Zothar
09-26-2010, 02:40 PM
Snow blanketed the ground, its white sheet glowing softly in the dim-light graveyard. The sky was overcast and dark, and a gentle wind flowed through the sparsely planted trees. Gravestones stood as soldiers, standing guard over fallen comrades, their grey faces stoic and each capped with a small bit of the snow’s blanket. Reed sat, watching as a small bug made its way across a smooth area of ground and into a hole. His face played a grim smile, and he tilted his head back once again, draining more of the numbing liquid into his throat. Once again the wind blew, brushing his unshaven cheek, and gently whipping his shaggy hair around his eyes. Reed finally lowered the empty bottle and set it along side of several others. Reaching into his bag, he withdrew another whiskey and started again. His thoughts drifted towards his home. What used to be his home, he reminded himself. His wife had left him after his drinking had started in earnest again. It didn’t matter, their marriage had been over long before that anyways.
She was always out late, coming back with smeared lipstick or other makeup, usually with a black eye or other bruise. He had never said anything. Maybe he had hoped that it would get better, or maybe he had known it was hopeless anyways. She never said anything, laying right down next to him and falling asleep. She always chose the abusive men. Most of the time he had gone out and tried to find whoever it was this time, and teach them a lesson. Sometimes he lost. Mostly he won. But it didn’t matter now. She was gone.
He set the empty bottle down again and reached for another. Six. Six empty whiskey bottles. This one would make seven. His lucky number. He raised the bottle to his lips, each drink putting the pain further and further away.
“If you keep that up, you will kill yourself.”
Reed lowered the half empty bottle, still sitting slouched on the cold rock bench he had moved to that spot. Despite the weather, he sported a sleeveless black shirt and jeans, exposing his arms to the cold. Constantly he flexed and unflexed his muscles to stay warm, but other than that he showed to signs of acknowledging the temperature.
“And if I do, what difference will it make?”
The voice sighed behind him, and Reed gave another grim smile. “If you die,” the voice said, “then how do you expect to avenge his death? How do you expect to kill the murderer?”
Reed shook his head slowly. “You know I can’t kill you. Even though I want to, you know I can’t. Besides, it doesn’t matter any more. Whether or not I kill you, I can’t bring him back.”
The bench sank softly as the second man joined Reed, his gloved hands rubbing together to stay warm. Looking down, he closed his eyes, blowing a small stream of mist from his mouth. “So who told you?”
“Meredith.”
The man snorted. “I thought she left you.”
“She did,” answered Reed. “Last thing she said to me was ‘Oh yeah, and by the way, James wasn’t killed accidentally. It was your brother, Steven.’”
Steven nodded, and both sat in silence for a while, staring strait forwards. Compared to the thin build of his brother, Steven was large and thick, with several rings on his fingers and a cane that he leaned on slightly to walk. The mob Don picked up a small handful of snow, sifting it through his fingers until it was gone.
“I can have her taken care of if you want.”
Reed shook his head again. “No. You have already done enough for me here.”
“Reed, he was a cop. I am illegal. And he wasn’t interested in arresting me. It was either him or me.”
“I know that.”
A slight pause. “You wish it were me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Steven looked down again, nodding slowly. Of course he understood. And quite frankly, he hadn’t expected any other answer. Sighing once again, he leaned on the cane and stood. Taking a final look at his brother, his shoulders slumped, and he turned away. Reed could hear his footsteps crunching further and further away in the snow, until it was drowned out once again by the breeze.
Slowly, one by one, snowflakes landed gently on the setting. Reed lifted the bottle to his lips again, trying to run away. But the pain never left. He stared at the tombstone, his ice blue eyes dull and lifeless, reflecting his hollow soul. Taking the last bottle of whiskey, he slowly poured it over the grave, melting the snow and soaking into the dirt. “There’s the drink I promised you. Now you can rest in peace.”
Reed stood, gathered up his bottles, and slung his bag over his shoulder. There was a life to live. Another house, another job, maybe another wife somewhere. Time for him to go and get them. He paused, looking back at the tombstone one last time. “Same time, next year. Don’t go anywhere now. I’ll be back next year.”
And he was back next year, and the year after, and the year after that. Until the whiskey was no longer needed to numb the pain, to dim the memories. Until he stopped worrying about his job and house, and getting another wife. Until he too, could rest in peace.
It had been five years. There was no family, no home, and no friends left behind. Steven stood silent, once again letting the cool breeze brush past him. His hat was removed, and his short, receding blond hair stood rigid in the low temperature. The cane was lying on the ground, several feet behind him.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a bottle of whiskey, and poured it over the dirt of his brother’s grave. That man would want one last drink. Reaching in once more, he pulled out one more object. It was a picture of himself, Reed, and James, back when they were all good friends. It showed them at a Cubs game, proudly holding up a game ball. They were so happy then.
Placing the picture over the grave, Steven stood once more. Looking to his side, he lingered at a moment before the older, yet identical, grave. Then, turning, he walked slowly away. Maybe someday he could forgive himself. Maybe someday he could forget. But now his guilt was there, replacing the heart that he had left behind.
Between twin tombstones.
She was always out late, coming back with smeared lipstick or other makeup, usually with a black eye or other bruise. He had never said anything. Maybe he had hoped that it would get better, or maybe he had known it was hopeless anyways. She never said anything, laying right down next to him and falling asleep. She always chose the abusive men. Most of the time he had gone out and tried to find whoever it was this time, and teach them a lesson. Sometimes he lost. Mostly he won. But it didn’t matter now. She was gone.
He set the empty bottle down again and reached for another. Six. Six empty whiskey bottles. This one would make seven. His lucky number. He raised the bottle to his lips, each drink putting the pain further and further away.
“If you keep that up, you will kill yourself.”
Reed lowered the half empty bottle, still sitting slouched on the cold rock bench he had moved to that spot. Despite the weather, he sported a sleeveless black shirt and jeans, exposing his arms to the cold. Constantly he flexed and unflexed his muscles to stay warm, but other than that he showed to signs of acknowledging the temperature.
“And if I do, what difference will it make?”
The voice sighed behind him, and Reed gave another grim smile. “If you die,” the voice said, “then how do you expect to avenge his death? How do you expect to kill the murderer?”
Reed shook his head slowly. “You know I can’t kill you. Even though I want to, you know I can’t. Besides, it doesn’t matter any more. Whether or not I kill you, I can’t bring him back.”
The bench sank softly as the second man joined Reed, his gloved hands rubbing together to stay warm. Looking down, he closed his eyes, blowing a small stream of mist from his mouth. “So who told you?”
“Meredith.”
The man snorted. “I thought she left you.”
“She did,” answered Reed. “Last thing she said to me was ‘Oh yeah, and by the way, James wasn’t killed accidentally. It was your brother, Steven.’”
Steven nodded, and both sat in silence for a while, staring strait forwards. Compared to the thin build of his brother, Steven was large and thick, with several rings on his fingers and a cane that he leaned on slightly to walk. The mob Don picked up a small handful of snow, sifting it through his fingers until it was gone.
“I can have her taken care of if you want.”
Reed shook his head again. “No. You have already done enough for me here.”
“Reed, he was a cop. I am illegal. And he wasn’t interested in arresting me. It was either him or me.”
“I know that.”
A slight pause. “You wish it were me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Steven looked down again, nodding slowly. Of course he understood. And quite frankly, he hadn’t expected any other answer. Sighing once again, he leaned on the cane and stood. Taking a final look at his brother, his shoulders slumped, and he turned away. Reed could hear his footsteps crunching further and further away in the snow, until it was drowned out once again by the breeze.
Slowly, one by one, snowflakes landed gently on the setting. Reed lifted the bottle to his lips again, trying to run away. But the pain never left. He stared at the tombstone, his ice blue eyes dull and lifeless, reflecting his hollow soul. Taking the last bottle of whiskey, he slowly poured it over the grave, melting the snow and soaking into the dirt. “There’s the drink I promised you. Now you can rest in peace.”
Reed stood, gathered up his bottles, and slung his bag over his shoulder. There was a life to live. Another house, another job, maybe another wife somewhere. Time for him to go and get them. He paused, looking back at the tombstone one last time. “Same time, next year. Don’t go anywhere now. I’ll be back next year.”
And he was back next year, and the year after, and the year after that. Until the whiskey was no longer needed to numb the pain, to dim the memories. Until he stopped worrying about his job and house, and getting another wife. Until he too, could rest in peace.
It had been five years. There was no family, no home, and no friends left behind. Steven stood silent, once again letting the cool breeze brush past him. His hat was removed, and his short, receding blond hair stood rigid in the low temperature. The cane was lying on the ground, several feet behind him.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a bottle of whiskey, and poured it over the dirt of his brother’s grave. That man would want one last drink. Reaching in once more, he pulled out one more object. It was a picture of himself, Reed, and James, back when they were all good friends. It showed them at a Cubs game, proudly holding up a game ball. They were so happy then.
Placing the picture over the grave, Steven stood once more. Looking to his side, he lingered at a moment before the older, yet identical, grave. Then, turning, he walked slowly away. Maybe someday he could forgive himself. Maybe someday he could forget. But now his guilt was there, replacing the heart that he had left behind.
Between twin tombstones.