The boy had toiled for weeks since coming to this town: odd jobs, panhandling, pick-pocketing, and outright theft. It seemed that nothing but violence was a means for his survival; however, he did not always have the choice to avoid it himself. He had been verbally and physically assaulted more times then he could count on a single hand on a daily basis but it was worth it. Survival was worth any punishment he had to endure, which was also highly contradictory. More than one of those he worked for had offered more than a day's work, food, and even a place to stay but they couldn't be trusted, could they? No, each one would come to the same conclusion as those in his village did: he was dirty, unclean, and a threat to their society once they learned the truth. He hadn't even done anything to deserve such treatment to his recollection, to be cast out so. His parents, too, were innocent of all but challenging their mediocre and close-minded definition of normal. The thought brought back the blurry vision of fear, vertical ropes snapping taught, and the sound of so many screaming at the condemned. He shook his head as if it could dismantle the imagery but it stuck with him until the thought of hate replaced it.
No, he thought, many of those who helped him were obviously different, they wouldn't judge, they could be trusted. Deep in his heart he knew he kept his distance because it was he that was not to be trusted. Those with kindness would eventually be burned by the rage that consumed him, this catalyst that shoved the young man from dying in the gutters and alleys of the city to now wielding a simple, leather-bound book. He was still hungry, his head swam often with the fatigue of malnutrition, and the wounds he suffered days ago still throbbed and burned but it didn't matter to him. If he could read, he would. If he could not read, he would steal for food now until he could.
There was little light at this hour and his frail figure shook from exposure, but driven he was. Hoarse whispers came from cracked lips in this dark, dank corner of Myrkentown until a soft light grew about him, apathetic of his need for warmth. He could read by it and he would until he may collapse or be so close to it that he could barely drag himself to a nearby street where some passerby may offer food or water. Indeed, they were fools to not reject him again: once was enough. He would prey on their ignorance and misplaced generosity while they should have let him die there.