Ungodly Hour

[Polaris]

This is a sort of old thing I wrote that I dug up while cleaning out my hard drive. As such, I want to work on it a bit, if it's salvageable in any way. I can see problems in it, definitely, but I'd like a few more opinions before I go on a rampage of backspacing. Thing is, I'm also a better editor of other people's things than my own, so I'd really appreciate any criticism/ripping apart from the people on this forum. In short, if you think it's rubbish, then please say so - and hopefully tell me why so that I don't make the same mistake ever again.

Er, if you could give me feedback in the topic itself, that'd be nice since this is kind of the whole thing.

This is a short story at about 1800 words.

The little girl sat up straight and cold, her shoulders trembling with the weight of her world. She lay there, cold and wet from the snow and she prayed. She prayed with all her might that it was a dream, just a foolish nightmare to punctuate with screams. Dark dreams for dark days. She went down the creaking stairs to her grandmother who trembled too, and in their silence a millions words passed, unsaid but not unheard. Both of them dressed in shawls of green, and both of them cloaked in misery. Death was a friend and enemy to them.

Her father left for the war. He was gunned down while trying to bravely take a bunker on a hill. Her brother joined the army. Only bits of him were ever found. All she had left was a senile grandmother driven insane with loss. The iron bars of her prison closed in on her and she was all alone.

She walked down the frozen path, shawl discarded, in a pearly grey alpaca dress. No scarf, no gloves, no boots to ward off the cold. Her step weighed down in sorrow, her heart beating slower and slower as time moved to a standstill in the blood splattered snow. She clambered up a pile of ruined buildings, a fading pile of rubble in the dimness. Her hands scraping against the rock, she stumbled upon a loose stone, and half-ran, half-rolled into an alcove made of two pieces of wall and a corrugated sheet.

"I won't do it!" She sobbed to herself, eyes distended in madness, "I am not a murderer! I won't!"

She kept mumbling and murmuring to herself in a high muffled voice. Her eyes, so warm and bright and strong before the war, were flat and empty, pallid and grey, like her sallow face, draped in grief. She kept crying and sobbing, her voice growing softer and softer, paler and paler. The she saw me, and the tears stopped. She was afraid but in a stronger voice than before, she asked me, bravely I concede, who I was.

"Hi," I said, smiling grimly, "How are you." It was, I admit, a pointless question, but then again, pleasantries had to be maintained.

"Who are you?" She asked again.

I smiled at her, no doubt that scared her worse, and pointed to the sky, "So my dear, what will you not do that you were so emphatic about?"

"I don't s-see how th-that has anything to do with you."

"But it does. As an eavesdropper par excellence, I insist on knowing all I can about as much as possible."

"…I was asked to knife the old man living in the mansion of 3rd Street, so we could steal his money and you know, actually eat a real meal." Her expression changed somewhat, so that it looked as though she'd given up trying to prevent me from prying the details from her. Rather, she'd decided that it would be simpler to tell me in the hopes that I'd go away.

"Oh my, that's a rather extreme course of action, wouldn't you say?"

"The old man there, he's a rich fool who's deluded himself into believing there's no war. He treats his servants like shit, and roams about town spraying his cash about. Just because he can, damn it."

"Pleasant fellow. But my dear, you don't seem prepared to, ah, "knife" him."

"I'm no murderer."

"Quite. But tell me, are you sure about where you are right now?"

"Why?"

"You aren't really here, you must realise. Observe the snow around us. The rather delightful shade it has taken, to be precise."

"What---? You don't mean---?"

"But, a digression if you please. Would you like to know what really happened to your father?"

"Eh? Yes. Yes I would." She kept her tone level. It still amazes me how she could be so desperate one minute and so calm the next.

"Very well, I'll tell you."

***

Dear Mrs. Merkel,

I regret to be the bearer of bad news and even more so when I pass on my words of condolence. Your son was a good soldier and an honourable man. He did not fight with a desire to manipulate, but merely an honest desire to protect his country. I enclose some possessions of his that he held very dear. I hope that they will be a comfort to you.

Sincerely yours,

Leutnant Rudolf Hermann

The lieutenant finished his letter and sighed. He hated this menial task and its horrors. Picturing the relatives of these casualties huddled together reading the letter made him queasy in a way all the blood never could.

***

"Father...?"

"He was so afraid; I can't tell you how much."

***

Dear Mother,

I write to you to just tell you once the horrors of where I'm stranded. If I hadn't joined the battle, I'd be a coward, but sometimes... no, what am I saying. I'm terrified. Any moment now, the shells will land screaming down on us all. There will be deaths, there have been so many, I don't know how to face the families of the ones who passed away under my command. I'm not fit for this. I, never mind, it's not important anymore.

These trenches are like Hell on Earth. What kind of God would allow such abomination to occur under his nose? And it's so cold. My fingers are like swollen lumps of wax; my feet stopped feeling weeks ago. We've lost soldiers due to, not daring raids, no, but to gangrene! How this is possible, don't ask me. Morale is low here; I don't see how we can survive for long. If hunger doesn't kill us, those shells will. There! One just went screaming by. The commotion outside is frightening. I'll have to take a look.

We lost half the regiment today in that shelling. Then the British came again. They swept through right into a hail of machine gun fire. They fell like ninepins... not a good analogy, but to describe it is agony for me. I can see my face in the mirror and I'm a pale ghostly sheet. My eyes stare widely into nothingness. I need to let it all out, but I'm stuck here. I want to run away so much, but I cannot. My duty lies here, and I curse it. Fate that led to a foolish Kaiser destroying our peace and leaving us lost in this mire. If I could, I'd change things.

Your loving son,

Rudolf

***

"Did you know, little Arie, that these ruins were your family home?" I asked. She shook her head numbly. "After a clichéd fall from grace, your family, having squandered, like any good novel, the family fortune, were left to fend for themselves. The building was left in disrepair. An earthquake knocked it down to the rubble you see right now."

Arie did not answer. She just stared straight ahead, looking hard at an interesting hole in the wall opposite her. The hole, if you're interested, looked like a decapitated man if you squinted for a few seconds. However, as fascinating as these holes are, she eventually exhausted the imaginative possibilities within it and looked back at me.

"Go on."

"It happened in the last war, you know, three decades ago. Your grandfather was a general in the army. I believe he was involved in embezzlement; something regarding army funds that were intended to supply baked beans to the front line." The whimsical quality of the offense was enough to make her lips twitch slightly, but she motioned for me to continue.

"So he ran away, and left your family. I met him out in the northern wilderness, and that's how I know the story."

***

The Lieutenant picked up his pistol and walked up slowly to the British carrying a white flag. The 4th division of the Army had finally broken under the strain of the constant vigil. With most of it dead, the lieutenant chose to save the ones who were still alive. But as he walked, one uncompromising fool had the last word, as he led the division to its death. He took a pistol and 'CRACK', shot the lieutenant in the back. The body crumpled under the bullet and lay there like a macabre puppet lolling with its strings cut to shreds.

***

Arie kept staring at me.

"And that poor sap who used to be your brother? Mister Lukas was killed, oh so tragically, in a pub, chopped into little pieces for extra value, after he heroically stabbed a townsperson in a drunken fit of rage. Rather inglorious, wouldn't you say?"

"No. No. You're lying."

"I wish I were. I really do. I derive no pleasure from relating the tales of these travesties."

"But there is one thing. You know way too much."

"Do I now? That is one way of putting it, I suppose."

"The reason you know these stories... you... you're Death, aren't you?" At least she was quick on the uptake, not to mention brave. A previous 'victim' of mine who had reached this conclusion had screamed until her dentures popped out and hit the wall, terrifying her grandson who thought that the old lady was possessed, but that's another story.

"Well, no," I replied, "I'm merely an assistant. Death itself occasionally takes a break." I laughed bitterly, "I'm just a Wisp; I collect dead souls to pass them for judgement. It's a little joke Death has."

"And if the soul fails this 'judgement'?"

"Oh that? Well, I eat it. Figuratively speaking, of course," Arie blanched at that, "You may note that Death has been refining this method for a while. Too many methods can be distracting, so he meshed together a few of the more efficient ones. And fresh soul is delightfully nutritious for my kind." I continued.

"Ugh, I did not really want to know that, Mister Wisp. But tell me, am I dead?" She hazarded to ask. I simply smiled at her. She looked down at her chest, at a dark blotch, and sighed.

"Is that how it is? Grandma will be all alone won't she?"

"I'll come for her soon enough."

"Say hello to her for me, would you?"

A letter came to sad house the next morning. The black seal on it told the true story. The old lady did not open it, just stared into emptiness. She couldn't comprehend it; she was too far gone. And Arie didn't cry anymore, all her tears had vanished, along with her warmth. There was a strange old man, haggard from his duties who took the old woman away in a creaky van to a white hall filled with beds ad smelling of chemicals.

On a final note, they did write her a pretty obituary with flashy words of kindness and love. About duty and family, and the way she would be missed, because hypocrisy has no limits. They gave her nice grave as well, carved granite with flowers as timeless as she wasn't and an epiphany talking of hope, which was ironic, since she had none.

It had been a cold night, and I was tired.

Edited June 6, 2012 by Pandorakun