HOME | DD

Description
Start with a young man and an old man.

Strictly speaking, the younger man is not a man, but a boy. He is a very young thing, this boy with a young view of the world. He has done nothing.

The old man is wholly an old man, wrinkled, pocked with old marks, skin colored with liver spots. He is a very old thing, this man; advanced in his years, with the cynical view of some one that's seen everything. And done everything.

The old man is explaining something to the young boy. The man's voice, despite his appearance, is strong. He speaks very softly. It's so natural it's like his voice has forgotten how to speak in normal tones.

“There's a line, you see. Most people, most people they think there's two places. Above the line and below it. It's a very straight forward view. It's not even black and white, good and evil, right or wrong, though, the line. It's perceptions. People who follow the law, people who don't do the things they think they can't because it's not allowed, they're above the line.”

The young boy is just staring at the old man. He hasn't said a word since before the old man started talking. He hasn't said a word since before the old man found him with the dead body. He, in fact, hasn't said a word since that body was not a body, but a person.

The old man continues, “People who do whatever it takes, people who don't follow the law. People who either don't care what they're allowed to do, or willingly go against what they think they're allowed, anyway, to get what they want. They're below the line.”

They are crouched above the cooling body, which lays on the cobblestones of a back ally in a great city. The old man speaks to the young boy over the scent of death, over the stiffening corpse, over the congealing pool of blood the knife wounds let loose.

The old man continues, “It's a very straight forward view. It's also wrong. Most people, most people don't realize there's degrees.” The old man stresses the important words. When he says them his voice drops to a whisper, as if he is imparting secrets to the young boy. “You can walk just above the line. You can wrap the law around your finger, dance on it's edge, get what you want. You can go way high above the line. You can walk a straight line, all pure in your ideals and morals, never second guess the King's law. Degrees, boy.”

The alley is dark and cold, even without blood the cobblestones are slick with the muck of refuse. The young boy is painted in this muck and in the blood of the corpse. It's too dark to see his bruises or the rough marks on the corpse's knuckles. The old man is shabbily dressed but far too clean for the alley. It's too dark to see the dagger in his hand.

The old man continues, “Then you go under the line. There's a lot more degrees, under the line. How far under the line you go, that's what makes you, where I'm concerned. How low you get, that's what makes you. It's what breaks you, too, most of the time. Every one's got something they can't do. Can't kill a child. Can't kill a family member. Can't dismember. Can't betray some one, something, some ideal. Can't rape. Can't steal. Can't this, can't that.”

The corpse is ravaged with stab wounds. They are clinical stabs, clean and precise. They are not slashes or rips done in self-defense or in rage. They are cold blooded. They are simple. The knife in the old man's hand is tapered to a very fine point to enter cleanly, then flared with a graceful double edge. The perfect stabbing weapon. The blade is covered in cold blood.

The old man continues, “It's not that they won't. They think they won't. They think it's a choice, something they can pick. It's not. Something in them can't fall that far down, even if pushed as far as they'll go. So it breaks you, when you can't go any lower.”

The young boy is staring at the old man, his slender, bloody fingertips resting ever so gently on the filthy cobblestones. Though he doesn't seem to notice it, he is shaking from the cold. It's too dark to see the expression on his face.

The old man continues, “The best of us find where our own personal bottom is. We circumvent it. We dodge it. We never try to fall under it, we never try to go lower, we never break ourselves over it. That's how you stick around. That's how you survive.”

The old man is looking at the corpse with eyes skilled in years of perusing the dead. He holds the bloody dagger in a light grip, incorrectly if he was going to actually use it as a weapon. When he stresses an important word, he taps the body for emphasis with the tip of the dagger.

The old man continues, “You're under the line now, boy. This was your first discovery. But you can't do the work if you don't know your limitations. Not if you don't want to break. The best don't break.”

The dagger is passed over the corpse from old to young. The young boy grips it perfectly in smooth, bloody hands. Almost idly the young boy sinks the dagger into one of the wounds, fitting it to the size of the stab. He repeats the motion a few times, getting it smooth, getting it perfect. He is still staring at the old man.

The old man continues, “You're going to be the best, boy, or you're going to break. You're going to find out your limitation, what you can't do. Now. When you find out just how low you can get under the line, you'll either break or circumvent.”

Following the dagger, a scrap of paper is passed from old to young. The young boy's thumb leaves a bloody print on it, before he can slip it into his pocket. The old man stands slowly, his knees creaking loudly in the cool dark of the alley.

The old man finishes, “That paper's got your second discovery. I'll keep giving you them until you can't do one. Come back to me after it's done or you find how low you can't go.”

The young boy draws the dagger from the body without widening the wound. He cleans the blade on the edge of the body's sleeve. He tucks the weapon under his shirt where it's as hidden as the blood printed discovery is. He turns and walks away.

-

One day later, the old man looks at the young boy and the boy says something.

“Lower,” is what he says.

-

One day later, he says the same thing.

-

Two days later, he says the same thing.

-

One day later, he says the same thing.

-

Many discoveries later, he says still,

“Lower.”

-

Many discoveries and many months later, he says the same thing.

-

It's been two years and he's still saying,

“Lower.”

-

It's been more than a few years now and for the first time either of them can recall, the old man has lost his patience. The young boy is a young man by now. He has come to age among the old man's discoveries.

The young man says, “Lower,”

The old man's voice is just slightly raised. “'Lower,' you say, 'lower,' every time I send you to find the lowest. How can you be the best if you don't know your limit?”

There is a long pause. They are in that first alleyway again, with another body between them, or at least something that was once a body. When alive, it was very small. Now it's small and in many pieces. The young man is painted once again in blood.

The young man says, “Maybe I don't have one.”

The young man's voice isn't as soft as the old man's and he stresses nothing. He has no inflection, no accent, no melody or pitch or fluctuation in his voice. It's too dark to see his face, but in truth, there wasn't anything to see to start with. The young man's face is as smooth as his voice.

“Don't have one?” The old man's voice is still slightly raised and now it's mocking, filled with laughter. “Of course you have one, boy. But I haven't the time or the bloody imagination to keep sending you out to find it. You'll never be the best and you'll probably break.”

The old man shrugs with the economic motion of discarding the useless. They both stand, flecks of bone and other bodily material falling off the young man onto the puddle and pile of something once alive.

The young man says, “Maybe I already broke, before you found me. Maybe I can't break any more.”

Staring at each other, the gape of age, race and death between them, the old man falls silent.

He finally replies, “Years we've done this and 'lower,' you keep telling me. So 'Lower,' I'll keep saying until you find the lowest under the line. If you ever do.”

The old man turns away from the young man and begins walking. The young man stares after him, silent. What his voice and his face didn't say, his body reveals in a despondent slump of his narrow shoulders.

The old man pauses at the mouth of the alley and looks over his shoulder. A flutter of torchlight from the street illuminates his features, showing a kindly old man with a smile on his face and warmth in his voice.

The old man says, “I'm an old man, you know. I haven't the time to find another one for this. Are you coming or aren't you, Lower?”

Lower picks his way carefully over death and races to reach his mentor's side. When he reaches his mentor, the torch light flickers to reveal a very pleased expression on his young face. The old and the young man walk away quickly, going on their way to their task. They waste no time. They've both waited long enough, after all.