Chains

Rogan's wrists chaffed under the handcuffs - a feeling that he had long since gotten used to and that no longer bothered him. He had worn the cuffs for over ten years by this point, the only relief from which being the thirty seconds he had every few months during which one set of handcuffs was traded out for another, so as to prevent sweat and weather from rusting the metal away and allowing Rogan to break free.

Not that that was really what was holding him back. He didn't want to be freed of his chains any time soon.

It had been a year since Rogan was released from prison, and therefor a year since he had been freed from his shackles. He had learned to carefully clean the rust away on a regular basis, so as not to become infested with it on any unseen cuts beneath the metal bracelets.

Being a hermit, far from civilization meant that Rogan didn't have to deal with visitors or guests who might question the harsh steel connecting his wrists together, forcing them to constantly be held in front of him and incapable of completing most tasks. It was nearly impossible for him to write letters, cut food, or comfortably read a book. But he had learned how to make due with his life under these conditions, and he was able to compensate for his arms with his legs in many ways.

It wasn't until the day that an unexpected knock on his door arrived that Rogan ever felt that his way of life would be unable to be maintained until the day he died.

A man was waiting at Rogan's door, a grimace plastered on his face, and an aggressive intent clear in his eyes. He carried a short, thin blade loosely in his left hand, and his clothes were plain, suggesting that he was either poor, or did not want to be noticed on his way out of town to find the strange, self-handicapping hermit who had been in jail for so much of his life. Rogan was placing money on the latter.

"So, you think by getting out of town and keeping those damned cuffs on you can forget your sins, old man?" The stranger demanded, sword bouncing lightly in his hand.

"I'm afraid I don't know to what you are referring," Rogan responded, his hands limply falling front of him, but his legs taut and ready to move at a moment's notice.

"Don't play games with me," the man hissed, his grip on the blade's handle abruptly tightening. "That was my family that you killed. The people you put in the grave. Those who you so callously slaughtered. You think you can forget about them?"

"No," Rogan replied defiantly. "I think about them everyday. What happened was an accident, and one that I should have prevented. I think about them daily."

"Don't lie to me, old man!" The man was advancing slowly, his knuckles turning white with the intensity of his grip, and Rogan knew he only had a few moments before that blade leapt forward.

"I swear, I never-"

The freshly sharpened sword leapt forward, just as Rogan had been anticipating, and he was ready. He swung his arms up, letting the blade slip into the open chains of his handcuffs, and twisting his arms to rip the sword from the man's hands and across the room. Before the man could move again, Rogan kicked him hard in the chest, cracking two ribs and sending him flying out the door, with Rogan giving chase only a second later.

The man rolled onto his stomach and tried to push himself up, but Rogan was on his back and throwing his arms in front of the man's head, holding the chains at his lower jaw to catch the man, and hold his head up.

"You going to kill me too?" the man asked bitterly. "Snap my neck like a twig and keep living here, pretending that nothing is wrong?"

"You're the one who attacked me," Rogan responded, not moving one way or another.

"You killed my family."

"It was an accident."

"You can say that all you want, but that doesn't bring them back."

"I spent my time in jail. I carry these cuffs as a reminder. I left my life behind me. What more do you want from me?"

"I want revenge for my family."

"And then what? Go to jail for killing a man? What makes you better than me then?"

"I'll have had a reason."

"One that only leads to suffering. Is that what your family would have wanted?"

There was a long pause after that. Rogan sat stock still, holding the man's head up, and his knees pinning the other's arms to the ground, keeping him from moving in any meaningful way. The man could tell that even after all this time, Rogan was still stronger than he could have hopped to be. He didn't stand a chance.

"Fine," he finally muttered.

Rogan dropped the chains from the man's neck instantly and stood up, letting the man free. The man stood up shakily, his cracked ribs making it difficult to breath.

"Please," Rogan said. "Go be attended to. Live your life. You still have yours. Leave me to my self-pity and self-punishment. I will not let my existence bring any more misfortune for others.

And so the man left, not seeing how the strain his sword had blown on the chains allowed Rogan to easily snap them apart as he left.

"Now I have to replace these," he muttered to himself.