Chapter 196 - Not All Fairy Tales Start Pleasantly (2/2)

A sealed section of the church existed where old records were kept. An archive of religious texts, old books, and a vast collection of dust mites.

”The old archives were my personal sanctuary. Even now, I'm eternally grateful that one of the window locks was broken. That rusty lock had fallen off the window ages ago, but no one ever noticed, or rather, cared enough to replace it,” said Reed.

A blessing in disguise.

Henceforth, his days would be spent in solitude. It was also where the misguided belief that it was better to be alone had arisen. No one could blame him though, for in his case, spending his days among old books and scrolls was vastly better than getting bullied by his peers.

”They called me a variety of colorful names from then on, but the most common were 'rat' and 'ghost'. You know, for my diminished stature and habit of disappearing on them.”

As a result, he picked up a skill and hobby that none of his peers cared for at their age — reading.

If not to pass away the lonesome hours in the dusty old archive, then to run away from reality and find comfort in fantasy.

”And that was how I spent the majority of my days. I read books until the sun went down, only stopping when I had chores to complete,” said Reed, reminiscing on the better parts of his childhood.

”Hell, I used to spend what little money I would find on the streets to buy cheap wax candles or more expensive whale oil — just so I could read past sundown...”

His early life was rather tragic for a child, even if Reed reassured Isca that it was not so bad after he discovered his passion for literature.

Bleaker still, were his older days as an apprentice scribe for an up-and-coming secretary official. Compared to the childish squabbles of his early years, the latter half of his days as a young man were another type of depressing.

”As a scribe, I learned two things from my former mentor — how to write elegantly and how men could be bent into submission with only a few words...”

Reed's master was a man who had been given a unique station, one not so dissimilar from that of an inquirer for the state. His job was simple enough; he would ask questions for a living.

The Inquirer.

Despite her insistence, Reed never divulged his name. Why? She did not know.

The Inquirer asked very strange questions. Reed soon learned that, as his job was to make copies of every letter that came in and out of his office. As the keeper of the records, it was his task that every correspondence was copied and indexed for archival.

”I was a little too young to understand what I was reading at first but as I got older, it all started to make sense to me. Both the job I had been given and the man who was my mentor.”

He was a shadow on the wall, peering into the lives of people who mattered in the city. State officials, heads of large businesses, prestigious academics, and anyone else who had even the slightest bit of influence.

The letters that came into the office Reed worked at were stolen secrets, as Reed had described them. Compromising letters that could ruin a person's life should they ever fall into the wrong hands... which is why they were kept safe with the Inquirer.

”That was my job until I ended up here,” said Reed with a look of disgust. ”My nine-to-five was storing secrets for the state to use against its people should they ever step out of line.”

Reed heartily laughed and said, ”Not once had I spoken out against my mentor for fear of the horrors that would await me if I did. Not that it mattered since Karma ended up taking me out in the end. At least, that's what I think happened to me...”

How he had unfortunately stumbled into a skirmish between two gangs the night of his death. He was no fool; he was distinctly aware of the unspoken lines in the city as someone who was in the know when it came to the crimes that happened in the city.

The route he had always taken home was safe because it was a part of the State's territory, as it was guarded heavily by the police.

And yet on the night of his sixteenth birthday, he'd been caught in the middle of a shoot-out on turf that was supposed to be off-limits to those two gangs...

A foul fate for a despicable pissant who had been unable to even struggle a little bit against the ruinous ending that came to him.

That was the first part of life, as a sinner charged with death for his indifferent complicity.

By his own mentor.

”I was discarded,” said Reed. ”For being a coward. I think — no, I know that my mentor was the one who called that hit on me. He saw the weakness in my eyes, my hesitation to seriously partake in his profession. And so, his failure of a protege died in an unfortunate accident, bless his soul.”

Suffice to say, it was probably one of the bleakest stories Isca had ever heard. One of a boy trapped in a prison of despair, railroaded by Fate into a life that she could only describe as a cruel joke by god.

Worse still, she would have to pen it down and make it presentable; palatable enough for general consumption without making light of the truth. A difficult job, to be certain.

A test? By him? Or by Fate? She couldn't tell.

That was probably for the best... all things considered.

It was the one secret she preferred not to know.