Chapter 9: Rivers of Emotion
The night continued on as Judeau fell asleep from both exhaustion and fright. The fight with Daphne's father and realization that he had slain another human being had proved to be too much for the frail young boy. Lost in a sea of thoughts and regrets for what had just happened, Judeau had fallen to his knees before his female friend and then found his face faltering and falling onto Daphne's prone chest. The girl had suffered unbearable damage from the iron chicken wire that her father had beaten her with moments before, and had lost consciousness due to blood loss and to the shock of intense pain. The two friends who had only met not long ago were now sleeping quietly next to each other, sharing warmth in this nightmare that was reality.
As he slept, Judeau saw vivid images of what he had been doing for the past couple of years. He saw himself traveling from doorstep to doorstep, begging as many people as he could find to give him but a small amount of food. Being only six years old, Judeau knew almost nothing of the outside world, and so he was lost. His mother having died from a terrible contagion, and his father having fallen during an attack by marauders, Judeau was forced to wander aimlessly for what seemed like an eternity by himself. "I want to go home." He thought sadly to himself. "I want to crawl into my bed and wake up to a new world." Although his life was terrible and only a small fraction even bearable to even think about, Judeau never-the- less trudged onward. "Life has nowhere left to go but up." He found his own voice ringing in the deepest recesses of his mind. "What doesn't kill us will only make us stronger."
Judeau saw himself walking in the forest during a cool autumn day. He was still a boy, maybe four years ago. The traveling gypsies had taken him in and had decided to make Judeau one of their own. They had felt sorry for the small boy having to go through this horrible life by himself. Judeau was frail, weak and underweight even for his dismal age. When the performers had found him that day on the side of the road, he was dressed in rags of the clothes he had always had since he was orphaned two years earlier. The dirty and soiled cloth hung from his tiny body as though it were a tarp and he was nothing more then a small bundle of apples. "Come with us and we will take care of you." They had told him. "Why live life when there is nothing to live for? We can give you that something boy, we can give you a tomorrow to look forward too. Trust us and you will live." Those kind words had attracted the young boy like a magnet to metal, and before he knew it, Judeau was throwing knives better then the original gypsy expert could. "He's a natural," The old knife thrower had once said. "It is as though Judeau was meant to throw them, its as though the knives were a part of him somehow." And so, as the knife thrower had said, Judeau thought his life was created to throw knives, and throw knives he did. For the couple of years Judeau had stayed with those gypsies, those street performers. He was twelve now, and he thought that he was untouched by the cruelties and the consequences of a planet where no one cared for others.
Judeau thought that his thin grasp on reality was purely and simply tranquility. Nothing could have stopped him from happiness, not with his calling found, not with his people. Nothing would wane him from his path that had given itself to him. Then it seemed, as he arrived in this particular village that fate had given him something he had never felt nor seen before. Daphne, although they had only shared a few words, knew more about Judeau than even he knew. She was only one it seemed that shared his pain, that shared his hardships and that knew what he felt deep in his heart. "Daphne," Judeau said softly outloud. "You smell like flowers."
Judeau breathed in the melodious scent of perfume and infinite loveliness of spring fragrance and then realized to his utter dismay that the flower scent slowly was changing into something putrid. The wonderful aroma of flowers, the blossoms that transpired when thoughts of Daphne crossed his mind soon transformed into the sinister smell of death. The metallic iron smell flooded his nostrils and made his eyes water. He then knew at that very moment what this smell was. Opening his eyes and leaving the peaceful euphoria of sleep, Judeau's glazed over eyes slowly revealed what was causing the horrible smell to awaken him.
The sunlight was there, and as the beams of luminescence crept into the room and illuminated the bed, Judeau saw Daphne's eyes wide open. She stared blankly up at the ceiling, her mouth cracked a bit, saliva dried to her face.
The night continued on as Judeau fell asleep from both exhaustion and fright. The fight with Daphne's father and realization that he had slain another human being had proved to be too much for the frail young boy. Lost in a sea of thoughts and regrets for what had just happened, Judeau had fallen to his knees before his female friend and then found his face faltering and falling onto Daphne's prone chest. The girl had suffered unbearable damage from the iron chicken wire that her father had beaten her with moments before, and had lost consciousness due to blood loss and to the shock of intense pain. The two friends who had only met not long ago were now sleeping quietly next to each other, sharing warmth in this nightmare that was reality.
As he slept, Judeau saw vivid images of what he had been doing for the past couple of years. He saw himself traveling from doorstep to doorstep, begging as many people as he could find to give him but a small amount of food. Being only six years old, Judeau knew almost nothing of the outside world, and so he was lost. His mother having died from a terrible contagion, and his father having fallen during an attack by marauders, Judeau was forced to wander aimlessly for what seemed like an eternity by himself. "I want to go home." He thought sadly to himself. "I want to crawl into my bed and wake up to a new world." Although his life was terrible and only a small fraction even bearable to even think about, Judeau never-the- less trudged onward. "Life has nowhere left to go but up." He found his own voice ringing in the deepest recesses of his mind. "What doesn't kill us will only make us stronger."
Judeau saw himself walking in the forest during a cool autumn day. He was still a boy, maybe four years ago. The traveling gypsies had taken him in and had decided to make Judeau one of their own. They had felt sorry for the small boy having to go through this horrible life by himself. Judeau was frail, weak and underweight even for his dismal age. When the performers had found him that day on the side of the road, he was dressed in rags of the clothes he had always had since he was orphaned two years earlier. The dirty and soiled cloth hung from his tiny body as though it were a tarp and he was nothing more then a small bundle of apples. "Come with us and we will take care of you." They had told him. "Why live life when there is nothing to live for? We can give you that something boy, we can give you a tomorrow to look forward too. Trust us and you will live." Those kind words had attracted the young boy like a magnet to metal, and before he knew it, Judeau was throwing knives better then the original gypsy expert could. "He's a natural," The old knife thrower had once said. "It is as though Judeau was meant to throw them, its as though the knives were a part of him somehow." And so, as the knife thrower had said, Judeau thought his life was created to throw knives, and throw knives he did. For the couple of years Judeau had stayed with those gypsies, those street performers. He was twelve now, and he thought that he was untouched by the cruelties and the consequences of a planet where no one cared for others.
Judeau thought that his thin grasp on reality was purely and simply tranquility. Nothing could have stopped him from happiness, not with his calling found, not with his people. Nothing would wane him from his path that had given itself to him. Then it seemed, as he arrived in this particular village that fate had given him something he had never felt nor seen before. Daphne, although they had only shared a few words, knew more about Judeau than even he knew. She was only one it seemed that shared his pain, that shared his hardships and that knew what he felt deep in his heart. "Daphne," Judeau said softly outloud. "You smell like flowers."
Judeau breathed in the melodious scent of perfume and infinite loveliness of spring fragrance and then realized to his utter dismay that the flower scent slowly was changing into something putrid. The wonderful aroma of flowers, the blossoms that transpired when thoughts of Daphne crossed his mind soon transformed into the sinister smell of death. The metallic iron smell flooded his nostrils and made his eyes water. He then knew at that very moment what this smell was. Opening his eyes and leaving the peaceful euphoria of sleep, Judeau's glazed over eyes slowly revealed what was causing the horrible smell to awaken him.
The sunlight was there, and as the beams of luminescence crept into the room and illuminated the bed, Judeau saw Daphne's eyes wide open. She stared blankly up at the ceiling, her mouth cracked a bit, saliva dried to her face.