Hi, I know I still haven't finished "What type of Chevaliers would you like to have?", but lately I'm not in the mood for humor, and I feel a little glumly. So, this is my first attempt in Angst, feel free to review.
Important Note: Before reading the fic, I would really appreciate that you read these notes carefully, for my writing type would be a little different in compare to the others that you used to.
If you are my readers, you would probably know about this writing through "Philtre", "Snow White", and "Darn!" ("What type of Chevaliers would you like to have?" is specific, 'cause it's written in the form of an "query magazine"), but I didn't talk about this strange writing and that makes you a little bit annoying. I'm sorry for that!.
First, I use simple present, for I think it will make the story more lively.
Second, I use -aaa- for a character's lines in replace for "aaa" as you all used to. It may confuses you, but it is my way of country and I'm not going to change that. So the "aaa" would be used for sound or thoughts.
Well, let's make it short:
- Aaa. - Character's lines.
"Aaa". - Sound or thoughts.
(Aaa) - Author's words.
Ok, enough chit chat. Shall we?.
Oh, almost forgot!. I do not speak French!. I used Google for it. So if there are any mistakes, please inform me and I'll try to fix it!. Thanks!.
Author: AMGerm Rocks. (Me!).
Character(s): Haji and others.
Summary: The poor boy didn't know that was where it shall happen.
An event that shall lead into more lies. More lies that shall cause pain, which no pharmacist could cure without the sincerity and warmth of one's soul. Lies that shall change his fate forever…
Chap I: Lie.
Dim moonlight reflects weakly on the small blur moving fast in the dark, it's fading light spreading on the pebbles of cracking cobblestone continuously obstructed by ragged cloth shoes. Opaque light and dark shadow seem to blend in with the chattering of the unsteady stones and heavy breaths of those tired feet.
The slipping sound echoes in the dirty alley when the weary boy made a twist hasty turn. A bit stumble, but for his early life he forces the burning legs get back on their rumble beat. Run, run and run. His shadow for a split moment printed on the moss corner, shaky and panic. When it was gone, minutes later two more slovenly blobs appears. One tall, thin, seems top half naked with flying long black shadow flutters in the wind; while the other is more petite with lose baggy cloth, walking out of breath.
"Vermuten… *gasp*… Ne… ne laissez pas le mioche fuir!".
A femininity voice yells out, and the skim boy can hear it fairly well as if the high pitch voice is bellowing right beside his ears. And from some French vocabularies that he has learned on the way to this country, she is demanding: "Do not let the brat escape!". He cringes, on the while straining his very senses, and deep inside his heart he prays to every Gods that the man named Vermuten would somehow take merci on him even though his mind is telling that is very fantastic thought from the beginning.
For all he heard, for all he saw, for all he witnessed, the young boy knows his life is on the thin fragile string that would break in any now second. And… God… if there was one out there, would his mind had to lost its innocent of a young child who just barely reaches twelve, having the look of despair thorough eye of a mature... If God… was real, would he survived until now to even call out His name in utter madness….
The poor soul listens to the more heavy feet rapidly stepping turns into wild running along with a panting "Qui". He swallows, wide dark eyes with unshed tears immediately darting left and right , looking for a place to hide while listening to the only left sound of the man behind, and at the same time tries to push his body over it's limit. Strangely, at the moment of life and death, with tension frantic soul, his mind seems to separate itself and drips back to the reason of this hunting.
The sky was getting darker for the burning sun painful slowly hid itself behind the horizon, letting the last remain of it's light crept though some wooden barrels in many shapes, yet in the same condition: Tattered. Along with the dying of the hot global, so as all the noises of a dirty market mayhem. No one seemed to notice in the small street behind all the woodens, there was a young boy who was currently using his own saliva as an antiseptic, licking his own wounds. Unhygienic and animalistic, he knew. But as a child who clad in tinker garment, and had the shadow behind the rotted boxes as a secure base, saliva was all he had.
The boy looked at the back of his hand where there was a small cut on it, now cleaned he could see that it wasn't really deep, and not quite bad with green cruises starting to form around it. The pale boy raised his other hand to touch his left cheek, felt the cut and swollen under his eye.
It was hurt of course, even though there was no sign to show it on his young but stoic face, with flesh and blood he knew pain. Yet as a slum dog, all the wounds beside the ones on his hand and cheek plus several minor ones on his knees, his forearms, his chest…, in the boy's mind he called these: Nothing. He had suffered more of these from all the children that hate him for one reason only: Gypsy. And after a conflict with them this afternoon, the boy realized there is the other kind of pain as well….
His slender brows seemed to crease in a slightest way when he thought about what his mother would say. Would she be upset for seeing all the wounds on his thin frame?. Or would she mad for finding out that her collected child had engaged himself in a fight?.
How abnormal… for him to angry, and punching some one was not even inside his thought of action…
He was enjoying peace, sitting behind the barrels, arms folding around his legs. His forehead rested upon his fore arms.
The "whispering" ringing in his head.
"Why are they dancing on the street, mother?. Are they come from a circus?."
"No, they're homeless!. Ignore them!."
"Homeless… But why…"
"Hush!. And please keep going!. Or else they'll won't let us go until robbing every Frances out of our souls".
He remembered the mother's face when she said that. As if she talking about some villains, then there were the others….
"Gypsy… What are they doing here?."
"Don't look at them. You'll get some voodoo".
"Ha haaa hhaa…. Look at those monkeys! Kheh kheh… Wooh aah".
The man waving his arms around, jumping, scratching his body while attempting the sound of a stupid monkey. He wondered at that moment who was the primate one?.
"Homeless, robber, witch, monkey…".
He heard those every day, after all that what a Gypsy do isn't it?. Perform on the street in the middle of a day for living, let's the rest of the world laugh at in exchange of some coins for a mold bread.
So what was he doing here?.
He didn't know. To hide from the cruel world, maybe?. For what?. It was not like after seeing some wimpy gestures, the world would love him more, and offer him some kind of love. Even though, it did, the boy knew it would be fake, and some kind of sick love. More like for the benefit of itself. If not for the tangibles, then it would for the intangibles. Reputation, honor, dignity,… All for the same purpose: To have respect for it's hypocrisy acting.
After all, there is nothing free.
Yet, he was hiding.
"Hiding is the sign of weakness". The comment came from the crack chapped lips, with it's forever strict voice made him cringed. Yet the calloused hand on his head was strangely soothing. The boy stopped crying, puffed his chest in an attempt of promise.
The man taught him to be tough. He wants him to be able to survive in this world, where the rich makes the horse out of the poor. He told him rumors are for losers. For the people that have nothing to do than looking around, digging and saying stupids just for those words that they lied, in the end, be the result of their hurt. And a person puts his ears to listen, puts his heart for them to pierce, puts his mind to believe the deceive, is just a puppet in control by the chains of words.
He had failed. And now he sat with head hang down, in shame for his failure.
His sullen wasn't last long before the cause of the wounds in his frame decide to visit.
He clenched his fists, feeling the anger still remain. He suddenly understand why he had failed the man in the first place, also the reason for his hand to make cracking contact on those boy's bones.
There were three of them, two probably were reaching their teenagers, and one was possibly fifteen. They were saying, "whispering" about some things, and by some things the Gypsy boy knew they were talking about him. Insulting him. As always the dark hair didn't listen, he continued to sit and try to enjoyed the peace that he had found on this barrel, looking strangely on the small piece of brown on his hand.
"Chocolate…". - A pink blush adored on his cheeks.
That what that girl called it when she bashfully gave it to him after taking away his first kiss. He still didn't know why she took it away though. He didn't do anything to pull her attention, didn't he?.
The boy noticed his face was getting warm, and didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of these retarded children, he quickly shook it off, and focused on the object resting in his palm.
By the name of it, the long hair boy knew he has heard of it and saw it when his family making a small show in front of those "big" people, yet never could take a smell not to mention actually taste it. It, along with wine, silk and fine butter crunchy bread belonged to another world. A world that he could never take an air. This chocolate was obviously good, and the boy decided not to open it, he would share it with his mother and father. Even though the answer they would give already formed inside his head.
"Oh… That so sweet of you, Haji. But mother doesn't like sweet, sweetie!". His mother would say that, and smiled her true genuine smile while Haji would blink, counting every time she said the word "sweet" without realized it.
"No, I don't need it…", that was what his father would say. A middle age man with tan skin and broad shoulders, and a beard that give you an impression of a strict father. And a strict man, he is. He would say words to make a child's heart sink, yet at the same time held it with a loving care, making good balance.
"But thank you, my son!", then he would gave his child a small ruffling on the head and a dried smile that rarely cracked his face. Some times when he was younger, the boy would thought his blank emotion is inherited from this very man. A few years ago, he had knew that he isn't….
His eyes widened, and Haji snapped his head to look at the oldest boy when he heard the word "salope" escape form the rich boy's mouth.
"… Sa mère est une salope".
(… His mother is a slut).
The dull usually on his face changed when he realized what they were talking about: His mother. A slut.
- Vraiment?. (Really?) - The boy with his bangs on a straight row asked, causing the two others snorted.
The remain boy said:
- C'est évident. Regardez le mioche!. Il a la peau pâle tandis que ses parents ne le font pas. Ils sont tsigane. Alors sa mère doit être une salope!. Elle a couché avec un homme riche blanc, et il ya cette poubelle!.
(It's obvious. Look at the brat!. He has pale skin while his parents don't. They're Gypsy. So his mother must be a slut!. She slept with some rich white man, and there is this trash!.)
Out of nowhere, his heart was stabbed.
"Look at that woman!. How dare she show up her navel like that?. Doesn't she have any dignities at all?."
"I heard that he had divorced with his wife because of her!".
"A bitch!. A whore!. Look at the boy!. He has white skin while both his parents don't!.
He knew that.
"She must sleep with some white man and the consequence is the brat!".
"Mother, why do I have white skin?". - A little boy asked, and his mother said he was an angel in their lives. The boy squealed happily.
"Mother, my eyes are blue". - The boy stated, and his mother said his eyes were the sky itself. So clear and beautiful. Strong dark pupil within gray storm, set of turquoise in the hot sun ray, and clear deep blue ocean with the wind caress the calm surface. The boy smiled.
The remain boy made a gesture at Haji with a disgusting expression, then continued in his harsh words:
- Son père doit être un homme muet vieux pour ne pas se rendre compte que!.
(His father must be a dumb old man for not realzing that!).
He called the poor boy's father "a dumb old man", stressed and lingered at the word "old", making all tree of them broke out in laughter. The faking laughs of those elegant hypocrisy riches. The ridiculous "Hah hah hah", like laughing while choking on your own tongue, that Haji knew all so well suddenly crushing him.
"The man still accept him?. I mean doesn't he know the boy isn't his?".
"The witch must cast a spell on him".
"Or he is a stupid old man!".
"Father…" - The boy said. His dark pupils looked into the man's own, which were dark hazel. So are the rest of him, of his mother. Dark skin, dark eyes, and positive, dark lives.
"… Am I not your child?" - The question died in his throat. A lump in his voice. "Can you teach me to play a flute?". That, he said instead, and the man gave a small smile.
"Stupid old man…"
They echoed in his ears, munching his veins, quickly taking away all his version, and before he knew it… he growled.
- Arrêtez-vous! (Stop it!)
A whisper, barely to be heard, but even now Haji could still recall all the venom in his voice. The others boys must be heard though for they stopped immediately. A slight feature of fear on their faces.
A fragment of silence with their terror looks now on him, then on with the typical arrogant.
- Qu'est-ce?. Ainsi, vous pouvez parler français. J'imagine que vous n'êtes pas muet comme nous le pensions!. Non hérité de votre père, hein?.
(What?. So you can speak French. Guess you're not dumb as we thought!. Not inherited from your father, huh?.)
The oldest said then put his hand on his mouth pretend as if he had slipped his words:
- Oh… - He glanced at his friend with a wickedness, and the smarter of the youngers spitted out:
- Attendez, il n'est pas!. (Wait, he is not!).
He knew that!.
Haji remembered that was what he had thought, or had said. He didn't know, but that wasn't the point. The point was he heard a big "Crack", and what he had felt before that horrble sound.
The usually cool boy had felt his body burn with every word they said. They had boiled his blood, and as nature when you boil a liquid, it steams and turns into another form. In this case, it had turned into a punch.
A punch that he guessed had cause the fifteen missing his front tooth, for he barely recall seeing anything else beside the suffocating feeling inside his chest that very need to be exploded.
Once again looking at the wound on his hand, and thinking about the others on his body, Haji still couldn't find out where had he - himself, a skinny boy, got the strength and stamina to beat those boys.
Sure, they had hit him back. But he remembered that through his shaking shoulders and legs, with the heavy rise of his chest, he had stared at the richest in three with daze, yet still so much hatred when they scrambled to their feet and ran away from him. At that time with his foggy mind, the tired boy could hear the thearts from the oldest, for he practically had shouted in between hiccups:
"Vous osez me voler mon Antelena!. Et puis vous frapper le fils de ton bienfaiteur!. Attends un peu, tu pue poubelle ingrat!".
(You dare stealing my Antelena!. And then you hit your benefactor's son!. Just you wait, you stinky ungrateful trash!).
He wondered if that was true. If he was indeed ingret. After all, they were sons of the Earls in this Paris, and the oldest was the only child of Charles Earl the powerful man in this Paris. And in the languages of the rich, they would say some like this. "The Gypsies had performed at my home this morning, not to mention that,…". Humm, what did the boys had call him?. Ah, "…these weak "living things" were now staying at my place so they should be grateful.
Yes, they had indeed give his family a "place" to stay. A discarded old horse farm with the smelling bugs and rats roaming around as if the human didn't scare them for a bit. Still, it still offer a roof. And in this weather of the old Paris, summer, when the rain may fall heavily at times, soaking passengers into their sickness, then his family maybe indebt. Whether it was true or not.
Now, there would be a big problem. He had hit his "benefactor's son", and the son had make a word of payment. His family would be in great trouble. They could be in jail for what he did, for who knew what kind of lie and story about his ungrateful attitude the fifteen could create. Especially with that big mouth of his. Yet one thing for sure, in that mouth, or in any rich mouth, the one at fault would always be him.
"Antelena?...". He abruptly thought. It's a girl name. So all of this. The fight, the hurtful words, the wounds, the beating his family shall get,… was all the cause of a girl?!.
No… it was not. Even though, he was mad, he would not blame some one for what they did not do. For he knew the real reason is the jealousy itself.
He could tell the richest boy was jealous. At the Chaler's 50th birthday party, he had seen the boy on his one knee with a rose in his hand, asking for the hand of a girl, who he assumed must be Antelena. Yet despite being in front of every one, she had turned her face away with a unlady snort: "Non!".
How could the boy blame him for what he did do was on beyond him. Did he see that the girl, Antelena had kissed him?. But how?. After that perfomance he had leaved the house, had been wandering around the street, and in one of the corners in Paris that she had gave him the chocolate and the kiss. So how could the boy knew, and how could he found him in this rotten place?. Had he stalked him?. Then, yes indeed. The reason was jealousy.
He thought it was kind of funny though. For a boy like that to be jealous of him. What of him that could positive cause that jealous?. He did not have Antelena, and didn't people get jealous for what they didn't have.
People got jealous, yet couldn't do anything about it, so they chose to blame the one that have. It become a sting of envy, then anger, and eventfully they pour hatred on the head of every one. He knew, for he once had hate every things. He hated that they treat him as thorn inside their eyelids, as dirt under their feet, as every things that did not deserve to be treat as human being.
He still hated them, every single one of them. Yet, he could tolerate them.
"Forgiveness shall free your spirit".
His mother words, with her kind smile and the sparkles in her watery eyes had impaled itself in his mind.
Forgiveness?. Could he forgive that lie?.
The lie that has been given to him for almost twelve years.
That was right. The moment his eyes truly look at the paleness of his skin, he realized that why he had hit those boys. What he felt was not only anger, but also the pain.
The pain for the true he knew behind those words. The pain that he had been so afraid to face, or to accept it. But as the last light vanish, and he himself was engulfed by the dark, the pain started to expand itself.
The pain for what shall thunder upon them.
Because of him.
He decide to hide. Hide in hope that once they couldn't find him, they would leave them alone. So when the final light gave into darkness, and then the shadow start to grow to take over every directions, he still hiding. When the stars began to make their appearance, and the sounds of crickets went loud, he was sitting with his head upon his arms, so much like when he had been this twightlight, but this time he was hiding, and he did not deny it. He would stay in this dump, despite of the chilling night slowly sneaking through his thin cloth, or the mosquitoes that feasting upon his swollen flesh. This time he hid for them, and he was putting all of his will into it...
The poor boy didn't know that was where it shall happen.
An event that shall lead into more lies. More lies that shall cause pain, which no pharmacist could cure without the sincerity and warmth of one's soul. Lies that shall change his fate forever. Lies that shall make him put his ears to listen, put his heart for them to pierce, put his mind to believe the deceive…
Lies that shall make him a puppet in control by the chains of words.
A/N: Any mistakes?. Who am I kidding!. Of course, there are tons of mistakes. But please, be kind and forgive or inform me!.
Oh, by the way, please do not expect soon update, for I currently have to study and work.
About "What types of Chevaliers would you like to have?", no!. I haven't abandon it!. I already have the next chapter (which also the last one) ready in my head!.