Young Writers Society

In Golden Chains

~

In the morning he was dragged out of the cell and shoved towards the sunlit road to his demise. Two tall, emotionless guards held his limp arms tightly, staring forward, thinking of nothing. The prisoner's weary feet dragged along the stone-cold floor, scratching against the stone as if it was sandpaper. His eyes were only half-open and unfocused, his face and arms bruised scarlet. His breathing was heavy, throat dry and stomach empty, limbs aching and veins pulsating - though like a broken record, one thought lingered in his mind, repeating over and over. He stared downwards at the chains on his hands and feet, weighing him down, their cold oozing through his skin. He could no longer stand its sound, the clanking so unpleasant, even hurtful to his ears which were used to silence.

Soon he was outside, the sunlight forcing him to close his eyes completely though it still burst through his thin eyelids. Before he was able to adapt to light, he heard what seemed to be a thousand voices all in disarray, in a chaotic melody of hushed mumbles. Once his eyes were open, he saw a crowd of hundreds, hungry for a show, their faces lighting up in eerie excitement. They pointed at him, and many let out a short, menacing laugh as they swiftly turned away to hide their faces from the light radiating, bouncing off the prisoner's chains. They had been made of pure gold, the finest in the city - a symbol, an element of the exhibition. It was their idea; a cruel reminder of the prisoner's past, reminder of his crime. For what seemed like hours, the criminal was dragged past the swarm of hungry eyes and violent souls, shaped and molded by the war that had raged on for years. The prisoner felt their stares pierce through him, he could feel that each wished for nothing more than to tear him apart, but still he did not feel the same towards them - he did not hate the ones who hated him that day.

Finally he was lifted onto a wooden platform overlooking the crowd, and forced down onto his knees. The prisoner obeyed every order silently and immediately, and was patient, as if waiting for a suitable moment. His chains glistened in the glorious morning light, sending occasional flashes of light onto the swarm below when he moved. Eventually, a heavy silence hung above them all, in preparation for someone to speak. All the prisoner could hear were his own deep breaths and the blood rushing through his veins and head. He waited.

A man of great status had appeared just near him on a platform of his own. He wore a cape woven with golden thread and velvet, was groomed down to every hair, polished and dressed, like a doll, to be presented to the crowd. His voice boomed through the quiet morning as he announced the prisoner's crime, loud enough for all to hear, loud enough for the gasps and grumbles and shouts that followed his words:

''Deserter.''

That word sounded worse than murderer, arsonist or thief, for desertion was a matter of pride. It was a matter of duty, of something larger than a simple emotional or material drive that's present in any other crime. To the crowd below, breaking trust in times of need had been the worst. They had been told it was. The prisoner knew that full well, yet still waited for his chance to speak. He wished for a word more than ever now - he had lived a part of a crowd just like them, and now longed to speak on his own.

''The war is won, my friends!''

The judge continued, illuminating the spectators with emotion just like a politician would, convincing them of the horror of desertion, stringing their hearts out to align with his feeling, his idea. He reminded them of the toil and blood through which the brave fought to victory, of that the man on his knees was ever so different to the heroes of the day. The prisoner kneeled and wondered, staring down at the ones who hated him, wondered what his world has come to where a judge acts as both defense and attack, passes a verdict without common agreement, presents a prisoner like a rabbit for lions to devour. Finally, the verdict was passed, in a voice even colder than the judge's soul, full of controlled fury:

''Death to the deserter.''

His statement was supported by an immediate uproar from the ones below. Hats and closed fists were thrown upwards into the air, a unified agreeing shout. The prisoner was not surprised by the verdict, since he knew it back ever since he turned his back to the enemy lines, yet still he shivered as he recognised the same screams - he had heard them before, when it was announced that the war was over. He lifted his head, and many gasped upon seeing his disfigured face. Finally, the prisoner found his chance, a split second it seemed, whilst all were convincing themselves and one another of the righteousness of the judge's words. He first said something noone could hear, but all could see his dry and cracked lips move. Though nobody expected it, and noone seemed to want to, a miracle occurred: the crowd slowly fell silent, waiting to listen to him - to the deserter, to the one who deserved death.

''I saw a boy.''

That's what the deserter said - though the crowd heard him this time, they did not understand. Hushed whispers wondered, immediately thought up theories. Suddenly, they were silent once more as they heard the golden chains clang when the prisoner tried to move his hands, at the very least to feel them.

''I saw a boy, he must have been ten, maybe. He was pointing a gun at me. He did not know how to use it, he took it from his father's dead body... I killed the father just before.''

His voice trembled and occasionally dropped an octave - his dry throat did not seem to be able to support words that were uttered with such weight on his soul. As he talked and remembered, his heart ached, ached like never before, so much more than his bruises and heavy head.

''He did not know how to... but he wanted to kill me, I could see it in his eyes. His small, innocent eyes, wet from tears. The gun wasn't even loaded.''

Then, the prisoner did not see the crowd before him, he only saw only the face of the child that day, unvoluntarily he was plunged into his memory he so wished to forget.

''He looked at me, he did not know me, but he hated me. He hated me more than I ever... ever thought a child could ha--''

A lump scratched against the sides of his dry throat, his speech trailed off into silence as he felt his eyes begin to sting. However, something inside him compelled him to continue. The crowd stood as one entity, waiting for more. Were they listening to the criminal's words and their meaning, or were they waiting for justification of the verdict, I will never know. The judge, who had seemingly lost patience, and wished to speed up the process, threw his hand outwards, but his command was not obeyed. The sword with which the justice would be served remained pointed towards the ground, held firmly in the hands of the guard. The crowd had listened with hatred still rooted deep within them, but now they listened as a mix of emotions formed in their hearts that they had never felt before.

''A child must not hate. I took his father from him, and he... that little boy will never be the same. You all...!''

Suddenly his golden chains chimed once more as he lifted himself slightly, his voice raising, battling the suffocating tears:

''You all sit here, happy that it's all over. You have never seen what I've seen. You don't know anything... These golden chains show you that I've lived my life with money - that's true. But no man... No man, rich or poor, should ever see what I have. No one deserves this!...''

Finally and suddenly his pain had overcome him, and his chains clanked once more as he fell even lower, wishing himself to be reduced to nothing. He had quite physically felt his heart breaking, stinging him from the inside, his every muscle contracting then feeling sore from the force. Silence hung above them all, though a silence much different to before. It shocked them to realise, but many recognised a doubt in their hearts. What was this doubt? Was it that they finally found some humanity amongst their souls, blinded by and forced into hatred? The prisoner, with all the strength he had left, whispered something the crowd could not hear, and all that came after were violent sobs, shaking him whole. In a moment, much to everyone's surprise, the faceless guard near him kneeled down, listening carefully to what the prisoner mumbled to himself in between his uncontrollable shakes. He then straightened himself, and whispered the prisoner's words to another guard. That man nodded silently, slowly walked, carried the message down the wooden stairs, and to an elderly woman on the edge of the crowd. In a matter of minutes, hundreds of people were repeating the same phrase, over and over. At first, they were still whispers, and some refused to speak a criminal's words, still blinded by the lies of a figure of authority. But slowly, their voices grew louder and louder by the second, from a whisper to a scream:

''He ran to let the boy live!'' they chanted, their voices determined and, at last, devoid of their former violence and blind anger: ''He ran to let him live!''

''Is that a crime?!'' another spectator screamed into the crowd.

The judge and prisoner both watched in disbelief the words of a man sentenced to death turned into a song without instrument, into a common idea - true proof that words are so much more powerful than weapons used to silence them. I lifted my eyes to the sun, with a renewed hope for humanity, with a clear and soothing thought on my mind, that no more lives would be taken that day. I wondered how the crowd now no longer trusted the colourful, angry lies of the judge, and suddenly put their trust into a prisoner with a broken heart.

The judge screamed out into the crowd, but he was no longer heard. And the prisoner, though the pain still stung him through like poison, suddenly knew that he was smiling.