys the whole lot for some money, and we keep the meat that can cheer our dinner table any time. Pa, though, prefers our usual vegetables, but I enjoy the taste of some good roast meat now and then.

Maybe Pa is right, and I have nothing to complain about. He says many people would wish to be in my shoes as not everybody is lucky enough to have food in their bellies every day, clothes to keep warm in the winter, and a roof over their heads. That's fortunate, I guess, but it gets too lonely to be myself. I love how peaceful it is here, but I wish I could take a break from this solitude. My father is my only companion and the animals too. I have my own horse, but I can only ride her as far as the confines of our forest, especially when Pa sends me to check the traps. Going beyond that limit is just impossible right now. Sometimes I imagine riding her at full steam, experiencing the wind on my face and in my lungs, galloping with no cares all around the world. Wouldn't it be great? I keep dreaming there's something else in my future than the life I've known so far. That's all I can do now: dream or imagine a different existence that is as out of my grasp as the moon or the stars that look down on me.

At least, I still have some books. They're my only other company. They belonged to my mother when she was alive, and those are the only things we have left from her. Pa has kept them as if they were holy, and now they're my special treasure too. Pa also taught me to read with them. I never went to school, but I learned my letters and numbers from him as well as anything Pa deemed I had to know. Ma's books have become the world where I can lose myself in my worst days. My favorites are the ones about adventures in far-off countries. Oh how I wish I could be like Marco Polo, Gulliver, or those other adventurers. Reading about their exploits and discoveries is like seeing the world through their eyes. However, that's not enough, and doesn't satisfy me any longer. I really long to experience that the world is rich and diverse, not just read about it. Lately reading leaves me with mixed feelings, an intense euphoria but also a deep-felt longing I can't satisfy.

If only Pa could understand me. I'm not scared of the world, and I only want to escape for a bit. A brief trip to the nearest town would do, that's all. Sometimes I feel tempted to sneak out and flee. I tried that once when I was about thirteen, but Pa caught me before I was able to reach my destination, which I don't remember if I even knew. He was so angry and disappointed that it put me off from trying again. I hate it when he looks so hurt. But… doesn't he realize I'm also hurt and miserable? I can't live like a prisoner here alone all my life. I want more, much more, and he needs to understand. He has to understand.

I better stop writing now. I just heard him outside, and he doesn't like me keeping this diary. He says that only sissies do that. I'm not sure what he means by that, even though he calls me that when he catches me doing something he doesn't approve of. For once I'm not obeying him in something, and I'll keep my journal where he can't find it. I need to write and let my misery out. There's nobody else I can talk to about this, and my ramblings offer me some poor solace.

Time to go and resume my chores. Until next time, my faithful listener.

Lou

Some of the ideas that have shaped this story better belong to Ellie, so in a big way she's part of the creative process. Thanks so much for your input, Ellie.

Thanks to my beta-reader Jessica for her help, and thanks to Ellie, Paola, Jenna and Anita for their encouragement when the germ of this plot started to grow in my mind. And thanks to all the LJ ladies like usual.