Snowflake

A/N: This is the last short story I'm going to post up before I get back to work on revising "The Seeker's Path". This is a story I wrote a fairly long time ago, about a year or two. A lot of it is weird, but hey, who isn't. It's a sort of autobiography about this dude, but I cut it short after his childhood, because I didn't want this to be too long. Anyways, I hope you enjoy and remember to leave a review. Thanks.

xxx

Life is a labyrinth, a nexus, a circuitry. In its own diverse way, life is a tree, with each branch crystallized, extending to sui generis paths where fate and destiny collide. Each mortal life is placed in the palm of a gauntleted fist, with barely enough space to remain. Then the "hand of fate" crushes each life, moving to and fro, fingers snuffing out destinies. Only each femo-second is a few years for us mortals. And from each crushed life rises a new one and the cycles begins anew.

From a certain point of view, life is like a myriad of snowflakes.

Well, if that's true, I'm surrounded by life. Winter has indeed taken its wrath upon my home, the forest of Sagianous, where my tribes of gray-furred squirrels thrive. And winter has taken its asperity on me. I am white-haired, a sign of my multiple years. My fate is probably to be frozen amongst these snow-crusted pines. I was once young, and thought myself immortal. Seasons of age have taught me lessons, and I am wiser now.

Though I am to die this day, I am leaving this account of my life to anyone with an urge to learn. It will probably be lost among the snowflakes, but at least I will die with a clear conscience.

I do not know if my meager supply of ink will last during my tale. I can at least try.

I dip my quill in ink, now where to start? With your birth, you buffoon! Right! Tut-tut, I am getting stupider in my old age…

xxx

The day of my birth was not a sunny day.

Well, actually it was a sunny day before I was born.

I was born around noon, in the city streets of Lavonia. Before that it had been a perfect day transmitted from the atmosphere. The sphere of bullion called the sun radiated rolling waves of warmth from its cerulean kingdom. Silky clouds drifted with a downy bounce, burnished with a silvery flush. Jade, verdant vegetation were bathed in aureate glory, as various creatures milled about, with new heart to their daily troubles and work.

Then came the storm, enveloping the world in a translucent, obsidian darkness. The clouds, which had before radiated peace, now turned into dark, roaring, ugly bulls that clashed, their horns ripping their blurred shapes to tattered, cotton pieces. Drowning gales of rain devoured spirits and bodies alike. Bolts of lightning illuminated the ebon sky, as thunder deafened the eardrums of vermin and goodbeasts alike. The downpour increased to hail, and ice the size of grapes splattered against the wildlife. Cheerful? You got the wrong point, matey.

My mom blamed the tempest on me; who knows (?), she may be right. Misfortunes have followed me.

On the other hand, it wasn't a sunny day for my family, either.

Well, first I have to enlighten you about my heritage.

My mom used to be a beggar. She wandered the cities, begging at doorsteps, groveling at ordinary merchants, praising stay-at-home wives, and even playing some crummy music on a flute for a few tokens and coins. My father was a humble ex-carpenter who had left home in search of adventure, and classically fell in love. My mother had gotten pregnant with my sister (Eremia), a few years before I was born.

My family called the streets of Lavonia home, though it sure wasn't a 'home, sweet home' type of home. It was mostly populated with: gangs, thieves and relatively poor beasts. Taking in account that my family fitted in the 'poor beasts' section, they fared pretty well. We had a slightly rundown shack, not big but more than enough space for four squirrels.

As soon as I was born, I learned the harsh lesson: "With these type of messmates, ye gotta work for ye food. Ye ain't special, ye ain't rich. Ye do watt I say, or I'll bring your skin peeling off with scars from mah whip.' That seemed to be my father's favorite saying. He was bursting with pride when he toted his whip: a slender flog of tough hide (from who knows what animal), incised and patched, clean and vicious.

The work I did weren't chores; they were the cores of our financial survival. As the males of the group, my father and I worked the hardest. My mother cooked and sweeped part of the inside of our shack. My spiteful sister did the rest of the cleaning inside our domicile. I spent the middays and afternoons, drowning in sweat outside, as I toiled in our spare fields. I collected peas and corn, reaped wheat, struggled with planting soils and got chewed up by termites and ticks. I often sprouted fevers and diminutive diseases from these bites. In the evenings, I worked behind our self-effacing dwelling. It was a land of dirt, muck, bugs and other unpleasant surprises. The place was layered in dung and urine, clothed in a foul stench. But what scared me were the cockroaches.

The oval, flat-bodied insects crawled over anything, leaving hideous effects in its trail. I killed them, but there were always more.

I habitually got on the wrong side of my father's whip. About six times a month I was lashed. These incidents left crimson marks, on my body, the scars stretching spider-like. I steadily, but slowly learned my lesson, and started getting more seldom in trouble. My mother didn't exactly show disdain, but she didn't seem to care, only routinely saying: "Hey, a lot of people have it harder than you. Many people don't have a roof over their heads, grub in their mouth, and a caring sister to nurse them when they feel in the glooms."

Well, she certainly wasn't right about my sister. Oh sure, she might seem nice and 'Mrs. Goody-Goody' around my parents, but when we were alone she would show her true side. Though we had a large number of quarters, my father insisted we stay in a minimum number of rooms, so we wouldn't get lost. My sister and I shared a room, and she would often beat me up. When I sobbed, she smirked and asked: "What's wrong, snitnose? Oi dearie me, did thou get a-hurt?" I would always try to fight back, but she was stronger than me, on account of being a few years older. My parents were never interested in my bruises, assuming I had received them in natural clumsiness. She sure didn't need a whip to grant me pain!

Then happened a chain of incidents that would bestow a major change upon my life…

xxx

The snub of my quill broke, shaking me out of my fantasies. It was better I not continue. From then on things had taken a turn for the worse. I had joined a gang of rats after a few years, desperate to make my life into the cruel world. But things went worst for me from then on. I became an experienced pickpocket and believed myself to never be able to get caught. How wrong I was. I was caught one a rainy, spring day and was thrown in jail. From there, I escaped my prison cell and joined the navy. And so began a life of war…and angst. My life.