demandred5151
01-29-2004, 04:04 PM
Let ye be warned: This story contains several graphic descriptions and instances of swearing.
I wrote this awhile ago, but don't recall ever posting it at Pojo's. Hope you like it :p
---------------------------------------
I have a gift. A talent, a miracle, a curse, call it what you will, my gift is dear to my heart. I do not know the origin, nor do I care to find out. I have a gift. I am content.
The mists of the cemetery flow like water, washing away life, emotion and memory. I stride past the blank faces of headstones and, feeling their eyeless gazes, slow to a halt.
Baker, Emily. 1920 – 1991. Names claw at my eyes in desperation, crying for attention. Savik, James. 1918 – 1944. Such…such a waste. The sum of a human’s existence, the joys and the sorrows, the laughter and the tears, all shriveled into a single dash between two arbitrary numbers. Seaton, Paul. 1894 – 1982. The remnants of the past swept away, leaving only name and date on a cold piece of rock. Evanson, Elizabeth. 1967 – 2001. Even those clinging reminders crumble under the assault of time, scoured clean by the passage of the years, until no traces remain. A beginning. An end. Nothing else, these artifices would have us believe. Nothing lies between.
The cool wind weaves along the ground, rustling both my long coat and the poor clumps of grass struggling to take root.
My gift lies in the median.
The shiny surface of Mr. Savik’s headstone reflects my face. Gaunt, unshaven, it is the face of one who doesn’t care about trivialities such as food or fashion or grooming.
My gaze falls back onto the inscription. James. A nice name. I reach down and peel the white gloves from my hands, dropping them to the ground where they lay like empty husks. Slowly, tentatively, my fingers stretch forward. My hand trembles, and in that moment I love it for the weakness, the perfect image of sensation and feeling and, above all, life. The grave welcomes me, drinks in my presence, until the remote stone seems to glow with an inner light. My breath catches as the cool granite rushes to meet my fingers. Almost, almost there. I touch the dash between the dates. A torrent of light washes my mind away.
**********
The shells shrieked in a screaming chorus. One struck nearby, heaving a great pile of mud into the air, spraying Private James Savik full in the face. He spat out the earthy taste and tried to push deeper into the ground behind the embankment. No luck. The earth, as if in disgust at the fighting marring her skin, ignored his pleas. A burst of automatic fire skittered past his face and he cried out in shock.
A light rain drizzled down from the murky sky, and thick fog blanketed the town. Or rather, what had once been a town. The plague of combat had infected this nameless French village like so many others, shells and bullets tearing through structures, until only the gaping sockets of broken windows remained.
Enemy and ally alike slipped wraithlike through the mists, gliding from building to building, in a deadly dance where a single misstep meant death. Private Savik was content to stay where he was. Far off, a man screamed in a high, thin voice.
Savik shivered. They told you the war was a grand adventure, the recruiters did. They told you the war would be over in time for Christmas. Something to tell the grandkids, they said. He thought of Emily back home. Of her hair gleaming like burnished gold in the sunlight. Of her mouth curled slightly in a wry smile. Of her promise. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ she cried out as the train started up, tears slipping down her face.
Suddenly, someone staggered out of the fog. Savik relaxed when he saw the British insignia.
“Bloody Hell,” the Brit swore, stumbling to the ground. He was a big bear of a man, almost as wide as tall, his rippling muscles threatening to burst through his uniform. The dirt that caked his face could not quite hide the thick stubble poking through.
“Bloody Hell,” he repeated. “F***ing Krautheads.” He shook his head, then turned to face Savik. “Drink?” he rasped.
Savik passed over his canteen. “Much obliged,” the Brit mumbled. He gulped as though he had never tasted water before. He tossed back the empty canteen. “Bloody RAF…where the hell are they?” he spat. “Probably being torn apart by the Luftwaffe. F***ing flyboys…cowering in their planes, afraid to fight face to face.”
Machine guns crackled in the distance for a moment before falling silent.
“D-do you know where we are?” Savik inquired.
The Brit barked a deep laugh. “Who the ***** knows. After Caen, we started East. For Paris. That’s all I can tell ya.” He belched. “This whole world’s gone to sh** anyways. These leaders – Chamberlain, the bloody coward – tell us to go fight. What do they do? We’re the ones sticking our hands in the goddamn toilet." His face tightened and he clenched his teeth. “Ah, Christ,” he groaned.
“What’s wrong?” Savik asked in alarm.
The Brit flashed a smile. “Nothing, mate. Nothing. Just a little tired, that’s all.” He moved in close, as if revealing a great secret. “Y’know mate,” he whispered, “if I get through this, I’m gonna spend all my time in the whorehouse. P*ss on the Church. They both just want your money, but at least ya get somethin’ from the whores. Cause there’s no way a good God could let any of this sh** happen.”
He seemed about to say more, but a troubled look passed over his face. He slipped down and his face sank into the mud. “Sleepy,” he muttered in confusion, and closed his eyes.
“Hey…Wake up,” Savik pleaded. “It’s dangerous to sleep here.” He pulled on the Brit’s coat, then cried out. Wet ropes of intestine glistened through the ragged wound in the dead man’s side. A pool of blackening blood spread out over the mud and dribbled down the embankment.
Savik threw up, spewing sour chunks onto the body. He shouldered his rifle, and crawled away from the corpse as fast as he could.
A twenty pounder roared in the distance. The nearest building’s entire wall tumbled to the ground with a crash. Several Germans, completely exposed, raised their hands in surrender and dropped their guns. Shots rang out, and their lifeless bodies slumped to the ground in crimson pools.
Savik’s entire body quivered. Keep crawling, he urged himself. The shards of his crumbling illusions jabbed his mind in mockery. ‘I-I can die out here,’ screamed his brain.
When they had first joined, him and his childhood buddy Pete Townshed, an aura of immortality shined bright. A thick, impermeable bubble encased them both. Even after taking Omaha beach and seeing Pete’s head disintegrate into a moist cloud of fluids didn’t change this belief. The bubble just became smaller. ‘Of course Pete could die,’ Savik told himself. ‘He’s not me.’
Of course he would make it through this war. Of course he would have a wonderful reunion with Emily. Of course he would have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And what then?
The bubble didn’t just burst, it exploded. OhGodOhGodOhGod.
He crawled faster, as though concentrating on putting one arm in front of the other would bring him through this mess alive. ‘Musn’t…think…of it…I will…be okay’.
By now the mists had devoured the Brit’s corpse. All alone, Savik felt a small sense of relief. The bubble of denial hovered at the edge of his consciousness, uncertain whether to return or not.
Savik peered over the edge of the embankment and stared straight at a grey, grimy uniform. Savik and the German both sprang back in surprise. Savik raised his rifle. The German raised his rifle. Savik didn’t fire. The German didn’t fire. Savik’s hands shook. The German’s eyes were wide and his breath came in terrified gasps. A boy. One of Hitler’s Youth Army. Savik gazed into his sky blue eyes and words flashed through his mind. ‘Charlie, Kraut, Nazi, Enemy, Murderer.’ He saw none of these. He looked into the boy’s eyes and saw himself, standing there in the rain, afraid of the man with the gun, afraid of the fighting, afraid to die. The boy’s eyes were red; he was crying.
Savik thought of Emily, of a house in the countryside, of the patter of little feet on the stairwell.
The boy’s shaking hand moved to the trigger. Savik fired. The shot cracked the sky. The boy stumbled backwards and slid down to the mud without a sound.
Savik fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He felt as though he had just blown off his own head. The sound of squishing footsteps didn’t penetrate his tortured mind. “Emily,” he whispered. “Emily….Emily…”
The cool pressure of a pistol barrel kissed the back of his skull.
“Komm, süsser Tod,” a voice hissed in his ear. He felt a sharp pain, then the world disintegrated into nothingness.
**********
The connection is broken. I stagger back from the grave with hot tears flowing freely down my face. Already, the memories drift away, caught by the breeze…autumn leaves blowing to winter. But a small part remains. A part of James Savik lives on in my consciousness. His brightest hopes and darkest desires, his virtues and faults, and his unfailing love for a woman named Emily Baker. His voice sings in harmony with the thousands of others in my mind. Dead, yes, but not forgotten. Not yet. Not by me.
Would you say to me, ‘Stop. If you love me, stop.’? But I do love you. All of you. As much for the evil as for the good. What secret thoughts do you wish to hide from me? What primal desires do you wish to conceal in the darkness of death? No stone shall remain untouched. We will meet, you and I. Soon enough.
I wrote this awhile ago, but don't recall ever posting it at Pojo's. Hope you like it :p
---------------------------------------
I have a gift. A talent, a miracle, a curse, call it what you will, my gift is dear to my heart. I do not know the origin, nor do I care to find out. I have a gift. I am content.
The mists of the cemetery flow like water, washing away life, emotion and memory. I stride past the blank faces of headstones and, feeling their eyeless gazes, slow to a halt.
Baker, Emily. 1920 – 1991. Names claw at my eyes in desperation, crying for attention. Savik, James. 1918 – 1944. Such…such a waste. The sum of a human’s existence, the joys and the sorrows, the laughter and the tears, all shriveled into a single dash between two arbitrary numbers. Seaton, Paul. 1894 – 1982. The remnants of the past swept away, leaving only name and date on a cold piece of rock. Evanson, Elizabeth. 1967 – 2001. Even those clinging reminders crumble under the assault of time, scoured clean by the passage of the years, until no traces remain. A beginning. An end. Nothing else, these artifices would have us believe. Nothing lies between.
The cool wind weaves along the ground, rustling both my long coat and the poor clumps of grass struggling to take root.
My gift lies in the median.
The shiny surface of Mr. Savik’s headstone reflects my face. Gaunt, unshaven, it is the face of one who doesn’t care about trivialities such as food or fashion or grooming.
My gaze falls back onto the inscription. James. A nice name. I reach down and peel the white gloves from my hands, dropping them to the ground where they lay like empty husks. Slowly, tentatively, my fingers stretch forward. My hand trembles, and in that moment I love it for the weakness, the perfect image of sensation and feeling and, above all, life. The grave welcomes me, drinks in my presence, until the remote stone seems to glow with an inner light. My breath catches as the cool granite rushes to meet my fingers. Almost, almost there. I touch the dash between the dates. A torrent of light washes my mind away.
**********
The shells shrieked in a screaming chorus. One struck nearby, heaving a great pile of mud into the air, spraying Private James Savik full in the face. He spat out the earthy taste and tried to push deeper into the ground behind the embankment. No luck. The earth, as if in disgust at the fighting marring her skin, ignored his pleas. A burst of automatic fire skittered past his face and he cried out in shock.
A light rain drizzled down from the murky sky, and thick fog blanketed the town. Or rather, what had once been a town. The plague of combat had infected this nameless French village like so many others, shells and bullets tearing through structures, until only the gaping sockets of broken windows remained.
Enemy and ally alike slipped wraithlike through the mists, gliding from building to building, in a deadly dance where a single misstep meant death. Private Savik was content to stay where he was. Far off, a man screamed in a high, thin voice.
Savik shivered. They told you the war was a grand adventure, the recruiters did. They told you the war would be over in time for Christmas. Something to tell the grandkids, they said. He thought of Emily back home. Of her hair gleaming like burnished gold in the sunlight. Of her mouth curled slightly in a wry smile. Of her promise. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ she cried out as the train started up, tears slipping down her face.
Suddenly, someone staggered out of the fog. Savik relaxed when he saw the British insignia.
“Bloody Hell,” the Brit swore, stumbling to the ground. He was a big bear of a man, almost as wide as tall, his rippling muscles threatening to burst through his uniform. The dirt that caked his face could not quite hide the thick stubble poking through.
“Bloody Hell,” he repeated. “F***ing Krautheads.” He shook his head, then turned to face Savik. “Drink?” he rasped.
Savik passed over his canteen. “Much obliged,” the Brit mumbled. He gulped as though he had never tasted water before. He tossed back the empty canteen. “Bloody RAF…where the hell are they?” he spat. “Probably being torn apart by the Luftwaffe. F***ing flyboys…cowering in their planes, afraid to fight face to face.”
Machine guns crackled in the distance for a moment before falling silent.
“D-do you know where we are?” Savik inquired.
The Brit barked a deep laugh. “Who the ***** knows. After Caen, we started East. For Paris. That’s all I can tell ya.” He belched. “This whole world’s gone to sh** anyways. These leaders – Chamberlain, the bloody coward – tell us to go fight. What do they do? We’re the ones sticking our hands in the goddamn toilet." His face tightened and he clenched his teeth. “Ah, Christ,” he groaned.
“What’s wrong?” Savik asked in alarm.
The Brit flashed a smile. “Nothing, mate. Nothing. Just a little tired, that’s all.” He moved in close, as if revealing a great secret. “Y’know mate,” he whispered, “if I get through this, I’m gonna spend all my time in the whorehouse. P*ss on the Church. They both just want your money, but at least ya get somethin’ from the whores. Cause there’s no way a good God could let any of this sh** happen.”
He seemed about to say more, but a troubled look passed over his face. He slipped down and his face sank into the mud. “Sleepy,” he muttered in confusion, and closed his eyes.
“Hey…Wake up,” Savik pleaded. “It’s dangerous to sleep here.” He pulled on the Brit’s coat, then cried out. Wet ropes of intestine glistened through the ragged wound in the dead man’s side. A pool of blackening blood spread out over the mud and dribbled down the embankment.
Savik threw up, spewing sour chunks onto the body. He shouldered his rifle, and crawled away from the corpse as fast as he could.
A twenty pounder roared in the distance. The nearest building’s entire wall tumbled to the ground with a crash. Several Germans, completely exposed, raised their hands in surrender and dropped their guns. Shots rang out, and their lifeless bodies slumped to the ground in crimson pools.
Savik’s entire body quivered. Keep crawling, he urged himself. The shards of his crumbling illusions jabbed his mind in mockery. ‘I-I can die out here,’ screamed his brain.
When they had first joined, him and his childhood buddy Pete Townshed, an aura of immortality shined bright. A thick, impermeable bubble encased them both. Even after taking Omaha beach and seeing Pete’s head disintegrate into a moist cloud of fluids didn’t change this belief. The bubble just became smaller. ‘Of course Pete could die,’ Savik told himself. ‘He’s not me.’
Of course he would make it through this war. Of course he would have a wonderful reunion with Emily. Of course he would have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And what then?
The bubble didn’t just burst, it exploded. OhGodOhGodOhGod.
He crawled faster, as though concentrating on putting one arm in front of the other would bring him through this mess alive. ‘Musn’t…think…of it…I will…be okay’.
By now the mists had devoured the Brit’s corpse. All alone, Savik felt a small sense of relief. The bubble of denial hovered at the edge of his consciousness, uncertain whether to return or not.
Savik peered over the edge of the embankment and stared straight at a grey, grimy uniform. Savik and the German both sprang back in surprise. Savik raised his rifle. The German raised his rifle. Savik didn’t fire. The German didn’t fire. Savik’s hands shook. The German’s eyes were wide and his breath came in terrified gasps. A boy. One of Hitler’s Youth Army. Savik gazed into his sky blue eyes and words flashed through his mind. ‘Charlie, Kraut, Nazi, Enemy, Murderer.’ He saw none of these. He looked into the boy’s eyes and saw himself, standing there in the rain, afraid of the man with the gun, afraid of the fighting, afraid to die. The boy’s eyes were red; he was crying.
Savik thought of Emily, of a house in the countryside, of the patter of little feet on the stairwell.
The boy’s shaking hand moved to the trigger. Savik fired. The shot cracked the sky. The boy stumbled backwards and slid down to the mud without a sound.
Savik fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He felt as though he had just blown off his own head. The sound of squishing footsteps didn’t penetrate his tortured mind. “Emily,” he whispered. “Emily….Emily…”
The cool pressure of a pistol barrel kissed the back of his skull.
“Komm, süsser Tod,” a voice hissed in his ear. He felt a sharp pain, then the world disintegrated into nothingness.
**********
The connection is broken. I stagger back from the grave with hot tears flowing freely down my face. Already, the memories drift away, caught by the breeze…autumn leaves blowing to winter. But a small part remains. A part of James Savik lives on in my consciousness. His brightest hopes and darkest desires, his virtues and faults, and his unfailing love for a woman named Emily Baker. His voice sings in harmony with the thousands of others in my mind. Dead, yes, but not forgotten. Not yet. Not by me.
Would you say to me, ‘Stop. If you love me, stop.’? But I do love you. All of you. As much for the evil as for the good. What secret thoughts do you wish to hide from me? What primal desires do you wish to conceal in the darkness of death? No stone shall remain untouched. We will meet, you and I. Soon enough.