My night had been fairly successful; two of them dead, and I was mostly unhurt. Breathing hard, I wiped my sword in the grass to clean off the dark spots that marred the silver reflection of the blade. Seeing myself in that narrow strip of steel, I was reminded again of my differences—a deadly force in the dark, murdering in the shadows. It was a war, and I was just a lone fighter trying to stay alive.
Sliding my sword back into its sheath, I turned from the park and began the long walk back to the church through the spotted dusk of the street lamps. The moon was half-full, but hidden by clouds—too little light for me to chance taking a shortcut through the back streets.
Two blocks from the church, I ducked into an alley and made my way silently to the place where I hid my sword: above the crumbling ceiling tiles in an abandoned building that for a time had been a night club. It was where I went when I felt the need to get away from the preaching of Father Maxwell and Sister Helen, during the nights when I didn't venture out to fight. Once it was safely hidden from anyone who might stumble into the place while looking for a place to sleep, I returned to the street and continued on my way back to the place I called home.
"Duo! Where have you been, young man?"
I didn't reply immediately. They'd taught me not to lie, that lying was wrong, but I had to lie in order protect Father Maxwell and Sister Helen from my world. "Out with some friends." I tried to get past her, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. It was no use; she stopped me, and with her gentle hands lifted my chin. She gasped as she looked at me in fright. I had learned long ago to ignore the pain, but the cuts still stung, and blood was running down my face and neck.
"You've been in a fight again," she said as she looked at me sadly. "Duo..."
"It's nothing. I fell down." It was partially true, but it wouldn't explain the two deep gashes. I'd neglected to hide them, thinking I would be able to sneak back to my room. I had been wrong. Sister Helen was perceptive tonight.
"Duo, don't lie! Come and let me clean you up."
I didn't like to see Sister Helen sad. She may have acted angry, but from experience I knew that she was saddened by how I distanced myself and never told her the things she thought she should know.
I followed her as she led me to the kitchen and sat me down. While she took the first aid kit she always kept handy for patching me up down from the shelf, I considered getting up and going to my room.
"You mustn't always be doing this, Duo," Sister Helen scolded as she returned and pulled a chair away from the table and sat facing me. I stayed silent as she cleaned my face. "You know we worry about you. Why do you insist on getting in so many fights? What if one day someone gets the best of you—then what would we do? Or what if you got in trouble with the police? You can't keep on doing this, Duo!"
I didn't say a word, not even when she was finished. She was used to my silence by now. I didn't know if it bothered her or not, but I had learned a long time ago that making excuses only upset her more.
Lying in my room that night, I wondered again if they might not be better off without me. I constantly doubted my existence. Maybe it was better if I didn't exist, but I had never found the courage to leave Father Maxwell and Sister Helen behind. It would feel too much like abandoning them. They had taken me in when I was young, rescued me from the world of the streets, and for that I was grateful even if I didn't show it.
At fifteen, I knew I had many more years ahead of me. I didn't relish the thought; it was only more years of fighting, more years of hiding the truth, more years of tears and pain. I wanted to change, badly, but I didn't know how.