In a prison cell, a bed made from straw with only a sheet and a pillow, a hole from the person's facilities lay in the corner.
The walls had a single window with metallic posts in between so as to prevent escape, on the bed lay a man no more than 21 years of age with brown almost black hair and sea green eyes, wearing peasant cloth that had seen better days, much better days.
The fabric was rough against his skin, stained with the grime of weeks without proper washing, and torn at the seams where the guards had been less than gentle during his arrest. His feet were bare, the stone floor cold beneath them, and every breath he took tasted of dampness and despair.
"Would you take a look at that, pretty pathetic, huh. That kid you are looking at was once an aspiring carpenter, a young boy full of drive, hopes and dreams, oh yeah. This is his story, well actually my story that's right I'm that boy the name is Jim, Jim Hawkins. I was the world's best carpenter and they ruined my life for no reason, oh is that hard to believe. Look I tell you what you go back a ways, you know, before I was a prisoner and this will all make sense. I think it all started six years ago."
-SNAP-
[London-UK, October 1714]
I looked in the mirror as I finished combing my hair with my hand, the reflection showing a boy who still believed the world owed him something good. My hair fell in unruly waves that I'd learned to tame by tying it into a ponytail at the end.
The mirror itself was cracked, had been for months, but it was the only one in our small lodging, and I'd made peace with seeing my fractured reflection each morning.
As I left the house while doing spins, and dance moves towards the carpenter shop, after all what is life without a little bit of spice. The cobblestones beneath my feet were slick with yesterday's nights piss buckets, and I had to watch my step to avoid the horse shit.
Still, nothing could dampen my spirits in those days. I continued moving to my groove as I made my way to the place in which I always worked, humming a tune I'd heard at the market the day before.
Our shop smelled of wood shavings and linseed oil, what is linseed you may ask, well it was an oil extracted from the seeds of a a plant called the flax plant., it was used to waterproof the wood and protect it, now that we are done with the small lesson on linseed oil, let's continue.
I opened the door with a kick and yelled.
"Boom Baby!"
"Okay this is the real me."
Then as if it were a slideshow presentation it changed to me in the holding cell, shackled and beaten, my clothes torn.
"Not this."
It changed once more, back to the confident boy who thought he could dance his way through life's troubles.
"This."
It changed once more, back to the cell.
"Not this."
Then it changed again, to me standing proudly in front of the shop
"Winner."
Then it changed once more, to the cell.
"Loser."
Changing one final time to me in the carpenter shop.
"So, master what are we doing today?" I couldn't help but ask Kneebone, the person who had been teaching me since I was 10. He was a bit rough around the edges, he was like an onion you had to peel away the hard shell to find the big softie inside.
"Same as usual just sanding the benches unless something better comes up," Kneebone replied, not looking up from the piece of oak he was shaping. His concentration was absolute, another thing he'd tried to teach me, though I'd never quite mastered the art of stillness and shutting the hell up.
"Oh come on master, I need to make 20 more shillings by the end of the month and I can't do that by sanding benches." I whined, running my hand through my hair in frustration.
Twenty shillings might as well have been twenty pounds for all the hope I had of earning it through honest work.
"Don't know what to tell you lad, there is not much else we carpenters can do if nobody asks for us." Kneebone's voice held sympathy, but also resignation. He knew as well as I did that work was scarce, and good-paying work was scarcer still.
The truth was, London had more carpenters than it had need for furniture. Kneebone had been lucky to establish himself before the market became so crowded, but even he struggled some months.
So that is how the day went by, simple and menial tasks like sanding benches or flooring certain parts of the building, same thing as always. My mind wondering like it always did.
I thought of my mother's pale face, growing more gaunt each day. I thought of the coins hidden beneath our mattress, fewer each week as we spent them on medicine that seemed to do nothing but empty our purse.
As the sun began to set, I finally set down my sanding block. My fingers were cramped, and my back ached from hunching over the workbench all day, maybe that was why I was so damn short.
Then again it may be because I was 14 at this moment, or starved beyond recognition or another myriad of reasons, like the world had blessed me with short height for a handsome face.
But worse than the physical discomfort was the gnawing certainty that tomorrow would bring the same struggles, the same insufficient pay, the same slow slide toward destitution.
I started returning back home unlike with my usual flare, I couldn't help but think of all the monetary problems my mother and I were having since my father had died. We'd probably be thrown into the streets sooner or later, most likely sooner.
My father's death had been sudden, a fever that took him in three days, leaving us with nothing but memories and debts. He'd been a good man, honest to a fault, then again he may have been so honest because he was always bloody damn drunk.
In the middle of my train of thought, I accidentally bumped into an older gentleman. The collision was harder than I'd expected, he must have been walking quickly, and I'd been so lost in my worries that I hadn't seen him coming. We both stumbled, but he got the worst of it, his walking stick clattering to the cobblestones as he fell.
"Pardon me." I said quickly as I helped the man who had fallen to the ground. He was well-dressed, with a fine coat and polished boots that probably cost more than my mother and I spent on food in a month. His face was kind, though, creased with laugh lines that suggested he was more accustomed to smiling than frowning.
"Oh don't worry young man, I am all right," the man replied as he dusted off his coat. I helped him retrieve his walking stick, noting the silver handle carved in the shape of a lion's head.
Everything about him spoke of comfort, of a life well lived.
Grass is always greener on the other side, I told myself.
Just as I was going to start walking once more, I saw something on the ground, a watch.
It seemed as if it had fallen off the man when we had bumped into one another. It had a black rim and looked expensive, the kind of timepiece that wealthy merchants wore to show their prosperity. The chain was gold.
As I reached down to grab it and was about to yell for the man to give him his watch back, a thought crossed my mind.
The gentleman was already disappearing into the crowd, his figure growing smaller with each step. He hadn't even noticed the watch was missing, probably wouldn't notice until he tried to check the time hours from now.
He didn't need it, I however... I did.
I could sell this.
The thought came unbidden, but once it arrived, it took root with frightening speed. Twenty shillings. The rent. Medicine for mother. Food that wasn't just bread and thin soup. All of it could be solved by this one small object that had fallen so conveniently into my path.
I quickly pocketed the watch while looking around, since after all you never knew when someone could make a citizen's arrest. After all, this wasn't France, we didn't have police, but we did have nosy neighbors and with the bounty placed on thieves, I wasn't gonna risk it.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I slipped the watch into my pocket, the metal warm against my fingers.
I then whistled back home, the weight of the watch in my pocket increasing my nerves a hundredfold though I tried staying nonchalant about it.
Every person I passed seemed to be staring at me, as if they could see the stolen goods through the fabric of my clothes. A constable nodded at me from across the street, and I nearly jumped out of my skin before realizing he was just being friendly.
The walk home had never felt so long. By the time I reached our door, my shirt was soaked with sweat despite the fact that London was so damn windy.
After I arrived back in the house, my mother lay asleep in the one bed we had with a pale look on her face. She seemed to have gotten worse just in the hours I'd been gone, her breathing more labored, her skin taking on a waxy quality that terrified me.
The single candle I'd left burning had burned down to a stub. Only accentuating her gaint features.
"Hey mom." I whispered as I lit a fresh candle from the dying flame. "How are you doing?" I added as I kneeled next to her, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers were cold, and I could feel the bones through her thin skin.
My mother's groggy eyes opened slightly as she looked at me with kind eyes that had lost none of their warmth despite her illness. "How was work today, John?" She asked in a kind manner, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Don't worry about that mom, how are you feeling. Any better?" I questioned, though I already knew the answer. She wasn't gonna...
"I am as fine as ever," she replied back, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. She'd been saying the same thing for weeks, even as the life slowly drained out of her.
"Come on mom, be serious for a few moments." I couldn't help but say, my voice cracking slightly. I needed her to acknowledge what we both knew, that she was dying, and we didn't have the money to save her.
"Just let me sleep John," she sighed, turning away from me. Even that small movement seemed to exhaust her.
"Alright mom." I finally whispered as I kissed her forehead as she closed her eyes. Her skin was burning hot, and I could feel the fever radiating from her body. I pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, knowing it would do little to comfort her but needing to do something, anything.
My mother went to back to sleep, then I took out the expensive looking watch, as I looked at it in the candlelight. It seemed to be mostly an accessory watch instead of functionality since it just told the time of the day, unlike other watches which even told things like the month or day.
I started thinking of ways in which I could sell the watch without getting hanged for theft. The punishment for stealing was severe, death by hanging an example to be made out off.
I then remembered the few rumors which had started springing up about Jonathan Wild and some robbers who were rumored to work under him, with a name that frequently popped up James Skyes, a person who was said to work under him and be a thief, who also frequented a bar in Drury Lane called HallyDrinks.
Wild was also beginning to be known by another nickname, the Thief-Taker General, a man who supposedly caught criminals but was rumored to actually control them. If anyone could help me turn stolen goods into coin, it would be someone in his network.
[1 day later]
I strolled around the London streets, more specifically the brothel streets, the moonlight making the possibility of getting shivved pretty low, compared to normal that is, this is still London after all.
Slowly I came to a stop before a bar, a wood sign with the words HallyDrinks embedded on it, the letters carved deep and painted red, like dried blood.
I opened the wooden door, a creaking noise which quickly got drowned by the drunken screams and the clinking of glasses coming from inside the brothel. The sound hit me strong like the breath of a man in his seventh drink of the night.
Laughter, shouting, the scrape of chairs across wooden floors, all of it mixing into echoes of debauchery.
Inside the air smelled of spilled beer, cheap perfumes and stenches which smelled like a pig's food. The smoke from countless pipes created a haze that made my eyes water, and I had to resist the urge to cover my nose with my sleeve.
The women danced as the men howled at them, while ordering drinks at every moment they could.
In the corner surrounded by two women, one which looked Russian with blonde hair and sky blue eyes, the other a redhead with brown eyes seemed to be 'servicing' a man. He had brown hair and average looking features except for a smile which looked similar to... a fox.
"James Skyes," I murmured as I walked slowly towards the only person I could think of that I could sell the watch to. My legs felt unsteady, whether from fear or the... no it was most definitely the fear.
"James Skyes," I said once more towards the man with two women on his side. He did a hand gesture and the two ladies walked away from us at a rapid pace, frowns on their faces that suggested they weren't happy about the interruption.
"What kid," James said taking a swig of his beer, foam clinging to his upper lip.
"You better have some good shit or you're getting the ever living shit beat out of you for interrupting my evening," he added, his foxy smile appearing once more. The threat was delivered casually, I guess this wasn't the first time he had threatened someone and it most certainly wouldn't be the last.
I sat in front of him, the chair wobbling slightly, uneven, maybe I could fix that.
Head in the game, Hawkins, I reminded myself.
I grabbed the watch from my pocket and placed it on the table. The metal clinked against the wood.
"I am here to sell this." I finished saying, my voice steady.
James grabbed the watch by the chain, from the table as he inspected it slowly, turning it over in his hands like a jeweler examining a precious stone. His fingers traced the engravings, and I saw his eyebrows raise slightly.
"Looks like you won't get your ass beat. This is a pretty good watch. Where did you get it from?" he asked, setting it back on the table but keeping one finger on it, as if to prevent me from snatching it back.
"I can't tell you that, trade secret." I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. The phrase sounded foolish even to my own ears, but it was the best I could manage.
"Well it looks like it is Italian, the chain seem to be worn out and everything works pretty well. I will offer you 9 shillings for it." He added, his fox-like smile widening as he named his price.
The watch was worth more than that, much, much more, probably thirty shillings at least, maybe more. But as I looked at his foxy smile and felt the weight of his stare, I backed down.
"Fine by me." I finished saying, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
James grinned once more as he put his hand in his pocket and threw nine silver coins, shillings, on the table. They clinked against each other, a sound that should have been music to my ears but somehow felt like a death knell.
"Nice doing business with you Mr..."
I guess, I needed a name, but I couldn't exactly go with my own could I?
I thought of my father.
"Jack, Honest Jack."