Killer Kesha
My first memory was at the summer market where my mother, Ella, bought me a piece of bread. We were on the lower end of society and something so little had taken her a month to save for.
I strolled about, observing the different vendors, merchants and tents when a group of older boys snatched the loaf from my hands. They ran away laughing; however, despite my despair, I wasn’t going to let them steal my prize without retribution.
I stalked the boys to a back alley with an overhang. They headed for a broken grate exposing a set of steps down into a stone tunnel. I crept through the shadows edging nearer until I was close enough to grab back my prize.
Darting out, I snatched it back. While they were much stronger, I was more agile and evaded their grabbing arms.
It was the first time I used my genetics to my advantage. Genetics is your lifeline.
People might not say it directly, but take one look around and you’ll have your answer. It’s the foundation of society, the cornerstone of how we live life. From birth until your mid-teens, a series of tests identify your ability in a number of categories.
Mother never let me get tested. She always said that they’d take me away and put me to work wherever most effective. If you had Strength-abundant genetics, you’d be a soldier. Charisma-heavy results and you’d be trained to bargain like a merchant. High Mana scores and they’d harness your magic at the university.
The tests were more of a formality than anything. A way for the crown to keep a record on their subjects. It doesn’t take a wiz to know you can swing a sword or cast a spell.
I’d always known my skills were finesse and mastery of movement. Yet, I didn’t know how far that mastery reached as I’d rarely put them to use. Consequently, my Mana was so low that I’d never cast a spell, nor would I ever end up doing so.
My mother died when I was twelve.
We were poor and there was little to be done. It had started as a common illness but quickly became deadly. The life slowly drained out of her; her complexion paling a little more each day. I did anything I could; even trading her silver locket for potions to lessen her pain. Nothing worked.
I waited with her day and night, pleading to some god for a miracle. She told me in her final moments that there was something I needed to know.
A friend of hers used to work in the king’s inner circle carrying out his dirty work. He came to her one day with the news. The royal family had a child and scales showed she had the lowest Mana imaginable. The princess would never be able to cast a spell.
It was unheard of and absolutely unacceptable for the imperial image. They abandoned the child, sending her off to never be seen again. She was to be killed, but the guard, in all his malevolent service for the king, had never murdered an innocent child.
He requested for Ella to protect her. When the princess was to come of age, she was to be told of her true lineage but would never be able to claim lands or titles. Thus, my mother accepted me without question and raised me as her own.
The only mark I had to show for all this was the scar on my left shoulder. The mark of royalty, shared by all who were of the king’s blood.
She strained nearing the end of the recount. Tears welled in my eyes. Panic shook through me. I couldn’t stay.
It was the last I saw of her. I burst out the door. The dark skies matched my mood. My teardrops mixed with raindrops in the cold puddles below.
I knew I couldn’t tell anyone, but there was no one to tell even if I wanted to. My vision faded to a blur as I dashed through side streets and underpasses. My cloak was soaked and muddied near the bottom from the roadside gutters.
The market I’d often visited as a kid greeted me. I found my way to the stone tunnel’s entrance behind it. The iron gate was locked shut but one of the bars was twisted out of place. Not knowing where else to go, I squeezed through the narrow gap.
Silently sticking to the shadows, I watched. People fought with circles surrounding them, others lay on the ground still, some slouched up against walls. The flames of the torch-lit walls danced farther down the catacombs. The damp stone bricks glistened in the flickering light.
The tunnel led to a large room floored with wooden planks. Chairs and tables occupied the majority of its territory. The dust and rubble were cleared from the ground placing it in much better condition than the besieging passages.
Over the coming months, I’d settled into my new home. We were all misfits in our own ways. There were other orphans and even entire families who couldn’t make a living. I’d grown to think of the underground society as one big family.
People looked out for each other. The select few that worked provided for many. Others had to resort to stealing or picking through trash at night. As for myself, I’d moved on from Ella’s death and I was fond of my new family. However, the memory was always in the back of my mind.
Like an untreated wound, the burden of my past festered into a loathing hatred for the King and the royal family. Curse them for casting me out. Ella’s death was their fault. My wreck of a life was their fault. The beggars who were starved thin were their fault.
I joined the fight rings as a means to channel my anger. I’d always known my talent was speed over strength, but I’d never honed it to its full potential. Every day was another day to push myself to new limits. I trained, I fought and I planned.
Five years of discipline and I was no longer the weakling of a child that hobbled in that rainy night. I was fast as lightning, dodging every attack that came at me. I twisted and turned. The arena was my stage, opponents were frozen in stone as I waltzed through them. I was untouchable.
I entered the competitive fighting pits. No longer was it a game for fun, it was a game of life and death. No one was there to break up a fight. You were there for money and glory or you weren’t there at all.
Some used swords as tall as a child, others used axes, a few used hammers, but I used knives. Two small daggers in hand with more hidden in the folds of my cloak. I quickly rose in the rankings.
What good was a slash strong as an ox when the target was gone in a blink? What good were hammers that shatter skulls when a swing takes an eternity in the eyes of the victim? I was the eternal fighter, my dexterity unmatched.
It all played a part in making me who I am and who I’m going to be. I sit perched on the castle ledge looking down through the glass at the royal feast. The wind howls in my face and bites my jet black cloak. My knives glisten with the reflections of distant stars. I take three deep breaths and close my eyes.
They forgot about me long ago. But I never forgot them. I never forgot the starving homeless. I never forgot Ella. They called me many things. They called me the Brandisher of Blades, the Dashing Dancer, the Fiery Fighter.
They call me Killer Kesha, and I’m going to kill the King.
1321 words
May 13, 2020
all-stories