Living History by Ben Essex (best motivational books of all time .txt) 📕

the way back to my room. I realised that I’d just said all the things Natalia had specifically told me not to.

My heart fluttered. I began to get the little queasy feeling that presages something unpleasant approaching from the immediate future.

Natalia was waiting outside my room.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

There was a warning in her eyes. She actually looked sad.

I didn’t pause, I didn’t stop, I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to see anymore.

I walked straight out of the hotel, and never look back.

Maybe I acted prematurely. Maybe if I hadn’t run off, I could’ve smoothed things over with Greuze. I could’ve explained myself. Perhaps the whole situation really would have blown over. Natalia could have been wrong.

But at that moment, I was far too carried away with my own feelings. Several months of fear pent up, always expecting myself to be one step away from exposure… it was actually a relief to run away. And after I ran, there was really only one way things could go.

Two weeks later, I came across a newspaper. It had my face on the front page, next to Jacob White’s. Wanted, the headline screeched. Terrorist Suspects.

The article went on to detail just how many people I was apparently responsible for murdering.

Being a fugitive is a lot more glamorous when you’re doing it on TV. It’s not much fun to go through in real life. For one thing, the personal hygiene is appalling. There aren’t many opportunities to shower. I’m sure you don’t need me to go into any more detail than that.

The food situation is a little depressing, too. You have to beg, borrow and steal whatever scraps you can get hold of. So on the plus side, I was finally losing a little bit of weight. Just as well; I needed all the help I could get in making my profile less recognisable.

I kept my face hidden. I wore baggy clothes and coats closer to cloaks. I stayed in the shadows wherever I could, and made a point of moving only at night. I felt like a rat.

It was not a good time for my ego; I felt my sense of self getting smaller and smaller. But my reasoning kept me on track. This is what you need to do if you want to stay alive. You made your own bed, now you have to sleep in it.

Fortunately, the folks of Large were a generally kind and simple lot, well-disposed to beggars and not particularly observant. Small towns like Louisian lay scattered all over the Oil Fields; the main train line branched between them. Generally the train carriages were rusty and in ill-repaired, easy enough to sneak a ride on. The conductors didn’t seem to mind.

Complacency came easily after a couple of weeks without capture. People were so good at ignoring me that I began to think of myself as invisible.

I went out during the day.

It was to steal some food, if I recall correctly. I was in the town of Orr, and a festival was being held; a little county fair with epic designs. Home-made floats made their way through the main street, accompanied by ticker tape and thrown confetti. Bars and pubs were crammed full, people spilling out onto the street. There were stalls everywhere offering snacks both delicious and gross. Bees buzzed around in the summer heat, robbing children of sugar and ice-cream.

In the background, local bands were providing local music. A general air of glee permeated all. Orr was roughly twice as big as Louisian, and twice again as poor. The people here didn’t have many nice clothes, nor much jewellery. Still, what little they owned was out in force today. Diamonds were polished, necklaces on show. Shiny shoes clattered against toe-tipped heels.

I’d been sleeping in an alley, between a dumpster and a bale of hay. Don’t ask me why there was hay-these southern towns can be quaint like that. The festival sounds woke me up, and the smell of roasting meat lured me out. There were stands grilling legs of swine and oxen bellies over beds of charcoal. The smoke was intoxicating.

Now think about this, I scolded myself. You’ve already eaten today, you don’t need to go risking anything on another meal…

By the time I completed that thought I was already in the street, hood pulled over my head, hunched and skulking toward a snack stand.

Great.

A bunch of people twirled past me, dancing. A float drifted by, bearing scantily clad mascots. Bucket-bearers hung alongside the parade, asking the audience for loose change. I immediately felt a sense of rivalry-demanding loose change from strangers was my lookout, damn it.

I should be moving on soon, I decided. The festival would be attracting all sorts of strangers and all sorts of attention-I needed to go somewhere quieter. Midnight would bring a late train that I could scramble aboard.

I managed to pick-pocket someone next to the snack-stand. Smart men make good thieves, as long as they’re desperate. I grabbed a hot-dog, threw the vendor some change and vanished from sight in the space of two seconds. I had my eye set on a dark alley, where I could consume my prize in peace.

At that moment, I happened to look up. If I’d been ten seconds later, I might have missed them.

I saw a group of people who looked out of place. Expensive clothes: suits, ties and sunglasses all in black. Burly to a tee, these men had the look of predators. They were pushing the crowd aside; making room for someone else. Their commanding officer, I assumed. Quite a lot of attention was being thrown their way. Said crowd was evidently impressed…

Their commander stepped forward. A tall man in an even taller hat. His clothes fit perfectly, and he had a brilliant bushy beard that I knew to be a fake. We never got the hang of growing hair.

It was Abraham Lincoln. Or at least his perfect reproduction.

People were pointing-parents and children in equal awe. Here was another page from the history books.

Why would they send him_?_

But there wasn’t time to think. Lincoln’s gaze was searching the crowd, and I knew who he was looking for. The Corporation had followed me this far.

I started to run, and was spotted at once.

I heard footsteps on my tail-I knew it was the men in black. For a second, I thought the crowd might provide me with some cover, or at least slow my pursuers down with its sheer density. Unfortunately the crowd parted eagerly, awed by Abraham Lincoln’s hat. Stupid, easily impressed yokels…

My chest began to tighten. Out of shape, fat boy. Didn’t lose that much weight after all.

I ducked between floats. Streamers flew in my face, dancers diving all around me. I let my cloak fall away; it was only slowing me down. The important people had already noticed me.

‘Hey! Hey! Stop him!’ I rushed past the hot-dog stall, and took a moment to kick it over. Sizzling meat spilled onto the street, charcoal mingling with tinsel. Irate yells came from the vendor himself, followed by a loud crash.

I glanced over my shoulder. Three of the burly bodyguards were still right behind me. Abraham Lincoln was walking at a steady pace, as if he had all the time in the world. Something told me that this man was probably a bastard.

I bolted around a corner, almost ploughing into a small family.

‘Mommy, is that Benjamin Franklin?’

‘No!‘ I yelled.

I passed a bar. The saloon-like doors were swinging, half open.

‘Psst, this way.’

I ignored the mysterious whisperings.

‘I said Pssst!’

Rough hands reached out to grab me. I was pulled into the bar.

The doors clicked shut.

The bar was a dump.

The walls were mouldy, the furniture cheap. A few people sat around a slime green table playing poker. Aside from them, the place was empty.

‘Um. Hello.’ I said vaguely.

The hands that had grabbed me belonged to a little man. By little I do not mean small. This man was not small, he was dense. Like a pebble with a boulder’s mass; there wasn’t a lot of him, but what there was came made from pure muscle. His fingers had sinews.

‘This way, Mr. Franklin,’ the dense man sad. ‘Hurry!’

I was dragged bodily down a long flight of stairs. The dark maw of a basement consumed me. More stairs followed-a narrow stone path, reaching forever underground.

‘Quickly!’ I was constantly told. ‘Faster!’ Finally, I had enough of being yanked along.

‘Young man,’ I said sternly. ‘I assure you I am quite capable of getting to whatever pace is appropriate for the moment under my own power. Now will you please let go of me.’

‘Oh. Right. Sorry, sir,’ the dense man mumbled, letting go.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Daniel.’

From upstairs, there came a loud thump. It was the sound of a door being kicked down, followed by angry voices. Clearly my pursuers were right above.

‘Well Daniel,’ I said, ‘I think we should get wherever we’re going as fast as possible.’

Daniel led me on. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘The basement door is hidden. They’ll never find it.’

‘Hey-what’s behind this door?’ Came a voice from above, followed by the sound of splintering wood.

Daniel winced. ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ he repeated insistently. ‘This door is also hidden.’

What door? I started to ask, as Daniel took a perfectly ordinary looking chunk of brick wall and wrenched it aside to reveal a dark corridor beyond. Oh.

‘This way, this way!’ Daniel slammed the secret door shut behind us. A minute later, I heard heavy footsteps on the other side of the wall.

‘Shhh,’ Daniel said for good measure.

Eventually, the sounds of searching died down. ‘There’s nothing here!’ Irate voices called. ‘Just an empty basement.’

Footsteps going up the stairs.

‘Come, come.’ Daniel ushered. I followed.

The corridor seemed to get progressively narrower as we went along. I fought the claustrophobia, and tried not to feel trapped.

I had to breathe in to fit.

Finally, we came to the end-a room that looked like a monk’s secret sanctum. Candles everywhere, pools of orange flickering around my shadow.

There were lots of people.

The people all had a certain look around them; a kind of shell-shocked reverence. Something about them said cultists. I was immediately unnerved.

And yet… they looked at me with awe. Disciples before their messiah. All eyes wide… it only took a second for me to realise why. My picture was everywhere; all over the walls. Posters, portraits, easel-sketches. Books about my life-

(_Books about_ Ben Franklin’s life).

-Texts and tombs of ancient history. There was also a pool-table in the middle of the room, which sort of spoiled the ambience. I suppose that’s what this place had been used for before.

‘Oh my,’ someone muttered.

‘Is that really him?’ Somebody else asked.

The crowd started moving towards me-instinctively, I backed off. The crowd froze, like startled deer.

‘It’s all right,’ Daniel whispered. ‘It’s all right, Mr. Franklin. You can trust these people. We’re your friends, Mr. Franklin. We’re your followers.’

They sat me down. They brought me food-meat and potatoes. After the second course I began to feel slightly at ease, although I couldn’t help being disturbed by the way they just stared at me. I tried not to judge. They were being kind.

Daniel took it upon himself to explain a few things.

Firstly, that cloak of mine had fooled absolutely no one. My profile was far too recognisable; everyone in Large had known precisely which homeless person I was, but the people