I, Francis Sorrow, will hereby be truthful and honest in this biography. I will not elaborate or change any events you may read here. I may not be old, I may not have lived a full life, trust me dying at only 14 years of age was not something I was counting on, however I have been through some experiences that other mortal people may not have. So I will endeavor to write as much as I can in as much detail as I can remember. This is my promise to anyone reading this small piece of insignificant history.
Born Francis Gabriel Sorrow, of Durban street, London on a thunderous day in the middle of June, the 20th to be precise, my future seemed set in stone for my hard-working parents. John and Adelaide Sorrows had already bore nine children before me. I was to be the youngest and last child, a fact that my mother had made sure she had told my mechanic father the night before. She had argued that any more than 10 children was simply to much strain on her brittle bones. Two years later however that argument would have been made redundant as little Dorothy pushed her way into this life. I didn't have much in the way of material possessions, as was the norm in 1930, however I was granted the honor (My mother's words not mine) of growing up in a large household. I maintain to this day that to me having that many older brothers and sisters was a curse and for that reason only, dying was a great favor the world gave to me. The only sibling I ever cared for, in fact the only human I ever cared for, was my baby sister Dorothy. As I mentioned she was two years younger than me, but always had the good sense to hand me the nearest heavy object when I was having one of my legendary temper tantrums.
I have a small build, I won many fights purely because of quickness and acrobatic skills, not strength of a punch. However my temper was a trait I could never change. Fights was a normal occurrence growing up, I would clear the house just by glaring at a sibling. If you met me in the street you would see a small, blonde haired child with one blue eye and one green, people would call me an angel, my brothers and sisters would call me the devil in disguise. As I got older I realized that I could use my angelic appearance for questionable deeds. Whether it was playing an innocent boy that had got no idea where the extra sweets in my pocket had came from, to charming my way into a woman's heart or a man's wallet. I cared not for whom I used my skills on, or for what means. My morals where simple, survive in the most easiest way humanly possibly. I hated everyone and everything for a long time. I did have a job, I loved my job very much, being an apprentice to a mechanic who mainly worked on planes was a very lucrative business, especially when the war came. I had many dreams, being a pilot was the one thing I really wanted to do with my life. However when I realized that having a coming from a poor, working class family was not something that helped you in anyway, I mustered the strength to hate my parents even more than I already did.
Life seemed to get from bad to worse as I got older, I still had all my limbs attached, I did have a police record, many people in my neighborhood knew to stay away from me and yes I had a reputation of being a flirt, a thief and a liar. However the one thing that changed was the people I had started to associate myself with. Word had spread of my skills and all the wrong sort of people, the ones your mother would warn you about, started wanting to know me. Drug dealers, drinkers, fighters, and many other lowlife scum decided that I would be a good new recruit. It drove my parents nearly insane. Before the meetings I had taken pride in knowing that they spoke of just what had happened to have turned me so sadistic, so dark that they could barely talk to me without presuming I was up to something. (I usually was) I would catch conversations about how my sisters had all been fortunate to marry strong, rich men and that my brothers (Even though most had died fighting in the war) Were all good, honorable men, that didn't have a bad bone in their bodies. To me these conversations were the highlight of my day. To know how much pain and grieve I had caused them was a happy thought for me.
I knew, however, when the men with the large eyes who were doused up on any drug they could get their murky hands on, started arriving at my door asking for me in person, that maybe I had made the wrong decision with my life. Unfortunately when I finally understood this, it was simply to late. I would either have to live up to my reputation, or die trying to get out of the light.
I still, to this day, do not know whether that fateful night was a blessing or a curse. I remember the party, the girls, the music like it was all a dream. The only thing I can really say, was that walking out of the side door, leading into that darkened alley was the worst mistake I would ever make in my life. To be perfectly precise, it was the last decision I ever made while I was still living and breathing. The howling wind shrieking in my ears was the backdrop to my monstrous end. The smell of blood, sweat and a unknown stranger was heavy in the last few breaths my body made. I presumed that I would go down fighting, instead I went down clinging to life and begging to be spared. The one thing that was on my dying mind was that I had promised I would take little Dorothy to school the next day, and that my last act on this universe would be breaking that promise.
I was expecting hell when I died, a dark, broken place for my dark, broken mind. However when I opened my eyes I did not see a hellish nightmare, I saw a wooden ceiling, a hanging light and a face staring down upon me...