DATEÂ First year after Jamesâ arrival
LOCATION The streets of Ashbourne
WORDCOUNTÂ 1002
TRIGGERSÂ Suicide, violence
SUMMARYÂ James reminisces the reasons behind his becoming chief of The Watch
The man is a fortress to himself. Thoughts, feelings, opinions and decisions, close only to their bearer. The hardest thing, James knows, is to learn from somebody elseâs mistakes, for that very reason, theyâre felt only by the one who owns them.
His library is a sanctuary, a silent place where the amount of books muffles all sounds from the outside world. Heavy curtains, wallpaper of damask, all furniture victorian, heavy and polished to a shine. James has made sure thereâs always candles, a full inkwell and a quill. This sentimental array helps him keep in touch with those who have gathered all the knowledge in this room, and with such a respect, he adds to it, himself.
Time passes for a man of the Watch, it brings inevitable change to thought, to modus operandi. Tonight is a night when his mind is drifting in the days after his arrival to Ashbourne, back when he wasnât yet carrying the burden of being townâs caretaker.
Sheâs mad, a raving lunatic, long brown tresses matted and knotted, hanging down to her waist. James has never seen her before, but then heâs new, and most he has encountered are humans who took care of his transitioning. Early morning cold. She stands at the side of the road, clawing at her face. Thereâs blood, tears, and the townspeople gather in small clusters, whispering. Wondering, glancing around to see whatâs to be done.
The girl speaks in a language James doesnât understand, she goes from slobbery weeping to running up and down, veins bulging in a fury. The first human instinct kicks in when she brandishes a knife, and as if she felt his eyes on her, turns towards him. A random choice of a mad woman. She lunges towards James, clumsy. The blade of the knife she holds is too close to her palm, no guard to stop it from slipping. Even before she reaches him James knows it wonât take much to disarm her. Sheâs small and thin, her bare feet bleeding and something about her posture tells of excruciating pain. Slow enough for him to dash aside, seize a wrist so small that it feels like heâs holding a dying bird.
She falls to the ground, jerked off her feet, and James gets a glimpse of her mouth full of gravel, blood and spit. Another human instinct kicks in, that revolting joy of being the stronger one. Though the girl isnât much of a threat, a sickly delight fills James as he straddles her back and twists her arms behind her. Heâs breathless, but not because of exertion. Wide-eyed, nostrils flaring. His blue eyes demand attention when he hauls her up to her feet, a self-satisfied smile for everyone to see.
He knows where heâs taking her, he makes a small show of half-dragging her down the dusty street. A man in red stares his disapproval, but whatâs a wolf with blood on his hands to James. How does a hypocrite fall into this equation.
James holds the girl by the shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist, his other twisting her arm. His gaze, furious, proud and commanding scares away a girl of the seas, holding up a wet cloth meant to clean the girlâs face with. Shouldnât you be grateful, his sneer says. Heâs new and a fool, knowing little of this town.
More contempt at a woman that smiles from the sidewalk. âGet me her hair when youâre done with her, sweetheart. And if she dies, youâll find hearts can make you a nice sum.â Her laughter makes James sick, it echoes after him even when the doors of the Station are closed behind them.
James wakes into another cold morning, wakes slowly to the memory of yesterday. Thereâs no escape from this town, though recently arrived, itâs clear to him, and the usual bitter coffee tastes better with yesterdayâs victory. He gets dressed with purpose, the feeling is new to one who imagined heâd never come to terms with his sudden coming to Ashbourne. A purpose, a good image of self, a reason to get up in the morning.
The Stationâs guard is a large man, the kind that makes one wonder how did he get his feet on the table, being the owner of a belly like that. Slow and ungainly, stupid eyes peering at James when he walks in. He asks about the girl, and the guard shrugs. âSheâs done away with âherself last night. Tore up âer dress and made âherself a rope, that one.â Rotten teeth grin at James, but the nausea he feels is guilt, not the sight. Dazed he turns to the cells, but thereâs nothing particular to be seen. âBest that way if you ask me.â The guard chews on something, awakens an urge to squish him like a bug, in James. âCould âave been turninâ , that one. Sheâs âere if you wanna see.â A lazy push on a door, and there she is, lying on a slab. Someone has combed her hair, as unseemly as it might appear. Someone has washed her face, changed her clothes, and James stands there, petrified. His eyes fall to her wrist, the one his fingers dug into the day before. It bears five marks, bruises where heâs gripped too tight.
The guard behind him melts into nothing, thereâs just James and the girl in his haze of mind. He reaches forward, hesitant, shivery, as if itâs blasphemy to touch the one whoâs death youâre responsible for.
A dog shifts at Jamesâ feet, shakes him from his memories. James reaches down, finds comfort in the warm fur, his pen clattering to the table. Thereâs been enough of that, he thinks, glancing at his Watch badge that glimmers at the tableâs edge.
Nobody is only a wrongdoer. Nobody is only a victim. This knowledge is whatâs pushed him to the position he holds today. Nobody chooses who they are, where they come from, and everybody deserves to be heard.
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