Agony. Pain. Hurt. The work of the Devout.

The cold of the blade made its way across my face, insistently slicing at my flesh. I could feel
the presence of a cut passing past my eye and through my cheek, leaving finger deep scars,
Warm blood trickled down the bridge of my nose, making its way past my eye. The bruises
left on my wrists were a multitude of hues; garish purple splotches, colours that should not
normally be on someones skin. But I guess, I could never be considered normal; being
deemed to be a violation of Gods image and ineligible to be one of Gods children. Satan
created me. And now Satan owns me, as I now belong in the Fringes.

There was once a time Id see Waknuk as a place I can call home to; find joy, comfort and
kinship. But being brought back to this horrid town made me realise the great deal of
inelegance that is to be found in this pure town. The townspeople glared their disapproval,
as I was brought into the town square. Children snickered and giggled at my presence, but
within the crowds, I had found my family. Memories of us were playing by the nearby
pond, where we skipped stones together replayed in my head. But as he aged, Joseph
transformed into my distant and strictly devout Christian brother, one who was not able to
accept me nor the atrocities I possessed. Our eyes met briefly. When he turned to face me
there was no trace of brotherly love, not in his eyes or in track marks on his reddening face.
His eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, hard.

But amidst the dismissive roar of the crowds, there was one fairly young boy who seemed
undoubted familiar.
Little child, I murmured, my raspy voice getting his attention. He glanced at me for a
moment, yet chose to ignore the foreboding presence standing in front of him. I beckoned
once more, and finally unable to resist anymore, he moved to sit down on the bench. He had
the same face shape of his father; a rectangular face with a defined slightly pointed chin and
angular cheekbones. His baby-blue innocent eyes made it hard to believe he could be the son
of a grim, hard-nosed Devout.

Impulsively dragged away from the boy, I was unable to acquaint with the stories of my past.
My hands were once again strapped on to the horse with the sinewed coir ropes, which left a
bitter and wiry feelings across my wrists.