Chapter 32: Remember to Smile (1/2)

Brenden rushed around the corner, still struggling to pull his gauntlet on, and narrowly avoided running headfirst into a fruit stand. The elderly owner had just gotten up to shake an angry fist at him, when he was rounding the next bend, only to bump directly into a heavyset man in merchant's garb.

”Sorry, sorry. I'm in a bit of hurry.” The youth exclaimed, already trying to find a way around the man's large frame.

The merchant made sure to confirm the contents of his purse, before snorting. ”Hmph, street rats. The world would be better off without you.”

[Remember to smile.]

”Sorry. Won't let it happen again.” He replied, smiling.

”You better not.” The corpulent man said, before leisurely swaggering down the street.

Brenden burst back into a run as soon as the way was clear. He was still late and if he wanted to catch the beginner's course at the guild he needed to run quickly.

He had overslept again. It was a bad habit of his, that had earned him many beatings from his violent father. Then again, there wasn't much that Brenden could do that didn't infuriate his old man.

”Don't you look at me like that, boy.” His father was apt to say right before he started beating Brenden. ”You wipe that look off your face, right now.” He would growl with bright, staring eyes.

It was not until much later that Brenden recognized the expression as fear.

His mother had died shortly after Brenden was born, her first and only child. His father apparently blamed him for the death. The man seemed constantly torn by abiding hatred, or even worse disgust, for his own offspring.

The result of all this, was a lonely and unhappy childhood for the young Brenden, who was allowed the basic necessities of food, clothing, and shelter, but little else. Once he was old enough, he was expected to earn his keep on the small family farm, a new form of misery for the child, as long hours of toil led to brutal beatings in the event of any small mistake.

This cycle of work and abuse continued for many years until Brenden had reached the age of eleven, when an event changed his life. He still remembered the day vividly. He was walking back from a particularly hard day in the field, hoe over one shoulder, when his father had burst out of the house with a long piece of wood. One he like to call his 'discipline stick.'

The old man was furious with Brenden. The child had forgotten to properly close the simple wooden fence that served as a gate for the cows, and they had gotten loose as a result. His father had spent most of the afternoon chasing the errant bovines and planning his revenge on his offspring.

Brenden looked at the undisguised rage and hate in his father's face, and thought. [Here it is, he's finally going to kill me.]

A small voice somewhere deep inside him whispered, ”You deserve it. You should have never been born. You are the reason your mother died.”

He felt a flash of rage that ignited suddenly, before becoming ice cold.

Before he knew what he was doing, the boy was striding forward to meet his progenitor, hoe raised like an executioner's axe. Brenden, now taken over by a strange, alien calm, took note of the sudden fear in his father's eyes.

The man stopped, and seemed to shrink back from his son, some instinct driven apology already on his lips, but by then the damage had long been done.

The child brought the hoe down once, twice, thrice.

The cold, unfeeling calm in Brenden's heart broke like a dam, and a surging tidal wave of rage consumed him. Every beating, every insult and word of scorn, and especially the looks, those eyes that showed disgust every time he met them. All of it came back to him in his fury, and by the time the shaft of the hoe had broken, he could no longer recognize the body of his father.

Brenden still isn't sure how long he spent on that dust little farm, staring at the corpse, but by the time he forced himself to stand and begin walking into town, night had fallen and the flies were becoming a nuisance.

The next few years passed in a blur, as the young beastman tried to eke out a life on the streets and in the fields. As a young farm boy with no experience in city living, his first few months were rough. For a while, tepid rainwater and refuse was his only sustenance.

In time he learned the unwritten rules of the streets. Trust no one but yourself. Run and hide from those who are stronger than you. Take from those who are weaker than you.

He earned a reputation for brutality and cruelty in the many minor conflicts which seemed to occur between the desperate and impoverished. The other children and even some adults would run at the sight of his cold, uncaring eyes. Eyes that would only grow colder when he needed to commit violence.

Sometimes, he would find himself wondering why life was like this. What had forced him down this path? And then the dark, angry voice from deep inside him spoke. ”Its you fault. You're cursed. You were never supposed to be born. Its why your mother died, why your father hated you, why you are suffering now. You are a killer,.....a murderer.”

That voice never left him alone for long.