Silver Dagger

Once I had stolen a piece of sweet bread from a local bakery in the dawn of the Redlight district, the sun lazily rose from behind the roofless houses and the slums, painting the walls a dirty auburn.

I slip unnoticed through a crowd gathering by the pool as us homeless people call it, where the smell of blood stings my nose.

I walk into a main road where the bustle grows louder, keeping a steady pace and seamlessly merging with the crowd.

The sun was barely up in the sky, resting between the horizon and the clouds.

I ungracefully jump over a wall and under a narrow tunnel until the ground unravels before me, revealing an abandoned training ground drenching in the sunlight.

I reach over my shoulder and pull a tattered arrow from my quiver, my fingers tracing the intricate cravings I made with my dagger.

I sit the arrow between the bow and wait for the click I’m so familiar with.

I square my shoulders low and place my fingers onto the string.

Pulling the string back, I relax my fingers slightly and shut my eyes.

The wind laces with the grass buds below my feet, feeling the earth between my bare feet, the wind whispering through the nearby trees.

I exhale.

My fingers slowly move on their own in a familiar rhythm and the arrow dips before twirling like a bullet, biting through the air.

I lower my bow, my shoulder slightly relaxing as the arrow wedges itself into mouldy wood carved into a circle.

“Nice.”

I exhale, walking towards the arrow and pulling it out.

It was probably time to get back to Rada.

The sun sat on the clouds and between the golden horizon when I flipped ungracefully over a low rise wall that had jagged edges baring their fangs.

I glanced down at my open palm, tiny red crescents decorated across it, like the handle of my dagger.

Speaking of daggers, where is mine?

I tap my sides with reflex, digging through my vest pocket and fishing out something cool to the touch.

It’s my dagger when I pull my hand from my vest, laying with the blade tucked away.

It’s a nice thing.

The thing my mom left at least.

I stroll past a tent crowded with the homeless, a faint purple field envelops them.

“Rada?”

I lift a blanket  hanging over the entrance with my forearm and stick my head in.

Rada sat with a perfect posture, her hands folded politely in her lap as a small fire crackled in front of her.

From this angle, Rada looked like the goddess of fire, Anlus, with her blonde hair reflecting the flare.

“Rada, I’m back.”

I slipped  into the room, plopping down next to her and leaning against a wall, knee propped up.

“Great. Did you steal?”

She turns her body around to face me, half her face illuminated by the fire while the other is in the darkness.

“Yeah.”

I nod before slipping a hand in my pocket and fishing out  bread I stole earlier.

I toss it over to her as she hastily sinks her pearly whites into the soft bread, breaking off a piece.

I clap my hands and clear my voice.

“You know, Anita’s bakery has more guards than I remember.”

I pick crumbs off my black pants with precision, not reaching her gaze.

Rada doesn’t say anything, just eats her bread like it might disappear if she doesn’t eat it all.

We’re hungry.

If you asked me the last time I ate, I wouldn’t know what to tell you.

Rada had her beauty and grace to find a way to squeeze  spare change from passing visitors, while I have to steal and hunt to make ends meet.

I scratch my head, humming a steady beat.

Rada breaks a silence I was expecting to break by cracking a story.

“I was at the end of the street selling some makeshift clothes at my vendor when a little boy stopped in front of me and placed one shilling onto my cart and pointed at the pair of earrings hanging from the wooden box.”

She starts, recalling the memory and replaying it again like I was there.

I crawl towards her and nestle into my lap where she begins to stroke my head.

I curl my feet up and sigh.

This was the life I had lived in.

We had lived in.

A single rock made it impossible for me to sleep, I turned and twisted until Rada tapped my head.

“Stop it. You’ll put out the fire.”

I snort.

“If the fire is a better place to sleep, I’ll be happy to nestle into its flame.”