Crimson smear of low clouds streak the graying sky, where a cold sun paints livid shadows over rain-soaked fields. Mired stench. That sweet, cloying scent of things left too long to bloat in leaden air. Here, a horse — legs mangled, body sprawled, and half buried in the mud. There, a ghostly hand rises from beneath tangled, twisted wire. Flash, flash and flash again in the distant sky. Unnatural yellow light followed by the guns’ low rumble. A fitful silence fills the space between, uneasy quiet torn to pieces with the shrill blast of a nearby whistle.
***
And it’s up, up and over the edge for the storm beyond. The whole lot of us, crawling first — crouched — bent, then, standing as we shoulder our way forward. Line by line. File by file. Something I can’t quite find a name for trailing me all the way behind. That presence I always try to ignore. Don’t let him get to you. He can’t catch you, they told me!
A few paces further and the machine guns open up. Their brisk chatter feels all too distant. Remote. The crack and whip of an invisible threat rippling across the field. Someone nearby falls down. I wish, “Maybe, I’ll fall down too. Lie there, quiet in the mud and stare at the fading sky as it all drifts far away.”
But I don’t fall. I stumble on, until it’s just me in the smoke, and the smog and the haze; only the occasional shout or cry from beyond the gray to tell me someone else is there. One more step and I’m at the lip. Now I’m sliding to a sticky halt, butt of my rifle pulling free with a greedy, sucking hiss. A figure moves from the other end of the pit. I raise the rifle and fire. The figure vanishes. Cold, familiar steel as I work the action. Am I aware my teeth are clenched? Another shape. Is it theirs? Is it ours? I don’t know. I fire, again.
The third one’s faster. Bolts on top of me before I know it, and we scrabble, sprawling in a slimy heap on the ground. Grunting, as I strike and feel the give of something soft. Stagger, upright. Raise the bayonet.
Then I see it. That face. A face that waits for me at home. Dirty, smeared and bedraggled— something barely visible behind those clouded gray eyes. Is it fear? Is it shock? Hesitation.
***
The soft pop of a revolver follows the delay, a standing figure crumples into a heap atop the other. The smaller, panting, scrambles free. Slithers away and stares down at the shapeless mass beside him — gaunt, sunken face and ashen cheeks. Tattered uniform, once-gray wool still peeking beyond the mass of layered filth.
Pale lips move in silence a moment, then:
“But you… you’re just a kid…” and the words come out with a frothy gasp.
***
I can’t feel it, but I know there’s a hole in me somewhere and I can’t tell where. And the kid starts crying, and then keeps crying and keeps trying to shove his canteen in my face. And I keep trying to shove it away. Just… stare. Just want to stare at the sky.
***
“…It’s what I asked for, after all…” and the sound of her voice falls flat in the empty room. She leans toward the mirror, fingers prodding at a dark blotch of deeper purple against pale skin; a frown wrinkles the corner of her lips. A brush — half ignored — hangs listless in the other hand. Curtains are drawn tight over the further window, just a little spray of sunlight left to ignite dancing sparks of dust in the air behind. A bed. A chair in one corner and a nightstand in the other. Worn floorboards half-covered with an old shag of tattered rug. An open suitcase sits on a chest at the foot of the bed. It is empty.
***
And the knot in my hair won’t go away — won’t go away. Like the knot he left in my stomach and — then — leaning closer to the mirror, probe at my face with a wince. Were those lines around my eyes? Had I been crying? Was I still crying? I step back and try to look at myself again but can’t — too much! Too hideous. And then the floorboards outside the door creak. I feel a jump and a skip in my chest and turn to rush for the suitcase; only for the door to open and he walks into the room.
***
There is a vase in his hands. Swirling turquoise climbs its way to the porcelain mouth, where bright green, red and splashes of lavender. Bits of gold sprout in vivid color — he takes the room in all at once, those cloudy gray eyes finally settling on her. He clears his throat.
“I brought these just for you, dear!” A few more steps into the room, and the vase is placed at the dresser’s edge. He eyes the empty suitcase a moment, then back to the woman — who, for her part, seems to brighten a little at the sight.
“Oh… they’re beautiful!” a distinct pause, then —
“What’s with the suitcase?”
***
And in the moment, there was that hard edge in his voice, and I have to think quick — think of something quick — and nothing comes, so she just blurts the first thing that comes to mind and it’s something like…
“I was looking for something, I thought maybe I’d left it in there after the trip,” she swallows. Some of the color begins to drain from those sunken hollows, a sad little droop in the corner of her mouth as shoulders stoop and head bows toward the splintered floor. He smiles.
“Oh, nothing of it. I wanted to bring you an apology,” and the two embraced.
***
He tells me he loves me. I’m not even sure I want to say it too. But I know there’s nothing else to say. So, now I just say nothing at all as those hands claw their way against my flesh, fabric torn from skin as his weight presses me against the bed. Besides, he loves me, I say. Even if I’m no longer quite sure what it means. The rank scent of something strong lingers in his breath. I see the flowers taunting me from their vase behind him, as I close my eyes.
***
When I open them again, and uncover my ears, Mama and Papa are still fighting in the other room. Oh, but I wish they would stop! Maybe I can help. So, I slip out the backdoor and find a few of the flowers that I know Mama loves. I sneak back in through the front door and grab that vase she likes so much from the table. I put the flowers in the vase and balance the vase in my hands and step into the kitchen.
***
And now they stop for a moment. Words sputter to a trickle; two pairs of eyes turn baleful gaze toward their tiny child as she emerges, that precarious vase balanced in both hands.
***
But now it’s me! They’re staring at me! And I don’t know what happens. Because then I’m staring at the thousand and thousand pieces of mother’s vase, and all those flowers spilling across the floor.
***
“Oh! You! You stupid girl. What’s wrong with you?” and she snatches the little girl’s hand, yanking her closer, as a dreadful crack of the whistling spoon follows. Snap! Snap! The tears begin to flow.
“Why would you do this to me… your own mother?”
***
And I don’t know how to tell her why I did it. I shouldn’t have done it! And the spoon hurts and it hurts. But that sting always goes away. Not the words. They follow me up the stairs. Follow me, even after she stops.
***
And as the little girl goes limping back to her room, he stares — silent — arms folded across his chest. Those gray eyes, as clouded as that impassive face. He doesn’t lift a hand. Not even as the vengeful mother hurls the spoon after, striking the child square between the shoulder blades before she vanishes around the corner.
***
In my room, I sit down with Bunny. Bunny says I mustn’t be cross with them. Not with mother, even if she sometimes gets cross with me. Because father is often cross with her, and he was in The War, and that’s hard and she doesn’t know. But, Bunny knows father loves her. And Horse nods his head like he agrees — but, when I ask him what he thinks — does father love me? does mother love me? — I can’t hear what Horse has to say, because it always starts with a neigh and ends with a neigh. I know he does it to try to make me laugh, but I don’t feel like laughing today. So, I gather them up and we burrow deep beneath the covers together.
Sometimes, I dream. And I dream that I put the vase all back together again. And then father loves mother, and mother loves me, and nobody is cross with anybody. But today I’ve been bad, and I don’t know why I’m so terrible — I thought I meant to help! But today I’ve been wicked. And I can’t stop crying. So, I hug them both very close and shut my eyes and hope it goes away. Maybe, someday, I can love somebody too.
***
And beyond the room is only the soft scratch of needle on vinyl — thin whine of a distant melody, smothering the tears. A worn, tired woman rocks in a chair, staring at her hands. Somewhere, smoke from a cigarette drifts through the open window, gray eyes staring — staring at the cloudy sky.
Timothy is an undergraduate currently studying political science at the Harrisburg campus. Trim Carpenter by trade, he’s enjoyed writing as a creative outlet for most of his life. Subjects of interest include history, travel and literature. He has a somewhat unhealthy fascination with ancient things, and no overseas trip is complete without visiting the oldest buildings available.