Sentinel

“I’ve never intentionally attacked anyone,” he proclaimed defiantly as the two of us sat alone in the shabby apartment. His black and gray apparel hung around his stiffened body as his usual confident and broad stance was replaced by the crumbling posture of a remorseful man. Ken is twenty years old, soon to be twenty one, and while he’d desperately like to say he’s lived a virtuous life, he knows it would be a lie.

His demeanor and expressions were nearly impossible to read through the red bandana he kept tightly wrapped around the lower half of his face. The reflection of a Spring sunset cast a coral glow over his irises, mixing violently with his stagnant blue eyes that contrasted with his wardrobe. His enormous body, which stretched just around six and a half feet from the floor when standing, sat leaning forward with one elbow resting on his right knee to prop his sharp chin up as he gazed out the window. His one earring dangled like wind chimes strictly from his right ear, never the left. Despite everything, his most perplexing feature has yet to be listed. At least in my opinion, what baffled me most about how Ken presented himself was his hair. It was around the same length as mine, but flowing downwards instead of to the side, both puffy and flat depending on what he was doing. But most importantly, it was white. Not the odd shade of bleached blonde that people on the internet call platinum, but instead white as snow, brilliantly reflecting the beams of sunlight that dared to rest upon his skull. We’d always viewed Ken’s hair as a form of self expression, as an act of defiance towards the encroaching pressure of societal restrictions and expectations. More than anyone, our friend Calvin admired this trait the most. 

To call Ken a weapons collector would be an overstatement, because he only actually owns a few blades, exotic as they may be. Before meeting, I had asked him to bring his favorite piece, and just as I had expected, banked against the wall beside him was the most massive wieldable piece of steel I had ever laid eyes on. It was a massive two-sided “lance” as he’d call it, since there really was no singular term to accurately depict the masterpiece. Ken’s “lance” consisted of a cord wrapped handle in the center, barely large enough for him to grip both of his hands around side by side. On either side of the handle was an incredible hunk of steel, sculptured into two rectangular pieces that stretched at least two feet before having the left side of the blade extend slightly past the right (on each end of the lance). The edges would then connect with a long slanted side, making the entire weapon one large parallelogram. He allowed me to attempt to swing the blunt object, and I quickly noticed the staggering weight.

“It’s a defensive weapon,” he began after I asked why he chose such an object, “it could cover almost my whole front side if I needed it to.” I continued pressing him for more information. Ken and I had known each other for several years. He wasn’t afraid to talk to me, but he’s known among his group to be quiet and stubborn, both of which I can confirm to be true.

“You already know this, but I did a stay a while back,” Ken said after I asked why the object being defense oriented mattered to him.

“Eight months in that shithole for aggravated assault,” he continued, “but I wasn’t never trying to hurt anybody.” I asked him to elaborate as his sullen gaze finally shifted from the window across from him to me. 

“Come on Chase,” he said to me, irritation creeping from the depths of his ego as he sluggishly grabbed and hoisted the lance in front of him. Nostalgia settled over my body like a thick blanket of snow as the words slipped over my eardrums. I had always loved how Calvin and Ken referred to me as Chase. I tossed a slight nod in his direction as I challenged his eyes with mine. He allowed the bottom part of the blade to rest against the floor as he continued, “Three guys I knew were rustling up this nobody in front of me, definitely been drinking or on something. Kid tried to stay calm and get away, all of a sudden one of these guys had a knife, probably just for show, but before I know what’s happening I’m tackling him. Other two are behind me, I’m young and stupid, scared shitless. They come at me and just like that hell breaks loose. Put one in the hospital.” Ken sat motionless for some time afterwards, seemingly absorbing his feelings of remorse for the minute-long fight that sacrificed eight months of his life and a plethora of career opportunities.

“Do you regret it?” I felt obligated to ask. His response was simple, and much more decisive than I had anticipated, as if he had considered it several times before.

“Nah,” he began, “Would’ve gotten sucked into whatever my friends were doing one way or another. Glad stuff happened while I was still a minor to be real with you.” His eyes finally shifted back to watching the sunset, the exact same sunset that he, Calvin, and I had watched together countless times, always from that same spot. I’d continue to ask Ken if this incident shaped his hobby of collecting weapons. 

“It’s just relaxing knowing I could fight again if I ever had to,” he replied in no more than a whisper, followed by a heavy sigh. He reached his arm to the side and took a long swig from his drink, some Asian marble soda he bought at the Wegmans around the corner. 

“With that?” I interjected, motioning to his lance. Despite not being able to see his expression, I sensed a grin creep across his nearly motionless face as he released a brief chuckle, more to himself than to me.

“Probably not,” he said starkly, “but who knows.”

Prior to interviewing Ken, I was already relatively aware of his past, but the connection he had between his blades and the course of his life was spontaneous and deeply surprising. I was entirely ignorant of how much of an emotional impact the hobby had on him, which in retrospect I found quite odd as I perfectly understood how much of an impact the hobby had on myself. 

The white-haired sentinel drifted from one side of the room to the other as the sound of metal scraping on wood followed. He laid the lance against the seafoam teal wallpaper as his slender fingers gracefully pulled open the overhead cabinet and removed a small object I couldn’t identify. He carefully slid the small black object into his pocket before proceeding to the windowsill once more. 

A lot of people who know both Ken and I have often asked me if I believe his story, as he’d told me much of this information in bits and pieces before. In a city like Baltimore where there are nearly ten thousand annual violent crimes and triple as many crimes in general according tobaltimorepolice.org, it can be difficult for people to see Ken as anything more than a criminal or a gangster. I’ve even heard people call him a murderer, people who’ve barely ever spoken to him. Throughout the time I’ve known him, he’s always proven himself to be someone worthy of respect and dignity. His actions have proven time and time again that there’s far more to him than many believe, and I firmly believe that unconfirmable rumors would never change the way I view him. 

Calvin was my closest friend, as well as the one who initially involved me in weapons collecting. He would always show off or display his newest purchases, and he was determined to get Ken and I as excited about the hobby as he was. In the beginning, neither of us were deeply intrigued by the act, and honestly found it to be quite odd that Calvin cared so much about shaped pieces of metal that he’d likely never use. 

Despite our initial reluctance to Calvin’s hobby, however, things changed last summer. Like pages torn from a story, Calvin was ripped out of our lives permanently. His absence quickly evolved into an insatiable void as infinite amounts of memories became tainted with grief over a single night. The closest friend I had ever known was reduced to these bittersweet glimpses into the past that I’d never experience again.

It wasn’t even a month after Calvin passed before the midnight black sword, engraved with both his name and mine, arrived at my front door. It was a custom-made smaller piece, formally named a wakizashi. It had a twenty four inch brilliant silver damascus blade with a black leather handle. The soot colored handguard stretched around the hilt in a circular fashion to form the shape of a bird or phoenix extending its wings, mimicking the iconic image Calvin always had on his phone’s lock screen. It was a beautiful work of art as well as a memento for some of my most cherished memories. I vividly remember showing Ken the blade shortly after it arrived. 

“He’d be proud,” Ken said, punctuating his statement by slapping his palm on my shoulder, “He’d be proud.”