As I grew older, I realized that I hated the town more and more. I just did not like living there because it was a town of old people — not adventurers like those in Jakob’s stories. I knew that I was stronger and smarter than everybody else in town and if I was out in the world, others would be telling grand stories about me and not those other “supposed” heroes.
I was such an idiot at that age.
My father kept pushing me to settle down and find a steady job. “Mind to your own business and leave that adventuring foolishness to others,” he would always tell me. We would argue a lot about this because I knew that he was wrong. All he ever did was hide in his room, read his books and look at his statues. I hated those things. Gave me the creeps every time I looked at one and I always felt that those things were watching me.
Of all of the statues, the one that I hated the most was not in his room but at the edge of town … a monstrous thing that echoed sadness every time that I looked at it. It was just a statue but my father dragged me out there every so often. In the rain, I could swear that it was crying and my father would always be sad looking at it. “Never forget,” he would always say. I guess I hated that statue most of all because of the way that I always felt afterward.