‘Life is full of beauty. Notice it. Smell the rain, and feel the wind. Live your life to the fullest potential, and fight for your dreams’

- Ashley Smith

 

Chapter 1:

 

I’ve given up trying to find any words. At best, I’ve come to the expression to be described as Indescribable. It’s the most accurate definition of those certain feelings I wish to relinquish. If I could only understand how to define and separate my own feelings, I’d happily explain what I felt of the events which took place that day…

I know, that probably sounded confusing - and to an extent insane. However it’s precisely that tone, the complicated structure and contradictions in my mind, which have been continuing to circle me for my entire life. All of the self-doubt and arguing because of one event in my life. Although that one event started my dream. Throughout life all I can cling onto has been lost, but this idea, my ambition, my dream. It’s what kept me alive, that one powerful and mysterious feeling of hope. So let me tell you, I couldn’t care less who you are, or where you’re from. Remember this throughout whatever happens. I’ll never stop fighting for my dream!

~

“Well then, attack me like you mean it!”

A short sigh slipped his mouth, with an essence of frustration. The man slowly interrupted his closed relaxed eyes. Upon opening, green pupils set their sights upon the small child in front of him. I remember the look upon my father’s face. I was staring at the tall, broad man who looked eagerly for progress and improvement. At least, I always thought that’s what was drawn on his powerful face.

My father took his right hand from his pocket, hidden under the long brown gown lightly covering his body from chest downwards. Robes such as this were common for training in, so until the day when I would grow it’d be training in everyday clothes for me. Neatly, he tied his long and worn brown hair behind his stern back, into a neat tail. Quickly though, without any warning, he spun, kicking his shoes off each foot and ending in a warrior position, with his left arm out front, and the right behind his back: with his palm pointing towards me.

At this point, any young boy at aged eight would be hopeless. Staring upon a man who was ready for anything, a man who was rumoured to have survived an ambush by twenty men during the Civil War. Our land is thought to be peaceful, however it was once ravaged by a terrible war, and since then we’ve been ruled by a monarchy. Although that was in my father’s generation. Back to the story though, as rumour goes he was ambushed by twenty trained guards from one of the armies, and took them all out on his own. If I can imagine such a look on a man’s face, I can only picture the blank stare, which pierced directly through me every time he would train me. Maybe training a child with martial arts and being treated in ways a solider would be trained: It must have been for some reason I think.

I blinked and my father’s leg swung low at my rigid feet. I let out a gasp which struggled to come out my throat louder than a croak. Time after time I’d be pulverised and bruised from training with him. It’s not that I was bad. I was good, I’ve always been good. However one mistake and it doesn’t matter how good you are. One hit, and all the experience in the world cannot change the outcome. One wrong movement is all it takes…

Being ‘small and annoyingly agile’, as my father would put it, the size I was allowed me to jump above the foot, spinning onto my front and thrusting my right foot across the steel stomach, which made contact. I was shocked so I simply stopped, breaking the golden rule of fighting. I panicked and froze mid-air, which felt like ages, when in reality it lasted about half a second. Half-a-second before the man grabbed my throat and slammed me to the ground, before my body hit the ground, he let go: relieving most of the pressure. It was in that indescribable moment, which I knew my life would have been over, in fact I bet my father tried harder not to kill me in the strike.

“Rkyer! Come on!” Father gritted his teeth, so I could tell he supressed great anger, but probably more disappointment though. As I started to slowly lift myself back up, Father stood staring into the distance. I got up, shaking. Again being trained before, this wasn’t too much for me. Although not having much to do in my life leads me to physical labour or sit around and do nothing. I flopped back onto the wooden floor. Staring at the wood ceiling. Looking round, and seeing the wooden walls. Damn there was a lot of wood. Again though we weren’t rich enough for anything but the one room of basic wood for a house. Maybe it was the lack of material hold which follows onto my dream:

It’s where my dream comes from I think. We’d work hard enough, all three of us, to purchase a big piece of land. We’d have a house, and a lake, and a farm for some animals and it’d be great. I’d love to be able to live in an area where peace was the atmosphere. Not surrounded by lonely trees which are dying, in such a secluded area of the world, a forest. I’d be able to write under a forest-green tree, peacefully gazing upon a lake perhaps. Imaging having a house with more than one room, maybe not simply built out of wood.

Also I’d think about how to look after the land we’d live in. Sure It’d be hard, but I cling onto the idea of having our own grounds and area without anyone or anything getting in the way again. Before I kept fantasising, I faded back to reality. A pane of light quickly bought me fully back to life, the one gap in the southern logged wall bought the sunset into the stuffy and sweat filled log room. We’d have to open the door to get rid of the smell of sweat again, woo.

Pushing the floor, I eventually beat the shaking in my knees and make my up back on to both feet. Father simply looked at the shaken up boy trying to find his feet, something didn’t seem right though. Suddenly his attention changed, his face turned to a puzzled stare, into what seemed nowhere. As if a thought had hit him, Father started walking towards the door. Taking paces which seemed to leave cold and cautious prints on the wood. It’s from here I feel hazy, and my memories start to become brief undetailed scenes of confusion and fear. My father stopped stone cold, as he rested his worn palm onto the wood sticking out of the outline of a door. Clenching the wood, he turned his head enough so I could only make out half of his face:

“Wait here Ryker, don’t follow me okay?” At the very tone of his voice, I shuddered.

“Ryker?” This time he was louder and fiercer with a growl lingering in his gruff voice. I stuttered to reply, dumbfound and startled for words:

“Yes pa, I’ll wai-“

“And be quiet. Really quiet,” Father interrupted. It wasn’t Father speaking though, or at least his tone felt different. It was the tone of a soldier commanding a civilian, or animal, to wait. Whatever had happened was wrong. So wrong.

Before I could even respond, I was left alone in the wooden box of a room. As I glanced around the wooden square, I sat, crossing my legs. As I leant back, my back gently touched the elm which was of no support to me. It was slightly warm, but hard. I swept my hand through my hair, managing to sweep two strands of chestnut hairs onto my palm. I stared into the two locks resting softly in the centre of my palm, as I relaxed my gaze started to fade, everything started to become blurred. It was easier with the voices of the soft robins tweeting, as they always did at sunset. My eyes were close to closing as I felt at ease...

But it was that gunshot quickly bought me back to reality.