My mother had died when I was three. My father was my only family but then he was sent off to fight in battle... He died in that battle along with several other young men and other fathers. I was now my only company. They buried my father in a graveyard close to the house. I had watched him being buried. He had his sword in his belt as they walked his lifeless form to the grave. I
took that sword, as they walked past me, and hid it under my dress. Nobody noticed through their teary eyes of sadness and misfortune. Ha!
Their sadness and misfortune! What about mine?...... I still have that sword. But, I discovered, that it's killing me as time goes by. I tried to leave the sword once but my body began to burn and the air felt like it was being choked out of me. Desperately, I dug up the sword with no intention of leaving it again. Over the years, I have been trying to figure out this sword and how it's killing me but it is beyond my knowledge. For now, I face the fact of death but I'm still trying to do what I can. I don't know how much longer I have or if the death is going to be painful... but, still, I'm trying.