8th of December - 1888

  There is little of my early life that I remember, which I was not unhappy nor mistreated. Those moments when I was given the same kindness that a child should be entitled to, I treasure them as much as a prospector’s gold dust. As I now pass through the streets of my city, I see the helpless urchins, struggling for scraps of food that the cooks of taverns and eateries do not see fit for feeding their pets. I see the infested dens where the lost and broken souls of addicts, whores, and wastrels who lose their minds and souls to the drugs that are sold there. I see the monsters in human skin, secretly plotting to hurt and exploit any degenerate they find. Seeing such things… it forces me to remember the days I had to fight and survive.

  That one day that I saw my dead parents flung onto a pauper’s pyre when a pox came and killed them and many others.

  That one day when my older brother hanged himself out of grief.

  That one day when my sister was raped and beaten by a group of drunks, and then left to die. Which she did the following morning.

  That one day when bailiffs came for my family’s home and threw me out into the street.

  That one day where I nearly lost my thumb to a rat that saw an opportunity for food whilst I slept in an alley.

  That one day where I ran afoul of a gathering once known as the Docking Fellows, before they became the gang they are now. I couldn’t sleep for three days as they hunted me relentlessly throughout the slums and districts for stealing money from one of their rackets.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Then I remembered when I first killed a man. A tall dockworker, but not part of the Docking Fellows, had come across me when I was trying to make a living selling freshly caught fish— which I had filched from a boatman’s catch.

  He bought my fish and then looked at me with narrow, searching eyes. He then asked how much I was worth. I knew what he wanted, so I declined him.

  He did not take my refusal well.

  That same day, he followed me through an alley and attacked me.

  He tore at my trousers, grabbing at my parts with hard, calloused hands. I could smell his whiskey-tinged breath. A pity that he didn’t see the shucker’s blade I had up my sleeve as he tried to force me onto my knees. I made sure he could not use his parts on anyone ever again.

  Yes, that scream was a sweet lullaby for me that night.

  I do not have much in my life that I consider good. But Sandra. She is one of the good ones and the reason that I do not consider ending the life I have been given by the Hands of Fate.

  She found me when I was at my worst. At the point where I saw no hope. Where I had thought the only choice I had before me was the deep, dark blue waters of the ocean.

  There I stood, feet perched on the edge of the dock and a salt lick block in my hands and tied to my wrists. All I had to do was take a single step over the edge. One movement and the pain and misery could end.

  “Don’t.”

  That was all she said to me. That was all she needed to say to make me turn around and face her. She had her hand out to me. And she had tears in her eyes. She was so young. So innocent. So kind.

  So beautiful.

  “Don’t.” She said again.

  I stepped away, into her arms, and my life became hers as hers became mine.

  I now made a promise that day, to the Hands of Fate. That any and all that I did from that night onwards would be for the betterment of her. She would want for nothing, and if I had to cause someone else pain so that she could be safe and happy, then so be it.

  ~ A page from a Bodyhunter’s Diary ~