He still refuses to come on here, but he has consented to allow me to put this piece on. Personally, I liked it - what do you think?

[Positive comments may entice him back on here, but bear in mind he is watching us....d'oh]

*With a flick of the Awod™, Demon's latest masterpiece appears*

The Thing to say
Prologue

To James, my Jon and to Janice, my Rose among the thorns

Another bright day, another smiling sun in the early time of summer, before the school year ends, before the partings of friends, never to be seen again.
At least that was what it felt like to most people, the lazily attitude of the summer sun beat down upon almost everyone in the sixth form campus, everyone felt the warmth seep into their bones, enticing them with promises of afternoons of relaxation, of laying in it’s bathing glow and of sun bathing in it’s golden embrace.
It reached almost everyone, save him, save the one. There were lots of rumours about him, the awkward kid, who had the serious expression, who rarely smiled and never laughed, who outside his small circle could never interact with others of his age nor of his kind, if you registered him to be human at all that is, some of the more inventive kids thought that that itself was not strictly true.
People his own age, for the most part avoided him, and the kids of the adjoining Summerbee secondary school made tales about him, of what he did when he was their age until he finished his time there, of how he never really seemed to have a life. Not that he worked a lot, simply that after school finished he seemed to disappear, to become a ghost among the school halls as he was in life, as he still was, if the rumours were to be believed. Not that he wasn’t smart, he could speed read, almost literally devour books, they bored him though, it seemed and his blank expression of distance seemed to return after only a moment of passing interest at a new book or new school project and it was said that in his early years, though many tired none truly became his friend because that expression was always between him and whoever approached him and everyone found this disconcerting, if not creepy.
Some people in his year, in their final year at the sixth form, who of anyone could be said to know him best, if pressed would say that it had in some large part to do with his eyes, the way that those blue grey eyes with just a hint of green had a way of sizing people up and knowing everything about them in a single glance. Then they would shudder at the thought and turn to lighter matters, he like a true ghost forgotten as quickly as he came.
The teachers that taught both the school and the sixth form, that though was not truly separate, as they even held classes in the school, though could, for all intents and purposes in anyone’s eyes other than the teachers themselves, be considered worlds apart. The attempts at brotherhood between the two strained and togetherness a school joke, they did not understand this boy as much as anyone else.
Those teachers that had watched him grow would shake their heads as he walked by, puzzled by such wasted talent. He had the highest I.Q. that any one knew of, 149 was no joke, and regardless that he passed his G.C.S.E’s in a blaze of glory, he never really attended a lesson for the full hour because in this as with everything else that people saw him do, he quickly grew bored and within minutes anyway the telltale expression of distance would settle in. No matter the poking, the prodding, the dire threats about his future, no matter what they tried that expression would not and never would be moved, In sixth form it was said, and muttered darkly by those same teachers that tried to motivate him, that he had simply stopped trying to even listen anymore. His grades fell and his silence increased, he would not even answer a simple question and these discussions always ended in the same way, a teacher, it didn’t really matter which one for they all said it time after time, would say in complete frustration that they would never understand that boy and did not know what to do. He was an enigma right enough.
His friends knew things about him, and for them only would his expression change, turning from the distance that they all knew, to one of guarded happiness, as if he only had one foot in the world that they were in and the other remained truly rooted, as always, in the world the he and he alone inhabited. They knew more about him than any alive, yet that was little enough and whatever they knew they would not share, for what they had gained was through his trust in them and they would never break the bond that they shared. For one they knew he, and therefore by extension themselves, would see it as betrayal and they also knew that it would sever the connection irrevocably that he had with them and they harboured a reluctant affection for the strange boy that they were unwilling to break.
To look at him in a glance, said the younger ones, would be not see him at all, he stood an average 5 feet 10 inches, his dark blonde hair was perpetually haphazard, he wore the same simply coloured clothes day in and day out, though he always wore the same dark coat, he seemed unremarkable, another misfit, together with the other misfits in school, except for two things.
First, his friends were not and never could be called misfits, they were the kind that could fit in almost anywhere, nice people who seemed to have a bright future intrinsically their own and if not liked were respected by most, no whispers followed them, no bullies tired to force their secrets and among them he stuck out, an oddity.
Second, he had something wrong with him, not mentally the kids said, though this they said with sceptical looks because they wouldn’t be surprised. No this boy had a physical defect, his right hand was wasted, the muscles wrong, the hand childlike in comparison to his other one, and this set him apart to them, this forever kept him away from who and what they were, spaz they called him and freak but none could look him in the eyes.
One thing they all agreed upon however, apart from his friends of course was that there was something not right about that boy, something strange. The thing to say about William Knell was that that boy was weird.

Will moved in his slow, almost stately pace towards the sixth form where he was finally finishing his studies. All around him he saw people suffering from the heat, sweating and keeping in the shadows but it did not bother him. He plunged into it, indifferent to the heat that permeated his dark jacket, his expression unchanged as he moved from darkness to light.
As he moved towards the door his expression changed only once, as he felt beneath his feet the beginnings of base music beneath his feet, and that was only a passing irritation and a moment of indecision that soon passed. He opened the door to the small, overcrowded sixth form and the familiar smell brought welcome memory to his mind but that was shattered almost instantly by the booming base that almost literally brought blood spilling from his ears and, though his face showed none of this he wished, almost prayed for something different. Dear God please give him some Rage Against The Machine, some Killswitch Engage or even some 3 Doors Down, anything to break the repetitive pain of the base box booming out.
Heads turned, glances flickered, like lanterns, to and just as quickly away from him as most quickly recognised and dismissed him. Moving quickly through the overcrowded room as if wading through water he found the corner in which part of his soul had seemed to take root, he found his friends, all of them. Daisy and Ron were outside, theirs was a tempestuous relationship, and Evan was dancing to a new song on his CD player, his strawberry blonde hair flying.
Jon was lounging on a seat, his fair, almost angelic head lost in the oblivion of a book, Liam, the redheaded pot smoking friend that he was, was in deep conversation with a girl from the year below and waved at him with his hand as the bemused girl (who he couldn’t quite place) became steadily more enraptured by his charming personality. Simon sat lost in his own musings and of what Will had no clue and did not have the energy to find out. Marcus sat in a corner with his girlfriend on his knee and he also was in deep conversation, though of the kind that couples have and Emma, his girlfriend seemed to more than a passing interest in his words. Until she and Marcus caught him looking that is and looked away blushing. Sylvia, his dark haired friend, into heavy metal, Malibu and coke and the sanctity of the human soul and was his anchor and conscience smiled her tentative smile and waved him over as she and Rose talked.
Rose was one of those people, the type that people wanted to protect and help in anyway possible and he noted, with detached interest (because he never though of her as anything other than his friends) that she could look just like an angel when she wanted and her smile seemed to warm him as he sat. That smile, more than one had been caught in that smile, including Jon, who though very in love with his girlfriend, who Will had yet to meet, still had a special place in his heart for Rose, but then with rose it was never a question of want, she seemed totally unaware of her ability to make his heart melt.
In honesty he had to admit that this was true of everyone that met her, but with Jon it went deeper and, if she had let it, it would have gone far beyond friendship but, as Jon would later tell, she had this way about her that even with the harder facts (like rejection) you couldn’t help but love her for her honesty and treasure her anew. He tried to concentrate on what they were saying his deep thoughts leaving slowly, like the tide of the sea, though he knew, he knew that these people had already worked there magic upon him and he the detached expression was gone giving way to one of guarded happiness.
He wished again and again that it could be something more, something complete but, he reflected he was hardly normal and those abnormal things that he knew, that he could do he hoped that his friends would never know. He shook his head the thought finally leaving him as he realised that even now he couldn’t look at that idea too closely. How strange, to have a part of yourself that you cannot change or accept, so much so that you even fear it and fear to tell anyone.
“So anyway, I was telling Jo that she shouldn’t be so cynical about him...” Rose began
“And she said?”
“She said that all she knew about him was that he was a looser”
“I hope you told her that all we knew about her was the fact that she has a fake nose, the stuck up cow!”
Rose smiled faintly and if against it’s own will Will’s curiosity was aroused and he paid more attention to their conversation.
“Nothing so blunt, but I did tell her to keep her nose out of business that doesn’t concern her and rumours that aren't true”
“I would have done more, you know”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you in the first place, you can overreact sometimes you know”
It was at this point that Will butted in, though he was breaking into a conversation, his tone held an apology for the intrusion. He turned to Sylvia
“And” he paused, choosing his next words carefully “ you tend to point out the weak points in peoples character, and it hurts sometimes” his blue eyes seemed shaded by remembered pain, his face sombre.
“Well if you didn’t have weak points I wouldn’t have to point them out now would I Will?”
One of his eyebrows rose “Like drinking too much, or smoking “ she held up her hand as he opened his mouth “ Or your compulsive lying Will. If you didn’t do it, it wouldn’t hurt.”
All at once Will found the pressures of his life all bearing down on him at once and the reason for this was easy to explain, Will was not normal in any sense and apart from the emotional turmoil that the late teens caused he also had a variety of other pressures that they didn’t have and he could just about deal with them if he looked at them more than one at a time.
Sylvia pointing some of them out caused him to think of all of them at once and it was because of this that he was angry, not because she had hit on the truth. He enjoyed the truth as much as anyone, it was sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter but always the truth and wholesome for it.
However, in his early years he had learnt that the best way to not get hurt, both physically and emotionally, was to lie. He was a victim of his own defence mechanism and he knew it. For this, for his self pity and for the burdens that suddenly weighed him down, seemingly to smother his soul, he threw up his hands in anger, making people turn at the look on his face and stare even as his voice sounded in what was a tightly controlled, soft and angry tone
“I did not ask for any of this” self pity started to creep in at that moment “I did not choose to live life this way!” clamping his mouth shut before he could say something in anger that he would regret he forced his self pity down, stuffing it back into the box that he had put it into a long time ago as he strode away.
Jon, the perfect gentlemen, eyes wide with shock, asked in a very small whisper
“Who were you talking about?” he whispered
“Him” they answered in the same whisper.

He ran through the cornfield adjoining the school, his anger pumping through his veins and in his ears. He stopped on the edge of a few trees, and sank down behind one, the song of Taliesin on his lips and his mind swiftly falling into the pattern of meditation.
In truth he knew very little about the earth religions, Druidic or otherwise, he only knew that he was interested in it and that, if he could get round to it, it could explain exactly how to fix what was wrong with him on the inside. But first there were other problems to deal with, his mind cleared as it always did in meditation and he saw again his angry outburst and realised that he should not let his emotions get out of control. Not ever. Who knows what he could do?
He realised that he was in the wrong for snapping at his friends and that he should apologise later but was unlikely to do it, fearing the inevitable question of why, he did not know if he could stop himself from sharing his burdens. Better by far to not apologise, who knows, if it happens again, he thought with a twisting in his heart, they might not want to be friends with me any more, better them free, happy and hating him rather than loving him and seeing the burdens overpower and break him. Safer too.
He began the long, long walk back to his life and his friends.

Chapter 1
As the bell rang he veered left, away from the main school, away from the stares and the mutterings, away from the lessons. He knew better now than to pay attention to what the teachers had to say. What was the point? It was not that what they had to say was meaningless or not worthwhile, they had found their calling and he respected for that and if he was being honest, hated them for it too. They had their place, their niche, but where was his? It all seemed a mockery to him because he knew that his way did not lead towards them, how could it? He had burdens that most his age, if any, did not, he could have ignored them, he supposed, but what would be the point of that, they would not go away. Far better to shoulder them and deal with them and hope, oh hope against hope, that one day he would find his own corner, his own private world were he too could find peace and contentment.
Why was he here then? the word why seemed to always mock him, some would say, if they knew him that because of his burdens and what strangeness his life, that this was in fact his haven, that this place had the truest sense of peace that he had ever felt. That was almost true, and though no one knew him that well, he was forced to admit to himself that he had found peace, of a sort, here. Almost true. No one knew him that well, not anymore. A face swam before his mind, dark lashes, deep brown eyes, a classic nose and dark brown, almost black hair, with a smile like no one else's in the world. It had been almost three years, and yet the pain was still new, the wounds were still fresh, and picturing her smile made him want to cry and he almost did, his eyes were bright but his mouth was set in a grim line.
The other part of his mind set in then, the practical one, the one that would not let him die even when he tried, and he had tried so many times. You are not allowed tears, NOT EVER, no, she had been dead not more than six hours, six fucking hours and what did you do what did you-WE DO? and it was that, oh it was always that, that turned him another fragile step away from reality and into madness. Another part of him followed her on the way to death, into the last journey and why? because had failed her, had defiled her memory before she was even truly cold and had destroyed any newfound peace he had felt, destroying any repairs to the void like hole in his now eternally tormented soul. He left that day thinking, Oh Rachel, my light, my Angel, my love what have I become, what have I done? and what will I do without you? That thought troubled him for a long time and sleep was a longer time in coming still.
He remembered her in his dreams though, and these dreams brought a new definition, a new edge to pain, twice a week at least the dreams would come, in two types and both were heartbreaking in their own ways.
The first, he saw her in her last days, he held her hand, holding the tears in as he always did, he held everything he loved in his arms, he saw again the hospital where she died and the harsh impersonal walls that watched her life flee from her body and watched impassively as he chocked down his grief. From this dream he would wake in the morning shaking, holding back a scream of complete and utter hopeless anguish.
The second though, could be considered much worse because it did not attack with death but with love, the twisting memories of his past were played again, of the time when he was a better man, when he held to the idea of honour for honour’s sake and not for the atonement of what he had become. He saw how happy he was and in the dream would never realise how his body whimpered in the night from the condensed emotion that never found an outlet and never could. They always ended the same way though, he would know her as he assumed she was now, happy and at peace in whatever her new life meant.
He would wake worse for the wear, normally around three in the morning, shaking again, the sob of grief buried in the knowledge of his guilt because he would find in himself a little envious of her new life, of her death. He could not sleep after that, he never could, he would not sleep again that night, the loneliness of the cold bed sheet beside him a poignant reminder of all he had lost and he would want to cry but as always never allow himself. Not ever.
It was this more than all else in his life at this time that broke him, because Will, who believed that a person should face everything in life could not face the dreams that haunted him and cursed himself for that weakness and nor could he face the hypocrisy that led him to try and do the right thing, because he didn’t do it because it was the right thing but for himself, to atone. Did doing the right thing for the wrong reason make what he did any less? he didn’t know, all he knew was that rather than being uplifted for doing the right thing he felt hollow and something of himself, something good was lost in the helping of others. He wondered if soon anything good would be left of him.
This was followed by a mental shrug, what will be will be and he could no more change the future than he could fly. He let the thought slip away, to be absorbed by his sub conscious and be analysed another day.
He walked to the common room again and found the music was off, what a relief, he thought, but then he reflected that it was only because the first two of the five periods out of the day were assigned to private study and though few ever actually used the periods for this teachers would pop by to check that they were actually doing their work. He opened the door and to his surprise and delight he found that Rose had a free period and she was sitting in a corner listening to her Busted CD, though he loved Rose and he would quite literally walk through fire for her, her taste in music left something to be desired.
He waved a hi and sat back in relaxation, enjoying simply being near her and understanding that she would not be drawn into a conversation until she was ready. It had taken quite a while to realise that lesson. He kept his mouth shut. He sat next to her idly breathing in the sent of her hair and supremely happy that she was simply there to enjoy his company, especially after the pre-school outburst that he had. She put down her CD player and seemed to read his thoughts.
“Oh don’t be silly Will, just because you lost your temper it doesn’t mean that I won’t be your friend” she smiled at him and he felt his heart soar to have a friend like her, even as he slightly guilty thought of his earlier idea that it might have been better if she wouldn’t speak to him. The truth was that if that happened, with any of them, he would be too hurt and broken to speak to anyone. Against his will, because he knew that it wasn’t his idea, they had all worked away close to his heart. He paid more attention as she continued “I do think that you should apologise to Sylvia. She was only looking out for you” Coming from anyone else, even Sylvia herself, he might have argued, but the truth was he never ever had the heart to argue with Rose. It just wasn’t done. He gave one of his patented ghostly smiles and he was instantly contrite
“Of course I should. Do you think that she will forgive me?” that earned a laugh for some reason
“I’m sorry Will but sometimes you are so serious, you haven’t blown up the world for God’s sake” As the subject turned to lighter matters he let himself fall back into relaxation, almost content thinking again, How the hell does she do that? I wasn’t going to apologise but now I am? He’d better, he’d learnt the hard way that once you promised to do something important to Rose that she would make sure you did it. Not that she yelled, that was not her way, it seemed that she too had patented looks and one of them was of soft reproach coupled with a slightly disapproving voice that left you shamefaced that you hadn’t done it straight away.
He couldn’t see what she saw in him but he could, quite literally see, what he saw in her. he closed his eyes for just a second and let out the part of his mind that scared him, just a little, just enough and with a mental warning of Behave, it’s only for a moment.
He opened them and instead of seeing her pale blond features he saw what was on the inside, he saw the colours. For years after he discovered he could do this he had realised that this was someone's soul, or rather the moods of their soul marked individually by what the person was like. There was green, the soothing of his conscience by her obviously translated, in her mind at least, into a form of healing or growth as it was quite large, there was red, no matter how good the person, they could not get rid of anger, there was white, a calming and vastly larger colour (in her at least) than the red, because there was the peace in herself that he lacked. That is not to say that she was eternally content or even more happy than any other than his friends, it simply meant that she was happy now. He was relived to find no black, that colour had no part of her and he was glad, black was worse than even the red at it’s height. Over all of this was the pale luminescence that marked her, not as perfect, because no one was perfect, but as a generally ( he stressed that word in his mind) good person.
Still in this frame of mind, he made the mistake of looking down at him self and his contentment was shattered like cheap glass. Where Rose’s colours had been orderly and bright his were discontented, dark and generally depressing. His colours shifted under his gaze and he saw tight bright slashes of red, almost like so many life draining wounds, a small amount of fragile white, a small amount of green and a rapidly growing amount of black that was silently waging a war against the other colours, even the red.
Before it had the chance to burst free he forced that same part of his mind away, troubled by what he had seen, waging his own silent war of utmost denial of it’s very existence. I just wanted to be normal he thought with a groan, just a normal kid. He sighed and his guarded expression returned and though tired from his inner battle he managed to place again, the detached expression that he always wore, if Rose asked he would have to lie about what was troubling him and he did not want that, he hated lying to any of them. he forced his body to take on the pose of relaxation and listened intently.

Three hours later he turned up to his history lesson. Just because he had his reasons for not listening in class did not mean that he missed every subjects lessons. Michael Tavener, the history teacher, indeed the head of history, was young for such a position and had known Will since year 10, when he had first started and as such had not lost hope for the boy yet.
Despite this, Will had a genuine affection for the man, for one he made history seem interesting and though Will only paid his lessons half the attention they were due it was half more than what he gave any other. Then there was the fact that he was simply a nice guy. This can be said in many ways these days, that he was a good son, a good father, helped ladies cross the street and would stand up to anyone doing wrong.
In truth he was all of these and none, because he was human and had human flaws, as everyone had and was not the classical (and completely idiotic hero) but, if forced to describe him Will would have to say that
“If you took the feelings of a father at the time when he first held his child and extended that to his entire attitude towards his children, an iron resolve to teach and aye indeed to learn, which is rare, a good natured spirit and natural humour mixed with the seriousness of the obsessed for teaching you would get him entirely”. In short Will respected him, more than that he liked the man because he was not one to take any crap from any student and yet when their was serious stuff going on that a student couldn’t deal with (the death of Will’s aunt leaped to his mind) he was often the most cool headed and compassionate person. Kind, fair and generous he was, but he was not soft or stupid.
Will sat without a word, which was customary, Michael didn’t move from behind his desk until everyone had arrived (Will having been the first), which was also customary. They all came in slowly, Emma first, followed by Sarah, Rose, Sylvia, Leah and Jon (the other member of the history group, Kellie was ill today) and Michael stood up even as Will tried to catch Sylvia’s eye. Jon sat next to him, Michael having realised that he understood, or rather allowed, more to be taken in while his friend was sitting next to and talking (in low voices) to him. Michael was a sharp tool thought Will, none of the other teachers even thought about the affect my friends had on me.
As he began to talk Will felt his mind drift, but not much, he liked the man after all and he did make history very enjoyable and if he didn’t have his own burdens then he supposed that he would have enjoyed something in the history field as he graduated and he would have certainly tried harder in lessons. He did though and his mind did drift, if only slightly, it was still just enough that it felt, distantly, like a betrayal. Why? when he did this in other lessons there was no such feeling, perhaps because it was that he respected him, that he liked- all right if he was being honest- loved history, perhaps because he liked him, perhaps a mixture of all three, the lessons though entertaining, still left him with the image of a kick in the teeth. Shrugging aside this emotion as he did so many others, they left the lesson before the bell rang, not seeing, not needing to see, the worry in Michael’s eyes. So many other teachers had the same look and he had met it straight on, unfazed and unruffled by their concern, yet with Michael he couldn’t because it hurt, it almost physically hurt.
The thought came to his mind, like acid burning with repressed guilt, he couldn’t help it, it came anyway. Yet another thing I’ve failed at followed by three mocking claps in his mind. Was he mad? fighting his own mind, perhaps, it would certainly make things easier, or was this an internal struggle between the dark side that he had found early and the light side that he still struggled to maintain? God but he was full of unanswerable questions today.
He ran to catch up with Sylvia before she escaped his sight, he’d better do as Rose suggested or he’d be in for it. He caught up with her just before she reached the two double doors and the small walkway that separated the sixth form block from the rest of the school.
“Listen Sylvia” she turned and let that gaze fall full force on him, she was not going to make this easy. “I am...” he paused and the next words came out in a painful rush “I overreacted and I’m sorry about what I said earlier”
“Uhuh” God that annoyed him and she knew it, it was no more than he deserved he supposed, he did snap after all. He grabbed both her shoulders, luckily there was no one else about, the sixth formers sometimes got out slightly earlier than the bell.
“I really am sorry you know, please forgive me?” she didn’t miss the slight plea in his voice but her tone didn’t soften
“Don’t do that again. Ever” and then she did soften slightly as she gave a tentative smile. He would never admit it of course but he did love these people and in every way that counted they were closer than his family any separation from them, be it emotional or physical, was as disturbing as it was painful. He did not enjoy the prospect of university and having them so far away from him as they all went off in different directions, even himself, and became miles apart. He could still phone them but it would never be the same as seeing them he knew and it also occurred to him that once university was finished they would all be such different people, would there be any space for him then? He hoped so. He returned the smile and headed for the sixth form block.

At he got off the bus and began the walk home he knew what awaited him there and did not want any part of it, he was not strong enough, not yet, to face his family. He still had thoughts of the day in his head, of the day and what a pain it was to hide things from his friends and what that meant to his friendships with each and every one of them, so he turned down a sharp road towards the woods near his home and began to let the peace of those ageless monarchs begin to wash over him. There was no lies here, no anger, no hate, just the slow passage of time and sun in their ancient scarred bodies and the welcome relief of shadow and sun.
He let the peace of this place begin to wash over him and he took out a cigarette and sat to enjoy the feeling that washed over this place and by extension, himself.
Just as he was about to light it however, he saw Jess, a neighbour being harassed by a man he had never seen. He watched with detached fascination as they argued in louder voice and thought that for a twelve year old girl she could argue very, very well.
The man hit her, hard enough that she crumpled to the ground and he was galvanised into action. As always when this happened, it seemed like it was not him that controlled his body, but someone else. He watched as he drew close and saw that he was mistaken when he thought that it was a man that attacked her, even from behind he recognised the boy that attacked her, Paul smith, sixteen and large enough to be confused with a man twice his age raised his fist again. Will drew up behind him and it seemed that it was Quiet Eyes, the thief that he had been, that grabbed the boy’s fist and said in a smooth self assured voice
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you” and Paul turned to face him, his face flushed and understood why he had the name Quiet Eyes. His mouth had a full smile showing all of his teeth, his hand was like a vice but, the eyes captured him, they had no emotion in them and the distinct impression was that this boy could do anything, he could turn and walk away, ask to help or...or he could crush him into six thousand pieces under his heel.
That uncertainty had made more than one person pause, a lot older and a lot stronger, they had backed away because at the heart of it bullies thrived on fear and their was no fear in his eyes, there wasn’t anything. Paul gathered his courage and said
“Fuck off right now, this is none of you business” and Quiet eyes, without any change of expression or any outward sign that he was going to do it contemptuously backhanded the boy across the face making him crumple, as he had Jess. The small part of his mind that was Will noted with fascination that, that is what happens when you only have use of one hand, like a person bound to a wheelchair the strength in his left arm was prodigious and Quiet Eyes used the full force of that in the backhand. He had no conscience, no remorse and no love, he didn’t even have the excuse of being angry, he was Quiet Eyes and he did not get angry.
Unlike Jess, who remained crumpled on the floor, Paul got up and stepped forward into the attack and instead of backing away Quiet Eyes moved into him and kicked him square in the balls and as he was winded he smacked, full force, Paul’s head into a tree. This time he fell senseless and did not get up. Quiet Eye’s released his body and allowed Will to take control again as he helped the girl up he asked tenderly.
“Are you O.K.?”
“I didn’t need your help spastic” was her contemptuous reply and she sauntered off up the road, towards her home. He shrugged but inside was a seething anger, this is what he got for helping people? That though was swiftly chased away by the sight of blood on his clothes and this time when he shrugged it was not to hide any emotion that boiled beneath the surface, his mother had washed blood out from his clothes before and would do so again, she had long since stopped asking how he got it because she didn't want to know.
The peace of this place was shattered now, the piece of shit below the tree helped ruin it, as did the blood on the tree and him, he thought the boys nose was broken but he wasn’t sorry for that, he was sorry he hurt the tree.
Sighing and lighting the cigarette, he walked out of the woods and felt the full weight of his burdens and his haunted conscience settle on his soul once again.
It seemed that he could find little peace anywhere.

Tell him to work on his viewpoints. For example, look at the very beginning. How does his viewpoint know how everyone feels? It is a very common mistake.

Hmmm… I would spell out O.K, but I have seen writers do it that way before. It really doesn’t matter which way her does it.

That’s all.

This is very good work. Tell him to come on and post in here more. He has a talent and I would like to see it grow.

I've tried telling him but he refuses to come on here because we made ONE JOKE about ONE OCCASION he got drunk.

famn you all. in answer the person only THINKS he knows how everyone else is feeling. plus bits and pieces are in the 3rd person. hence the gap at the beggining.

....be watching you

You cracked under the pressure. We have our resident demon back!!

I know i told you this before, but this piece is excellent. Post up the next chapter!!

woooo! DEMON! *huggles* now I have you on here too!

I love switching viewpoints, I think it confuses people...

demon, your writing is so good, I'm glad you've consented to hop back on here :D

altho sometimes I don't like it, cos it's sad and makes me go soft. :(

Batch - demon reads my stories. yeah, he does.

demon - keep writing this!

Was that an oh-so-subtle hint then?

Send me a copy of star and i'll read it!

me too....want more..

It's not his stories that make me blub, it's his poetry!!!

AND WHERE ARE THE OTHER CHAPTERS?!?!?!?

Heh, can you tell I want to read more?

more...just 4 gem.....

He woke in the morning still obsessed by a dream that he couldn’t remember and frantically searched his memory but all he got were dark unknown shapes that were fuzzy and unidentifiable sounds. It was quarter past four in the morning but, that wasn’t a problem, he had not woken due to any dream, though he wished he could remember it, he always woke and that time. In the predawn light he stood, detaching himself from the warm of his bed and opened the hidden compartment in his floor even as he shivered in the sudden cold. If any of my family caught me doing this then they would think I’m mad he thought for a moment and then grudgingly added Not that they don’t already. From this hidden compartment he drew his lock-picks, a small memento of his past life as a...disreputable entity.
He needed to find something out and for this he needed his lock-picks. He folded them in their brown wallet and placed them in his back pocket. Making a quick bow and prayer to the Forest God, that the druids knew, he turned slowly, gathering clothes as he went and quietly creeped down the stairs and, ever so quietly, opened the front door and was out into the night. Ironic he thought, the day had not yet dawned and as he walked down the street making for another place and another God.
It was quiet out, few were up and none could see the boy in the street because they were too busy with waking up themselves to deal with him. This time in the night or day or whatever was the time in which the worst of the worst walked. The darkened streets held nightmares that could, sadly, never be called demonic and would snag the unwary. When they came upon you they either came in a terrifying rush or they came creeping slowly, revelling in the fear that you showed as much as anything else. Even here, especially here, in this sleepy hamlet they hunted. He knew this; he used to be one and was not unprepared or unwary.
There were also worse things, worse people, that took you never to be seen again. If you were with someone and begged them to take you instead of your companion, they would, with bright smiles and feral looks, they would. If you cried and begged for mercy that human decency begged, they would not give it, they would take you and the prize would be all the sweeter. Better to die on your feet than to let them do that and die forgotten, a missing person for the rest of your days. If he saw one of them, though they rarely showed themselves here, (he knew some and was rightly afraid) he would run and never look back, because if he did he would see them following. As thieves earned their names for deeds done and wore them like badges, these needed none, their presence was enough, these were nameless and something every other child of the dark feared.
He understood something then, a thief-name was a childish thing, but it helped define them, to keep there actions accountable (at least by the stronger and faster thieves) and part of the Nameless’s power was that they were not accountable, they did not need names because there was no core of human decency left to bind them. He both treasured and hated his thief name, because a small part of him would like to be unaccountable.
The only other purpose that a thief name gave was a means of knowing who each other was without giving your real name (the idea of honour among thieves was ludicrous to actual thieves). It gave a name to your deeds because you had to earn it and it also gave the child thieves that first gained it an air of mystic and privilege that was both intoxicating and a trap for the gullible children. After they had their names, they would not want to leave, doing more thievery and made the children think they were safe in their existence. If they ever learned their mistake then the name would become such a part of them that they could never truly leave it behind and by extension the thief in them still existed, trying to force them to do one of four things.
If they had left then it would try and make them return. If they had not then the thief that had become so much a part of their ego would push them to greater jobs which would land them in jail. The thief in them might also try and make them ‘graduate’ into a Nameless, destroying all humanity in the pursuit of the thrill, though thankfully this was rare because few thieves had the temperament to become a Nameless. Jail also took a great deal of the aspiring thieves anyway (if he had to guess Will would say that between 80 and 90 % of the thieves he knew ended that way). The last was that thieves that for one reason or another could not do it themselves anymore would recruit gullible youngsters to do it for them. They were very good at this job and they did not mention the dangers. They had got him too once, not so long ago.
Unlike those people huddled up in the nonexistent protection of their houses, he knew the dangers and the pitfalls of moving about in this time better than anyone else. This was the darkest night, before dawn chased it away, this was where he had been raised and had raised himself. He settled comfortably into the night’s rhythm.
He walked down to the sloping end of his street, where the country gave way to what passed as an estate in this hamlet. As he approached the gravel path that led to it he saw again anew, St. Paul’s church, nestled next to it’s sleepy hamlet and small graveyard it seemed world’s away from the hamlet, as indeed it was.
He moved to the door and extracting the lock pick’s from his back pocket he easily picked the lock and opened the heavy oaken door, as he entered the church he closed the door softly behind him.
As the lock had given up it’s struggle he couldn’t help but whisper
"I am the greatest" under his breath.


Chapter 2
As he entered these hallowed halls, these prayers filled places of worship and deliverance he knew, if he did not know before, how out of place the world outside was. It was not that they did not know of each other, nor that they did not affect each other, more the fact that they held each other at arms length, as you would a distant cousin that you did not want to see.
The hall, he guessed you could call it that, with it’s pews and Christian cross was as far removed from the darkness outside as Venus was to Pluto and though he knew it was as dark as it was outside, it was not the darkness that existed here. He smelt the dusty reminder of old books and could almost taste the holiness of the place on his tongue. If the darkness outside could not exist here he thought, examining the motes of dust in the dying night, then what right do I, a thing raised by such? As disheartening as this was though, it also gave him hope, because he thought, in his overactive imagination, that if he was completely made of such then he too could not exist here. That gave him some cause for thought and something flowered in his chest. It took him a moment to realise that it was indeed hope; he had felt it so rarely.
He moved slowly, as if in a trance, to the font pew and sat head bowed in prayer for the first time in his life. He did not know if he expected to be answered, he called God a twat on an almost daily basis and thought that he might not accept him for that and all the things he’d done.
Then again, he also called the devil the same on the same daily basis, so maybe the devil was ready to pummel when he died or worse maybe they’d both leave him in darkness when he died, to be consumed by whatever lived there. Not that he was afraid of that darkness, he just really, really didn’t like the idea of it.
No chance of seeing Rachel there, he had no doubt in his mind that if there was a paradise then she would be there. On the other hand there would be no more worries, no more pain or loss and no more taunting apparitions after that final death. There was a relief in that, a guilty one, yes, but it was a relief.
After he died, he couldn’t think about that now, he was not here to face that, now was not the time for it, he couldn’t afford to be distracted from the answer he was trying to find.
One day, hopefully soon, when he had found the answer to the current crisis, he could examine that in more depth, but not now, not today.
So he prayed for the first time in his life he actually, 100%, completely and utterly prayed for an answer. Why was he given these gifts? What did it mean? Was he supposed to help someone in some way before he did indeed die? How could he finally subdue hate’s hold? How could he come to terms with himself?
He truly believed, though he had never prayed and was not sure if there was a Heaven or a Hell for that matter, that this now was purgatory. No matter the outcome he believed that this was the place between Heaven and Hell in which all else existed and that all were judged here at the end. To be judged however, you would have to see and Angel.
That there was the crux of his entire belief system because purgatory was defined as the absence of Heaven and Hell and he believed that this could be turned to Hell if you were found unworthy because you saw an Angel. It was simple really because the Angel must be something from that better place, to see it would be to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it existed and you would know something of paradise in it’s face. To be denied forever a place in Heaven and to know that such a place existed would be agony beyond all measure to him. To wonder formless as a ghost, forever, until you were consumed, neither of the Old World of flesh, nor the New World of paradise, yet always knowing that paradise is beyond your reach, which would be Hell by any imagination.
Here his defences were down, there was no one here except him and God and that old boy would never tell, here finally for anyone to see, though no one did, was the anguish and loneliness that marked him apart given expression. The passage of time and the harshness of life on one so young were given form in tears, for all he had gained; still he had lost more.
Still, even here, he would not, could not mourn, the walls were to deep and the pain too old yet still ripe, still fresh and he could never allow himself such release. He had done too much it seemed and this time, as with every other time he was forced to admit that it was not God nor life that stopped his grief, but himself.
Would that it was God or life, then he would have someone else to blame for it, but he had only himself to blame for it. It was because part of him enjoyed causing others pain, revelled in it, and still did, that he hated himself. That was a part of himself that he could never truly control, so he locked it away in chains of guilt.
Especially what happened after Rachel's death, he thought and as always, this thought even alone he could never face and so instead of dwelling on what he did he dwelled on why he did it and how he had failed her. He was in shock then yes, depression? Maybe but he should still have been stronger than that, to give into the honeyed words of the tempter.
He didn’t though, not then, because he was weak, because a part of him actually enjoyed it and perhaps most of all, because hate was simple. Hate had no conscience, no grief and was as addictive as it was destructive. It destroyed it user at the last, giving that user the death that he or she deserved and for a time he welcomed that, he wanted death, wanted an end, even at the cost of his newfound purity. For this he would burn, and for one final thing, the thing that he had done or rather almost done would have been far worse than anything before it. It would have turned him into one of the Nameless Ones. For that he deserved Hell and would go there in complete surety that there was a place marked and wanting for him.
He could still feel hates pull inside of him, a drug more potent than heroin and cocaine combined, more intoxicating than the best wine and more pleasurable than the most expensive whore. Every day he woke and every day he denied that call, he denied it with every fibre of his being, he had to. He didn’t do it for himself but for his friends, because if he ever did relapse, the first act he would do as a Nameless would be to do worse than kill each and every one of them because they gave him hope and strengthened his own fragile white. That is not something a Nameless One would ever forgive. So he searched for his answers.
He needed answers and had exhausted every other way of trying to find them, so he turned his questioning, corrupted mind to faith, an avenue so long ignored.
It seemed that faith wanted to ignore him right back, despite or perhaps because of, the holiness in the air he couldn't find answers in this place. No matter how hard he tried, no matter the single-minded stubbornness of his prayer, God it seemed would not welcome or help his prodigal son.
He didn’t notice that his eyes were growing heavy, nor that the sun continued to rise in its own ageless procession over the sky, such was the depth of his concentration that he didn’t notice, in the early hours of the morning, that he fell asleep.

In his dream he found himself in a church that was totally alien to any he had seen or thought he knew. There were still pews here but the smells were different, bluebells and lavender came to his nose and the smell of dusty books was gone to be replaced by the smell of dew laden grass.
He also saw that the sun seemed not only to be higher but also seemed to bathe everyone in a golden glow. There was no sign to what religion this church was dedicated and there was no priest upon the strange table at the front, which must make the altar. Will could not tell to which God this church was dedicated either, in the bright light from the one window all the walls seemed to be sandstone, enveloped as they were by the luminosity of the day.
There was peace here unlike anything he had ever felt, it did not steal away the other feelings that he had and it did not seek, as hate did, to dominate them. All that the peace did was completely and utterly seep into his heart. He felt his burdens put aside for a time, because here there was no pain, no burden, no guilt and though the burdens were his and could not be released or it seemed resolved, here they could be accepted and put down. They seemed almost like a coat that was shrugged off, only to be picked up on the way out. Here they rested until he woke, allowing him, for the first time in years, knowledge of the thing that he fought with himself to attain. To allow his weary mind and body the rest it needed, if not deserved.
Time was an alien concept here, yet to his dream awareness it took time for him to realise that he was not alone here.
There were faceless people beside him, indistinct and substantial, and as he looked down upon himself he found that he too was indistinct, as if made of vapour and hardly here.
Could this be a shared dream? His sleeping mind was not able to digest that idea and he was sure that his waking one could not. They too were in poses of prayer and though he couldn’t see their faces he got up and was about to study them
He would have spent the rest of this dream-was this a dream?- studying them but as he stood he noticed two other figures, they were not insubstantial, in fact here they were completely formed and looked normal. This lead him, quite quickly to believe that they were not normal. He wanted to laugh-normal here?! not a chance.
The first was undeniably female and her face could not be seen, nor would he ever be able to recall the clothes she wore, except for a veil that hid her features as completely as any mask. She did not move under his scrutiny but he had the distinct impression that even as he studied her she studied him.
The second was male and had no veil to disguise his features, he worse simple clothes of white and stared at Will, he didn’t study, he stared.
All of this Will would have been able to handle, but something things were strange about the man, things that didn’t, that couldn’t possibly add up.
He was well muscled for one, Will could see that in his every movement, he was in perfect balance and equilibrium with himself. Yet everything else about the man screamed that he was not a fighter, he was not now and never would be a man of violence.
His face was gave the impression of great age and his hair was white, yet no mark of age blemished his skin, no wrinkle could be found.
Against Will’s own wishes he looked at the thing that most people would look at in him, his eyes. They were deep blue, the blue of a summer sky. Out of the pale lashes they seemed to smile at him, echoing the full smile upon his face. This stunned Will because though his eyes caught with a certainty of pain, this man’s caught wit a certainty of love and it shook his entire being.
Afterward Will would try and remember what his voice sounded like and he would fail, he would always fail in this, he realised, and he also realised, dimly, that he was supposed to fail and that was okay. In this if nothing else it was okay.
"Follow your heart" it said and laid his arm on Will’s shoulder, as he did so Will felt the love emanate from that gesture and engulf and validate all that he was.
for the first time in years he woke with a smile.


He woke because someone was shaking his shoulder. He looked up annoyed not yet knowing, in his dream fogged mind, where he was and found the Reverend looking down at him.
What he had done to get here, how long he must have been here and the simple liberty he had taken in all of this made him flinch looking at the man. Instead of being angry or hitting him however the man simply smiled.
"You could have just come in when everyone else was here you know" No anger, no resentment, as if this was perfectly normal. A simple statement of fact.
"No I couldn’t" he didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, let alone a Priest, he had too much to digest. He stood and began to walk away, his muscles screaming in protest over the unaccustomed activity after such a long rest.
"Do you want to talk?" Those simple sparked another memory. Of another person he used to talk with, share everything with, he bared his soul to her and she bared hers to him and they accepted each other for what they were.
He remembered a day in the rain and running inside with the joy of first love and seeing his bedroom up ahead. He remembered her kiss and her touch, he remembered every thought filled look. The images came back to him in a hard and very harsh rush.
In the time that they had been together they had made love only ten times, only ten, yet he remembered every part of everyone and the joy that they brought was above simple release.
He closed his eyes against such images as the tears threatened to form again.
"No. I would not talk to a Priest even if I had one" the words came out bitter and who could blame when simple words, looks, or phrases brought out the most painful memories.
This time, as he left, all the man could do was look on in wonderment at the amount of bitterness, of unresolved resentment in one so young.
Will for his part knew that school was still hours away and if he hurried he knew, he could reach the place where he left his heart so long ago.
If had not been so involved in himself he would have noticed, he would have seen.
He didn’t notice though, he was too involved in what he had just experienced, just seen. He kept to the shadows as dawn’s light played upon him, he moved in them as easily as if he was one of them. He knew the darkness and he knew hate.
Like everything in the darkness, everything made of it however, he was afraid of the baring light of day and hardly ever moved into it’s soul scouring embrace. He wasn't ready, not this early, for such a confrontation. So he moved in the shadows, at home as he was one himself. If only for a little while yet.
If he had been paying attention he would have seen, or maybe he would have felt a second shadow dislodge it’s self from a wall as he walked, so akin and so alien to him that he would have paused. He would have studied it until it revealed it’s self for who it was.
He didn’t though and was therefore unaware as it followed him to the last place that held any sanctity for him. He was unaware as it followed to where his heart dwelled.

Chapter 3
The Glen, that’s what he called it. It probably had a fancier name in some glorified map book but the name seemed to fit. It was simple and uncomplicated, as was this place.
To look at it, the same way people looked at most things, was to miss it entirely. All they would see was a lake with a small bench facing the rising sun. It was like looking for something in plain sight, it was there all the time but you never really saw it. He did that most times, with anything he needed he would never find, or take hours to find because it was in plain sight.
Not this though, never this, he could not understand how people could miss it, how they could simply walk right past this place and not see, not know.
It was beyond one single sense though, you could not encompass what it was by sight alone, nor any other of the senses, you had to use them all.
It was ageless, there was no way of telling how old it truly was, but instead of hiding this fact the trees, the very air, flaunted it. It held that sense that was beyond sight or sound with an almost smug satisfaction. He smiled, he had to smile, how could he not? This place was so like him, holding something that it couldn’t help and instead of making it a burden, it held it close, distancing itself from everything else with that simple pride and treasuring it for what it was. It was like him, but not entirely, because though he held it close and did not flaunt that he had it, it was with an inner revulsion, not pride that he did so. He was at peace with it, barely, but that was all.
He could find no pride in being different and though he did not realise it then, if he ever grew old enough he would know that this in itself brought him closer to the teenagers of which he was so apart. He did not dislike people, he did not hate his race, he despised them. They destroyed and corrupted almost everything they touched and left, it seemed, so much destruction that no matter what one person did then he (or she) would do little, if anything at all, to change it.
Worse than this, their chief insult was "You animal" and this was personally degrading to him because he had met many people that he disliked (if he had it left in him to hate he would have done), but no animals.
Unlike humans, they lived in perfect symbiosis with their environment, they lived with it, not against it as humans (and he was forced to admit, with racial guilt, that he did too) did. He could see it in them, the simple joy of being what they were born to be, there was no black in them, no red except for pain, only white and green, and they needed nothing else.
He knew too that in their own loving way the trees, indeed the entire Glen itself would remember the human child that so appreciated it. He knew in the core of his soul that it would and, though the awareness was different, subtly alien, to his prejudiced awareness he could not deny it’s existence.
It was whispered in every breeze in this hallowed place, it held true for all of all things here, down to every miniscule root. To his senses it screamed that this place was alive, more than this, that anything alive had some sentient awareness. Added to this as proof, the colours were there and, if what he thought was true, the soul colours themselves marked the very earth as having an awareness all of it’s own.
Yet to him the Glen was more than even this in and of itself, because this place was his and Rachel's. Though he had many places that he loved in the forest he had brought her, in that gloriously short and loving time together, there was a place that was the first. This place had a small thicket of trees, also with a place to sit and watch the sun (this being a tree rather than a bench though) and only three of his closest friends had ever been invited here and only two had accepted, all realising what that place meant to him.
The first long dead now he thought and he felt a new twisting in his heart at that loss, Dan, his bright haired blood brother, lost to him as so many others were in these later days.
Dan was made such as he was under a younger sun by younger people and yet each had taken their oaths seriously, until the end (even Quiet Eyes at his worst respected and was summoned by that bond) neither could have expected the car crash that killed him.
Such a stupid accident it was and it only occurred a year ago, but still it had happened and he had to admit that of the four original friends he was the only one left. Rachel, though she had joined the group incredibly late was accepted as kindred spirit and loved even more as her presence had reformed Will. Ann the second person, like Rachel, had found love in the group, the lasting kind, that poets write about and the musicians sing. Rachel was the third person to be invited, she never accepted though, she just came.
Yet now if you were to sing the song of their friendship, it would have been a long sad one, dominated by Will’s tune because he had outlived them all. Ann had died with her new husband, Dan and their unborn child in the car crash just a month, oh only a month (and what God was laughing at all of his friends now?) after their wedding.
He remembered them with genuine love that was tempered both by sadness and again the familiar feel of envy that the group was together in death and still without him.
He remembered the day of Rachel’s funeral with a love that was so strong that it was almost a tidal wave for Ann and Dan in particular. The group had felt her loss as a whole because each and every one had felt her love and returned it in a different way and yet none had felt it as deeply as Will because to him then it was (and was still) a wound beyond any other. Still Dan was beside him, the brother that he was; he had slung an arm around Will’s shoulder, understanding even in the depths of his own grief, the soul scouring agony that he was going through.
That same day he had stopped Will from joining her, his favourite knife was against his chest, and his heart was pounding loudly in his ears when, just as he was to make the fatal strike (he actually started it’s downward momentum) the knife was kicked away and Dan came in. Dan was not able to convince him to live, but because of him and the one thing that Will did that night away from him, he had set him on the path to atonement.
He was sure that Dan had noticed the change in him that morning, the loss of the last shred of innocence that the boy had. Dan wasn’t sure then if he wanted to know what he had done and thanks to fates cruel tricks he never got a chance to ask again.
It was too much for Will, to see their love blossoming, a jagged reminder of what he did not have. They had drifted apart, yet still they were kin and though they saw each other only occasionally until they died and absence rang among them like a cord, it was always with an unspoken love that they gathered. Then they had died as fate had thrown the damaged dice again.
Looking back on those events now he was aware of a deep irony, from the age of six, his predicted lifespan had been very low, sometimes getting slightly longer but, more often than not getting sorter. He used to fear leaving them; they’d always taken it for granted that Will would have been the first to go.
God or the Devil it seemed though saw into his deepest fears and left him alone because before and beyond all else he had to go on without their love and guidance, he did not know if he could ever full deal with life without them. He feared it every day.
How often had he wished for Ann’s diplomatic personality in an argument, Dan’s fists in a fight or his laugh in the quiet of his room. He wanted Rachel, he needed Rachel, just because she was Rachel, she soothed the other half of his soul.
With her he was a better man, they completed each others souls, together they had honestly thought they could face anything, indeed they had and they had grown closer for it, stronger.
Not that it mattered anymore but he could no longer remember the day they met, nor exactly when the love had sprung up between them only that it caused him to strive, to have a reason, to want to be better than he was. It was more than that though; it caused him to be happy in and of himself. He distantly remembered that feeling and he missed it.
He lived his life a damaged man, because so much of himself had been lost before, so much had been taken. It sometimes felt like he could not go on, that he had to lay the burden of this time and this life down and not return.
That though was to him a form of relief and he was not allowed that, his own tormented soul and the demons that it possessed would allow him that.
He brought his mind back to the Glen and knew what was here; he had not moved it and no one could find it by themselves. It was the last shred of physical evidence that his friends had existed, that Rachel had existed. He dug and brought up a small black sack.
He opened and in it was an even smaller wooden box, one that had the power to open his soul. This box was more precious to him than any amount of money, certainly more valuable than his soul or his own twisted existence and this, as with everything else caused pain to his heart. He accepted it stoically, knowing in his guilty heart that he deserved the pain, that it gave him a constant reminder to be on the straight path.
The tarnished photos fell out at him, as he opened the warped wood and he couldn’t help but smile. They were here once and they would never be forgotten in his memory and he loved them all, with every ounce of his twisted and scarred soul.

“I will love you forever” said Rachel
“Forever and ever?” he had replied
She had punched him and he had smothered her with a kiss just as this photo was taken.

His eyes misted and again he fought back tears, not allowing release, never allowing release. He did love her but life had a fickle way of distorting even love into something that could not ever be shared.

there are no italics coz i pasted it...you just have 2 work them out 4 urself

a little more.......

Interlude
I have done many things that I am not proud of in my life and I have yet to mention everyone who has o far shaped it and what they mean to me.
Gemz she reminds me most of the sea, sometimes quite, sure and at other times a tide of love and hope or a storm of anger. A typhoon of power is what she is and I can’t help but smile every time I meet her’,
Henry, the Scottish reject, a funny guy, a pool cue I remember and his birthday and the fun I had. For one moment then I was free, I could simply be Will, not Rachel’s love, not Quiet eyes and not the boy that tosses and turns in his sleep in complete agony. For this I treasure him. I treasure them all.
None of them know of my past, nor the troubles that I have been through, the past like grief is a private matter and not to be intruded upon unless you are welcomed.
My family life…well my family do not like me, that is simple enough, yet I cannot deny that they have shaped the course of my life. I will not for example, end my life with the all consuming anger of my Father neither will I end with the same abusive shouts of my Mother.
Perhaps that is why I have so many questions about who I am and what I am,
I know what I do not want to be but I have no idea who I want to be.
I have no true home and can find no rest there anyway; my burdens like a water flogged coat stop me finding rest almost anywhere. I barely sleep anymore I cannot deal with Rachel’s face haunting my dreams.
The priest when he tried to talk to me awoke my dislike and true despair for the fools who believe in a God above that actually cares. If he had cared then he would have seen my soul and saved Rachel. Or perhaps he did and that’s why he does not.
One thing is for certain, I am damned either way.

I am William Knoll and I am damned.

I am the Damned

Whoa. And I'm not only saying that becuase my eyes have gone funny. And is there possibly a reference to me in the interlude? You did say that you were going to mention me... But I want to be told. I'm really bad at working things out for myself.

Yes it is u and u'll appear more...just when the character needs u (whether he'll admit it or not) as you do 4 me! ;) :P :D

Awwww! I'm a bit scared that you winked at me though... LOL!

*grins at reference... it's the first nice one she's got in a story/interlude*

dunno.........I called you a funny axe wielding dwarf once (he smiles innocently) is that nice?

You called me that in a story?

*thwacks*

*sticks out his tounge*

no in real life

Oh, well that makes it soooooo much better *rolls eyes*

of course it does..............(looks down...really far down) r u ok now little gem?

*comes up behind him weilding large, heavy object and smack it on his head*

Yep, much better thanks!

mean :P

more
Chapter 4
He was still in the memory, still in the past and still vulnerable to the world outside that had no right to intrude on this, the most private of grief’s, when it did exactly that.
Her name was Peta, but to him she would always be known as Shadow, a thief so quiet that she could have indeed been one. Very few knew that she followed them and even if they somehow sensed that she did she melded so well with the shadows that they would not be able to find her. She moved quietly towards him, taking a perverse pleasure in his grief.
“Hello Quiet Eyes” his head snapped up and his facial expression, the wall that hid exactly who he was and what he was thinking slid silently back over his features.
She pouted at the change because she could no longer see his pain, no longer know his despair. That, of course, she thought with anger, was why he did it.
Her anger, once misunderstood, was a friend to her now, because she was much more than she used to be, he didn’t know that yet, he had not seen her in three years and that she knew was an advantage.
“Peta” anger surged, he could see it in her face, she didn’t like her name and he almost smiled. Was she that far gone that she did not realise that even though she could change her name she could not change her past and how that shaped her? She was as much Peta as she was Shadow and that she would never accept no thief truly could accept, that the name that she had won meant so little.
Maybe that wasn’t the case though; Because Quiet Eyes was a part of him, a suppressed part, but a part nonetheless. He shrugged even as she continued
“Don’t call me that” she was about to continue but he was in no mood to be polite
“Or what?” he spat.
“Or this” and with a motion so quick that the eye would not be able to follow she threw a knife at his head. He swayed aside the knife hitting the tree behind with a hollow thunk. He withdrew the offending object and held it up to the light, ignoring her angry pose.
“Nice toy” he threw it and it went through her shoe into the miniscule gap between her shoe and her foot. “Be sure never to place it where it doesn’t belong”
She spat on the ground, she hated him for everything that he was now and everything that he could have been, that he should have been. She tugged her knife loose.
“Be seeing you” she left with hardly a sound, like death.
He however moved slowly to the wounded tree and looked upon it with his other eyes. He saw it simplicity marred by the red and closed his eyes while his left hand, his good hand, moved to cover the breach. He broke out in sweat and a deep blue light surrounded the hand, the same blue as that of the warmest summer sky. He felt that happiness and that stability, that helped make the white being leeched out of them. As soon as it had started, it finished and left him feeling dizzy. He turned around and left without a backward glance.
Anyone looking at it would think that the tree had never been hurt at all. There was no mark on it and no impression that there ever was.


The door slammed. That was the first thing that he heard. He could not and would not see the angry face that caused it.
He had just got home and found, to his relief that there was no one there, no Mother to shout at him, nor Father to call him a mistake and complain what a drain on the family he was.
Now however, the world was intruding once again.
“What the Hell are you doing here” said his Father, and oh, he thought, what great father he was!
“Eating” and so he was, he had about half an hour until the bus came to collect him to go to his school. He busied himself with his breakfast, ignoring the old man, hoping that he would go away.
It came as a complete surprise them when he was spun from the chair on which he was sitting, his dad’s fist connecting solidly with his jaw.
Quiet Eyes rose, wanting to hurt, to rend and kill, but with an effort he forced him down.
“Don’t you dare be disrespectful to me boy”
“And why shouldn’t I?” he stormed angrily “what have you done that’s so great, made a ton of money, yeah sure hide behind wealth. It doesn’t matter to you does it, that I hate you, that you beat me and that you are the worst thing that I can ever imagine becoming?”
Al, his Father, was so red in the face that he thought he would try and kill him, instead he said simply and quietly
“We should have had you aborted” and that it seemed was that.
Will left then, so angry that he may indeed have killed him if he had stayed.
He skipped going to school then (he wouldn’t have been able to think straight anyway) and walked the long way into town, allowing the journey to cool his thoughts. He reached Abby’s, an older friend who was no doubt in collage at the moment. It was a matter of moments to pick her locks and he found no angry words from his father to greet him in Abby’s flat, just the cool quiet that he needed. He gratefully fell asleep on the sofa.
For the fist time in many months (since the last time he slept over actually) he slept without the thought of being hit on waking.

y'know if no ones interested I will stop posting this.

I am, it just never showed me you'd posted more :(

Its GOOD! Post more :) I'm really good at contructive comments, so the only word I can use is good...how bad...or is it good?

But you know what I mean by good, right?

Right?

I like it. I just can't read the itty bitty font... even though I do it myself to save space...

now you're being picky

Indeed I am. I still ruin my eyes reading it though :P Stop complaining.

----I--------- dont complain

Much :P

<_< thats just mean...... still I know someone who does * nervously eyes gemz sword*

Pray tell... *waves sword*

*he thinks about it...then goes to confession like she asked*

:lol:

:P

It came as no surprise later that he was woken again by someone shaking his shoulder.
Abby looked to him, with eyes that were so dark and compelling yet revealed almost nothing.
“Bad night?” she asked
“In a word yes”
That was the great thing about her he thought, as she just nodded and moved away, no awkward questions, no lingering looks on the bruise that had now rapidly formed on his cheek, just quiet acceptance. If he told her then she would get angry, taking his side in this warped affair but only if he told her. If he did not want to speak then with Abby at least he did not have to.
He liked that he could tell her anything and she would listen and if he chose not to say anything she would not ask. He almost sighed at the peace he felt in that. He did not tell so she did not ask and he had not enjoyed this simple benefit since before Rachel had died.
He smiled and this time, unlike so many others, it was genuine and warm.
“So how was your night?”
Abby blushed, she actually blushed, and mumbled something. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I met a girl”
“How’d that go?” she gave him a look. It may have been the grin on his face or the unaccustomed gleam of what-the-hell-did-you-do-last-night in his eye.
Whatever it was she gave him a look that could have frozen Hell,
“Fine” was all she said.
“Good” there relationship worked both ways and as much as he wanted to know more, he did not need to and had too much respect for her to judge her in anyway, even t the extent of what he should now and what he shouldn’t. If she wanted to talk about it he was sure that she would eventually.
He smiled and excused himself to the bathroom, as he was there, his mind wondering back to his dream.

He was Lancelot; it was that simple, only it was infinitely more complex than that.
The greatest swordsman ever known, most men who had ever read the story sympathised either with Arthur or Lancelot and the split (as far as he knew) was fairly even, but those than sympathised with the sword master sympathised, in the main, for his title as the greatest swordsman of all time. Will did not admire him for this but rather for his love of the Queen Guinevere, because he knew that it was futile yet it happened anyway, it broke all the rules and defied all convention yet it was beautifully sad for all that. The only difference was that he had not yet betrayed and Lancelot had.
Three things had stayed with him, though he had lied, cheated, stolen and done unspeakable things, three things had kept him grounded through it all.
Never hit a woman, never break your promise and never betray. Up till now he never had and that worried him.

He left Abby soon after, simply because, though she did not ask, he could not sort out his head in front of her and needed to vent some anger.

He had a lot to think about.

I still like it ^_^

I like your characters thoughts in it, examining his past. That's the sort of thing I love in stories

*intrigued*

ditto

LMAO well gem, ull like the next chapter...it has u in it!!!!!!!