The Boy In The Alleyway

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
A young lady of age eighteen lives in Europe where if you talked against the church, you were killed. Follow part of her life and what it's like to only know so little about someone only to see them move on.

Submitted: November 10, 2018

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Submitted: November 10, 2018



My name is Vivi, seventeen years old, an oddball. Seventeen they said, seventeen and I could leave the orphanage. It’s now a year later and I’m eighteen, still I cannot leave the horrific place. In a fit of anger, I kicked the metal waste-bin to the left of me. It fell over, the lid that was clasped shut popped off. Something was looking at me. “Hello?” I asked looking at the faint silhouette I could see in the back of the Alley. It moved, it moved closer to me! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A boy, roughly eighteen, of age to own land. Why is he here? “Excuse me, sir, are you alright?” He stopped shy of the light the dimmed into the alley.

“Do you have food?...” he asked, his voice scratchy and quiet. The boy had been looking down at the bag that I was carrying. Reluctantly, I took out a loaf of bread, tearing it in half. Hesitantly, I walked into the alley and held out the torn bread. He snatched it gently. A surprise, most violently attack when a young girl is about, walking alone. I smiled meekly at him and walked off back to the foster home.

For several months this became a routine, he began to talk to me. On one day in early August he had asked my name, I replied, giving him a warm smile that seemed to make him happy. I never thought to ask him his name, I would do it when I came back from my trip. I told him how I was being offered to be an artist, to learn under a mentor in France till December when I was allowed to return to visit everyone I know here in town. He congratulated me, his kind smile had faded however, I did not know why. I gave him a coat and some money before I had gone in hopes it would help him.

In early December news was spreading throughout Europe and France from the letters I had been sent. One letter I was given, was an apologie for something. It was not signed and had no return address. The last two lines of the letter—I had not finished. I was taken to a banquet with my mentor, the french king had enjoyed the paintings I had helped make. By the time we had arrived back at the manor, I had forgotten about the letter. When my mentor helped carry my things to the carriage, I took the letter placing it in the pocket of my coat.

When I returned home, it was December, December 23…. It was early evening and I had gone to see my friend in the alleyway, to ask if he wrote the letter. When I got there, the area was enclosed, surrounded by police. I came over to one of the officers who greeted me kindly and answered my question. His looked puzzled as I ran off quickly to the Church’s courtyard. I gasped in dismay, my friend…. They were hanging him. He looked into the mob that stood in front of him. He glanced around the outer parts of the courtyard seeing me. The head bishop asked if he had anything to say.

He spoke, clear and loud but, soft and naive. “You punish me for a crime I had not committed, I accept that. You however will never know the true story nor the right one that had happened… and to the one who gave me the bread, I thank you. You showed me a reason to fight back against what others thought and told of me… I thank you.” The bishop chuckled a little accusing him of something such as a lie, a fable, a tale to spare his life. The man motioned to a guard who then pushed a leaver. He fell, dying before my eyes.

The mob erupted into cheers. The bishop gone on to say how they were all safe now. My legs gave out beneath me, I collapsed to the ground beginning to weep. The letter feel from my pocket landing in front of me, threatening to blow away in the wind. I grabbed it wiping away some of my tears. I read through it…. The last to lines read… “I hope this letter has gotten to you…. The bishop has me to be hung December 23—I wish that you do not mourn for me. Continue with your studies, I promise, you will have all the things you wanted, all the things I threw away….”

A/N: This is for a writing contest I'm doing in my community where I live. However, if you would like to see another short story/part of this story leave a comment saying so or message me. I'd be glad to do so!

© Copyright 2019 W0lf3. All rights reserved.

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