A normal life

The days following up to these events were almost insultingly unremarkable. Nothing seemed to happen, like fate had spread enough bad luck just for now and wanted to show its satisfaction about this fact at least for a few days. That was when I started to get bored for the first time since I left my old life.

I trained my shooting, kept my weapon clean, asked other people about tips and tricks in doing so and eventually ended up in the Saloon after reaching a daytime that made it feel less indecent to actually be there.

One day I finally decided to use my time for something useful. Or at least something that felt more useful than just doing nothing. I went to the shop, where I was greeted by Frank, a well-dressed man, with a waxed mustache, who used to dress well enough to always attend official meetings, if the need arose.

“Do you have some kind of Notebook? And maybe something to write into it?”, I asked him while indecisively looking around the shop.

“Actually I do. It’s not much but every once in a while, somebody, usually the womenfolk, come here to buy a diary. I assume it’s the same reason in your case?”

“Actually more like a novel, I’d say.”, I replied. I decided to call it a novel from the very beginning in case somebody ever found and read it.

“A novel! I didn’t know you had an artistic side in you.”

“Well, I don’t. But I feel like trying it recently.”

He laughed in a friendly way.

“Well, you will never know, if you don’t try!”

He started to search some drawers next to the counter and then pulled out a small book, bound in leather and sealed with two small cords that had been worked into the cover to tie it shut. Then he opened some other drawers and finally found what he had searched. A small bottle of ink, sealed with wax and a cork, and a pen, which had been worked out of some type of pitch-black wood I had never seen before. The choice of material had definitely been made out of artistic reasons, not because there was nothing else. The pen had a small cap to cover the metal feather in the pen and protect it from damage.

“They look great. How much is it?”

“Consider it a gift. Your shooting practice brings in more than enough money.”, he smiled.

I thanked him and left.

This evening I started to write in the book. I left the first page empty. I felt that if I wanted somebody to find this book once, I would want them to receive a message from the very beginning. But I wasn't sure in what to write as said message. So I started to write on Page two of the notebook.

The feather was gliding over the paper. The movement was smooth and the smell of ink drying on a paper that could only be considered as high-quality, had a strangely relaxing effect on me.

I started to write down what had happened to me, not knowing for whom I should even start to write it or why. There had been a growing feeling inside myself that had told me that I don’t want to forget what happened during all these times and lives, but also that I didn’t want to be forgotten in case I died again. I wouldn’t be able to copy the book over and over again to always keep a copy with me and leave one behind, but in case I died after meeting people whom I felt like I owed them an explanation, it would be the only way to do so.

I wanted to leave something behind, in case I had to leave yet again.

Months passed during which I wrote about my adventures, every day just a little. The heat of the day exhausted me and I didn’t dare to write into the book as long as somebody was watching me.

By now I had a pretty good feeling for my weapon and I became more comfortable with it. I didn’t have to make up any stories, I joined the conversations in the saloon every evening and even if I didn’t have anything to tell, in was still welcomed and respected, a feeling I hadn’t experience for a very long time.

Generally one could say that I had been accepted by society. The heat during the day was still getting to me but the people I talked to started to assure me, that it would be over soon. Winter was approaching. Apparently, it didn’t mean that it would get awfully cold and snowy, but rather a little chilly. Cold enough to stop my constant sweating at least.

The days and weeks had gone by in this certain pace, time used to have when feeling just slightly bored and by now it must have been a few months since the sheriff’s burial. Nothing had happened since then. But maybe this was thanks to the half-rotten scarecrows in front of town.

If I had something evil in my mind I would quickly turn around after seeing them.

By now I had written down my past story in my notebook and due to how boring the recent days were, I went to sleep early and just wrote ‘nothing unusual’ to save time and paper.

I started to wish for something interesting to happen. I felt obliged to stay here and protect the people. At the same time I knew I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life here.

This corner of the world didn’t have much to offer and I started to feel the urge for more. It was more than once that I thought about another ‘restart’, just to not call it rebirth or everything that lead to it.

I didn’t ask for another attack or anything involving violence. Just something slightly interesting.

One evening there was finally some change in this small town.

It all began while I was sitting at the saloon, having a light talk to Frank and the owner of the saloon Gav. I had never asked him for his real name. Everybody just called him Gav, I went along with it, and he seemed to be more than happy with this silent agreement.

We had just started our usual talk about the meaning of life, which then usually got sidetracked. One day it led to me explaining them why bamboo is a great material to work with, then again, lots of alcohol had been served that day, Frank explained that bandits were just hired by the government to make us pay secret taxes. We listened but not too carefully. All in all the meaning of life had turned out to be a great starter for conversations.

As we had just started talking about the topic yet another time, fully aware that we wouldn’t come to a conclusion, somebody new entered the saloon.

I had never seen him. He wore washed out jeans and some kind of torn cloth was covering his upper body. Partly at least. He looked at least as exhausted as I had been when I had arrived in town and for sure twice as dirty and ragged.

Everybody had stopped whatever they were doing and looked at him. He was still half a child. Fourteen, maybe sixteen, but definitely not older than that.

“What has happened to you, boy?”, I asked, feeling pity for him, or maybe just because I would have wished for this treatment myself.

“Water, please.”

“Gav. I’ll pay what he orders.”, I whispered to him.

I wanted to help the boy, but I still wasn’t rich although I had a somewhat regular income here. Making him think he had to pay would keep his spendings humble.

The boy sat down and started to drink.

I tried to repeat my question.

“What has happened to you, boy?”, I asked.

“My horse threw me off.”

Gav laughed so the whole room could hear it.

“Then we've got two bad riders here.”