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Language:
English
Series:
Part 1 of The Raven's Collar - The Tale of Anri
Collections:
Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
Words:
557
Chapters:
1/1
Kudos:
14
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709

The Tale of Anri - Chapter 1

Summary:

A short prologue for The Tale of Anri

Work Text:

I should like to think that the story I'm about to tell you is somewhat interesting, otherwise it was completely useless to document such a story in ink. I will not go so far as to say my life was so very interesting that I needed to write an autobiography… My personal opinion is that biographies, both auto and regular, are unpleasant and tedious to read, unless it is the diary of Anne Frank. This is not a biography, but rather a tale surrounding a rather lovely accessory – a collar.

Collars are lovely things as it is. They can identify a dog or cat that lives outside, and bring them safely home if they are lost. They can take the form of a choker necklace and lend an elegant air to a ball gown at a masquerade. But they can also bind, and it is this manner that I have written about. I therefore apologize in advance if you find such a story dreadfully boring and uninteresting, but then again, perhaps you just have poor taste and you might find just about any book dreadfully boring or uninteresting. There are a lot of people like that in this world, one of which being my father, and my father is the beginning of this story.

My father, to some great degree, was not only a dreadfully boring person, but also a dreadfully cruel and disgusting person, and was also, more often than not, horrendously drunk. In case you have never lived with a drunkard before, being drunk often makes one either drowsy and confused or very mean and abusive, and my father was the latter. I don't much remember my mother or where exactly she disappeared off to, but I, being the eldest of three siblings, looked after two little girls at a young age, protecting them from a dreadfully boring, cruel, disgusting, mean and abusive drunk for fourteen years. But I did not begin this story to tell you about a drunkard or two little girls. I am merely telling you this to make clear my reasons for leaving that home, and beginning the life I am about to tell you of.

Many people think runaways are awful little children who don't appreciate the home they are given. I've not met many runaways, but I for one was not leaving a home worthy of any appreciation. At the age of fourteen I, a scrawny boy with jet-black hair and mismatched eyes, had just about had enough of living in a home run by a drunkard. And so with barely anything in a duffel bag I found in the basement, I climbed out the window and left the small house in Surrey.

What happened next was not dreadfully important or interesting enough for me to tell you. I don't much think anyone would really enjoy reading about how I had stolen money from my father's wallet, two-hundred pounds to be precise, and took a bus from a corner in Surrey to the train station, and took a train from Surrey to London, and then wandered the streets of London looking for a place to live. These things are boring things to read about, so I won't waste your time with them. Instead, my dear, I will tell you about a school.

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