YAY! NEW STORY UP! And is it not only up, but I think this one's got some
POTENTIAL!!! JOY! Read and review!!! (Please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
Disclaim: I own Triel and his family. That's it for now. The rest is Tamora Pierce's. Darn.
I was born in Summersea, Emelan, to poor lower-class parents. I don't know when my real birthday is; that is, nobody ever told me it or celebrated it like rich folk do. My da died when I was but a babe, so I don't remember him at all, but my ma always said that he was a born fighter, although sometimes being a fighter and liking to drink was not always the best combination, especially in where we lived. When I'd ask, my ma would always say I'm named after my da, Triel, which means "brave fighter".
My ma raised me in a way that most folks would find peculiar. Instead of saying good-bye, she'd kick me out the door. Instead of tucking me in at night, she'd tell me what I bad boy I'd been and hit me, hard. When other mothers would be reading their kids bedtime stories and singing lullabies, mine would be swaying next to my bed, drinking straight from a liquor bottle, cussing and singing tuneless songs.
It wasn't 'til I was 'bout six or seven that I realized that it wasn't me that made her be that way; it was the drinking. I put up with it for awhile, but when things got bad, I started trying to get rid of her booze, hiding bottles and pouring them into the sewers when she was sleeping of the drink, but soon ma found me out and thought that I had been drinking her liquor, so she beat me more than ever.
I tried to stay out of the house as much as possible, because I didn't like my ma when she was drunk, but there wasn't a lot of safe places to go in the neighborhood I grew up in without worrying about being jumped or beaten up by the local gang members. Usually, I ended up going out by the water, watching ships and fishing boat dock in Summersea Harbor. I loved being near the sea; I felt light and free whenever I was around it; even though I knew I'd have to go home eventually. Sometimes I stayed all night there, hearing the waves crash on the shore, even though I knew the next morning mom would be on me, madder than ever.
When I had just turned ten, it happened. My ma, drunk and ill tempered, came home later than usual one night. I had been sitting up under the stairs, waiting for her, because I hated being asleep when she came home. Most likely she throw a pot or spoon at me to wake me up. Anyways, as soon as she found me, she started yelling at me, and slapping me around, like she had for the past six years, even though I had done nothing wrong. That was her drunken self; you could never talk reason into her or stop her. She'd always win.
I guess I lost it then. I admit I was mad. I did something I never had done before: I fought back.
I ran into the kitchen space and grabbed a knife, not knowing what I'd do if I had to use it. My ma ran in after me, screaming that I would get the beating of my life.
But that beating would never come, because just then she ran straight into the knife.
I was afraid to stay in the house with a dead body, and I didn't want one of the Guard to come along and arrest me, so I quickly packed a few things, and then, carrying the knife, I left the house. I must've wandered around for days, and after almost bein' jumped by some gang, I found myself at the city's docks. I needed money, and they needed workers, so they hired me on.
I learned how to scrape barnacles, unload precious cargo, and how to be helpful to the sailors. I also learned other things, like that many convicted streets kids worked at the docks, and they'd try to harry you whenever they got the chance, and that you'd best learn knives and fighting if you wanted to stay in one piece. You had to run fast if you liked to stay alive. I learned to be quick, hard. I also learned that in this world, you couldn't trust anyone but yourself.
And so it went. Life went on as it always had, not skipping a beat or changing it's routine in the slightest.
I was thirteen years old when my routine life changed forever.
Disclaim: I own Triel and his family. That's it for now. The rest is Tamora Pierce's. Darn.
I was born in Summersea, Emelan, to poor lower-class parents. I don't know when my real birthday is; that is, nobody ever told me it or celebrated it like rich folk do. My da died when I was but a babe, so I don't remember him at all, but my ma always said that he was a born fighter, although sometimes being a fighter and liking to drink was not always the best combination, especially in where we lived. When I'd ask, my ma would always say I'm named after my da, Triel, which means "brave fighter".
My ma raised me in a way that most folks would find peculiar. Instead of saying good-bye, she'd kick me out the door. Instead of tucking me in at night, she'd tell me what I bad boy I'd been and hit me, hard. When other mothers would be reading their kids bedtime stories and singing lullabies, mine would be swaying next to my bed, drinking straight from a liquor bottle, cussing and singing tuneless songs.
It wasn't 'til I was 'bout six or seven that I realized that it wasn't me that made her be that way; it was the drinking. I put up with it for awhile, but when things got bad, I started trying to get rid of her booze, hiding bottles and pouring them into the sewers when she was sleeping of the drink, but soon ma found me out and thought that I had been drinking her liquor, so she beat me more than ever.
I tried to stay out of the house as much as possible, because I didn't like my ma when she was drunk, but there wasn't a lot of safe places to go in the neighborhood I grew up in without worrying about being jumped or beaten up by the local gang members. Usually, I ended up going out by the water, watching ships and fishing boat dock in Summersea Harbor. I loved being near the sea; I felt light and free whenever I was around it; even though I knew I'd have to go home eventually. Sometimes I stayed all night there, hearing the waves crash on the shore, even though I knew the next morning mom would be on me, madder than ever.
When I had just turned ten, it happened. My ma, drunk and ill tempered, came home later than usual one night. I had been sitting up under the stairs, waiting for her, because I hated being asleep when she came home. Most likely she throw a pot or spoon at me to wake me up. Anyways, as soon as she found me, she started yelling at me, and slapping me around, like she had for the past six years, even though I had done nothing wrong. That was her drunken self; you could never talk reason into her or stop her. She'd always win.
I guess I lost it then. I admit I was mad. I did something I never had done before: I fought back.
I ran into the kitchen space and grabbed a knife, not knowing what I'd do if I had to use it. My ma ran in after me, screaming that I would get the beating of my life.
But that beating would never come, because just then she ran straight into the knife.
I was afraid to stay in the house with a dead body, and I didn't want one of the Guard to come along and arrest me, so I quickly packed a few things, and then, carrying the knife, I left the house. I must've wandered around for days, and after almost bein' jumped by some gang, I found myself at the city's docks. I needed money, and they needed workers, so they hired me on.
I learned how to scrape barnacles, unload precious cargo, and how to be helpful to the sailors. I also learned other things, like that many convicted streets kids worked at the docks, and they'd try to harry you whenever they got the chance, and that you'd best learn knives and fighting if you wanted to stay in one piece. You had to run fast if you liked to stay alive. I learned to be quick, hard. I also learned that in this world, you couldn't trust anyone but yourself.
And so it went. Life went on as it always had, not skipping a beat or changing it's routine in the slightest.
I was thirteen years old when my routine life changed forever.