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Personal Narrative-The Old Warrior

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I was only an infant when my family died. Or, at least, that's what my father told me. He had no wife, or children of his own, and though we did not share blood, the old warrior took me under his wing, and offered the me the same love as he would to his own kin. I will always admire the kindness he gave to me. There were many times when my father would try and teach me to fight, to pass his knowledge of battle onto me. However, his efforts were in vain. I was not born with the strength or skill of a warrior. I was slim, and meek. I never spoke out of term and always did my best to keep to the background. At the age of eight, I had grown taller than the other children. But my skinny arms did very little for me in ways of strength. I was not fast, nor agile. In the summer, we would race down …show more content…

I shut my eyes tightly as I saw the glint of a skinning knife. This was an accessory that one of those boy would often brandish. A gift from his father, a sign of his maturity and oncoming manhood. I gritted my teeth as the dull blade roughly rocked against my strained hair, painfully severing each strand until my long locks had been turned into a short mess of damaged ends. It was their trophy. A sign of a successful hunt. They had triumphantly cut my dignity from my body, they let me go. I could not run. I had grown weak from their torment. My body instinctively curled itself, as I tucked my knees to my chest. I remember feeling lifeless. I did not come home that night. I was sitting by a tide pool, watching the sun begin to slip beneath the ocean's horizon. Smooth waters, sparsely dotted by sailing boats, returning to their homes, the winds carried itself out to sea, bringing with it the reassuring scent of hearth fires. My short hair would blow into my eyes, and I would struggle to keep strands of deep brown from blocking my vision of the soft

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