Voleur de Mon Coeur
Chapter III
An Act of Mercy
The paths of the god and the thief
Are worn as one into the earth
And every falling of a leaf
To the forest floor gives new birth
Whatever we do in our life
The consequences shape the world
When all our efforts come to strife
All our hopes seem to have been hurled
In the darkness of cloudy night
Nobody sees us as we weep
And feeling winter's chilling bite
The once-strong will has gone to sleep
When everybody seems a foe
And every step seems more forlorn
We must seek out the way to go
With every step our paths are worn
Our destiny is ours to make
The great cup of life has been poured
Richness of soul is there to take
In taking the thief is made lord
We can help ourselves to this wealth
And leave plenty behind beside
From life's cup we drink to our health
And so we can cast care aside
The future is a tangled wood
Yet still for its secrets we yearn
We all leave our tracks in the mud
So others will know where to turn
The paths of the god and the thief
Are worn as one into the earth
And every falling of a leaf
To the forest floor gives new birth
The Cynical Smile
By-Runner
Restlessness consumed him; his hands ached for the thrill of his art.
He inwardly punished himself for allowing his restrained desires to take over and cause him to do something as stupid as stealing an officer's wallet.
Jack Dawkins kicked the wall beside him and then slammed his fist against it.
"Stupid," he muttered to himself, "stupid, stupid, stupid."
Benjamin eyed the lad in slight alarm and with a questioning gaze.
Jack, upon seeing the expression on the older man's face, shook his head, "that was a stupid thing for me to do, Givvins, taking that man's wallet."
Acknowledgement flickered over Ben Givvins' face. "Well, Jackie, just what are ye plannin' to do 'bout it?"
Jack took the wallet from within his pocket and eyed it thoughtfully. "What will they do if they find it on me?"
Givvins shrugged, "no tellin'. It depends on 'ow angry they ares with ye."
Jack sighed and then returned the wallet to his pocket. "Probably gonna search every cell on this level."
Givvins nodded, "probably."
Jack kicked the wall again and then sat against it dejectedly. "There ain't nowhere to hide it neither."
"Give it to that Banks feller."
Jack looked up at Ben, an unreadable expression on his face. "What?'
"The man Banks, put it into one of 'is pockets." Givvins laughed heartily, "I'm sure puttin' somethin' into a pocket is just as easy as takin' somethin' out."
Jack shook his head, "no, Givvins."
Givvins furrowed his brows, "why? It's a good solution. 'Ave ye gathered morals all a sudden?"
"No. It's just that I'm not gonna be lettin' no one else take the credit for the work I've done." Jack answered with firm resolve in his voice.
Givvins smiled, "you're one in a million, Jackie."
Jack returned his smile, "I know it."
He leaned his head against the wall behind him, his mind frantically searching for a way out of his situation.
Letting Chester Banks take the fall had been extremely tempting, but his pride had overcome that alternative.
Jack slipped his hand into his pocket and grasped the source of his dilemma. He could feel the weight increasing as the feeling of helplessness began to take him over.
Did pride actually stand above his very life? Should he just let Banks shoulder the blame? Somewhere, somewhere deep within his blackened soul, was buried honor; an honor that fervently whispered to his heart.
Looking over at Banks' sleeping form, Jack felt a sudden surge of a feeling he could neither identify nor welcome.
If Banks were to die at his hands, he knew he would forever regret it.
'I am a thief,' he thought, 'not a murderer.'
Quietly pushing away the pitiful emotion that had filled him, he removed the wallet from his pocket and, once again, looked down upon it, pondering what he should do with it.
"Jack Dawkins," he whispered to himself, "you are a fool."
He returned the wallet to his pocket, and then closed his weary eyes to fall into the comforting arms of sleep.
After several long hours had passed, Jack awoke with a sudden start out of a nightmare. The visions were fresh on his mind, and a fear had taken his body. His mind recalled everything that had taken place…
He had seen, all too clearly, the guards discovering the wallet on him, and then dragging him away to another chamber where he was tortured mercilessly.
The dream had begun to end as a door beneath his feet dropped and the noose tightened around his neck, ending it all.
Now, upon seeing that it had only been a nightmare, Jack's breathing began to ease, though the sickened feeling upon his heart remained.
He ran his hands through his hair, allowing his fingers to linger within the strands.
He shook his head in attempt to rid the horrific images from his mind and the fear from his body. However, it was a useless act.
"Lad."
Jack's head shot up as he drew his hands from his hair, and he looked over at the source of the voice, sending his heart-rate into a rapid frenzy; it was the owner of the wallet he had stolen.
'It's over,' his mind told him, 'this is it.'
"Lad," repeated the officer, "come here."
Jack weakly got to his feet and walked towards the prison guard, his face pale and his breathing shallow.
He looked around anxiously and his heart sank as he saw that the other occupants were asleep. There wouldn't be one person to see him go; no one to get a last glimpse of The Artful Dodger.
Jack stopped and looked into the eyes of the officer, his entire body trembling. He could hear the cold voice of death's whisper within his mind, and it made his skin crawl as it sent a chill down his spine. His darkened soul welcomed it with an eerie chuckle.
The officer opened his mouth to speak, "my name is William Flannigan."
Jack's fear was momentarily replaced with confusion and his eyebrows furrowed in question.
William smiled slightly at the younger man's apparent bewilderment. "I know it was you, Mr. Dawkins."
The fear came rushing back to Jack, and he looked down at his feet in defeat, as he anxiously awaited the threats and curses that were sure to follow.
William, upon seeing the alarm on Jack's face, reached through the bars and placed a firm hand on the lad's shoulder.
Jack looked up quickly to meet the softened eyes of the officer.
"I'll bet you haven't been shown a bit of kindness for many years."
Jack's eyes widened in astonishment at these words, and his mind was spinning with confusion; this was not what he'd been expecting.
William removed his hand from Jack's shoulder, "I'm not going to turn you in, boy."
Jack's mouth parted slowly, and he searched for words in response to this.
Finally the only thing he could think to say was a barely audible, "Why?"
William smiled gently, "there are some of us who still hold onto the lost concept of justice."
"Lost concept?" Jack weakly asked. Justice seemed, not lost, but a thriving and active part of life; justice had thrown him into this cell. It forever haunted the streets, as it sneered down at the poor and desperate; justice bred poverty, it bred criminals.
William nodded, "It is a side of justice that has been forgotten; I call it mercy."
A strange feeling began to creep upon Jack as he heard the foreign word. Mercy, it was true, had been lost, or, rather, nonexistent.
"Mercy?" he muttered shakily.
"I'm probably saving your life, kid."
Jack desperately tried to force the confusing emotions away but they clung to him relentlessly.
"Why are you doing this for me?" he asked helplessly.
William sighed, "When I first discovered my wallet had gone missin' I knew at once who the thief was. I was firmly resolved to turn you in, but as I approached the Chief of Police, I faltered as the image of your hanging body filled my mind.
As much as I loathed you, I couldn't bear to be the one responsible for your execution. That stayed my tongue and my wrath."
He smiled and looked into Jack's tortured eyes, "and besides, I see somethin' in you that tells me you are not completely past redemption."
Jack shook his head at this statement, "you're wrong, Flannigan. If I ever get out of this hell cage and happen upon you in the street, I will not hesitate to pick you're pocket again."
William shook his head, "you are a foolish boy, Jack Dawkins, and I do not expect any different from you. Perhaps that redemption is buried too deeply within your soul." He sighed, "but you've got a whole life ahead of you for reforming, lad, I dare not take that away."
Jack eyed the man guardedly before closing his eyes. He felt so completely vulnerable at William Flannigan's words; it was a weakness he hated to feel.
Nothing could've prepared him for this, and he honestly felt that death was more bearable.
His emotions were terrifying him, and, compelled by something unseen, he reached into his pocket and took out the wallet.
He gazed down at it for several moments before slowly holding it out to the officer.
William shook his head firmly, "keep it, Dawkins."
"What?"
"I forgive you, lad."
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but William Flannigan turned and walked away.
"I don't want you're forgiveness!" Jack shouted, but to no avail as William did not even acknowledge being spoken to.
Jack Dawkins began to quiver violently and he slowly withdrew his trembling hands from the bars.
He sank to his knees and once again looked down at the wallet. Gritting his teeth, he threw it onto the floor. "Damn you, curse." He whispered to its lifeless form.
The Artful's pride had been shattered; swept from him and replaced by all his buried emotions, which he was too terrified to name.
The hidden persona, whom had been shrouded for many years, was beginning to show its pitiful face.
Jack would've preferred death over this any day.
His mind was begging for its relief.
William Flannigan had done him no favor; He hadn't shown him any mercy.
What he had done was give him the worst thing anyone ever could; morality, weakness, vulnerability.
"Why?" whispered Jack with rage. Damn that man and his so-called lost concept of justice.
He exhaled slowly and began gradually bury the emotions once more, and imprison the long-forgotten silhouette of himself.
His breathing became slower, and his troubled heart began to slow its pace.
Faces he had not seen for many years rose anew within his mind. Their desperate voices were begging him to release a former heart, a former soul.
He felt nothing for them; they had faded from his heart long ago.
Four figures murdered many years before in front of his younger eyes.
He had cried for them, at the time, but all his tears were now forever spent. He had none left to give; had no sorrow left to feel.
'Go away,' he told them, 'and leave my mind forever.'
They disappeared slowly, and sleep began to overtake young Dawkins, as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.
His body was exhausted due to his inner struggle, and it only took mere moments before he fell into a restful slumber.
However, anguish took his visage as his dreams tortured him all the more…
A soft glow, merry laughter, bright fields and smiles as brilliant as the sun flitted across his mind. A shining brilliance that was both innocent and untainted.
In the distance, however, were storm clouds. Their sinister and ominous chill awaiting the moment in which to destroy the unsuspecting light.
It foreshadowed with an eerie whisper of a consuming darkness from which there would be no reprieve.
Jack tossed and turned as the storm inside his images neared, and sweat broke across his face and chest as thunder could be heard within his mind.
The rain fell upon the scene of his dream, and sadness rang through the pouring tears of the light that was lost.
The scene changed as he now saw himself, a young boy, on his knees in the midst of the thunderstorm.
Torment filled his body as the dark smothered and took him viciously.
The memory of their lifeless eyes and the rage he felt towards their reaper, filled his heart, and the eyes of his once innocent self, widened in fear and absolute pain.
The tears that had then fallen from his young heart were as the rain falling from the sky.
His life had been stolen and replaced with that of a hardened thief, whom had forgotten what it was to feel.
