Prisca's_Writing_Area

Title: Grief (Part 1)
Characters: Mr. Smith
Words: 335
finished: 01.06.2015

Lost in thoughts Smith was standing in front of Libby's grave. He often came here to remember what had happened. No, he wouldn't forget, nor would he ever forgive himself.

He had killed her!

Of course, Libby had fired first, had hurt his arm. The shock and the pain let him pull the trigger without thinking. He had seen her breaking down, and when he felt the warm blood dripping out of her body and she died in his arms, he had known this was not another nightmare which tormented him every night.

Everyone told him that there had been no other way. That he had acted in self-defense. But all he could think about was that he had failed. He should have found another way.

God had told him that she would die in this church. He hadn't told him who would be in charge of her death. Smith hated him for this, though he could understand.

God demanded a lot of him. He was his messenger, had to follow his order without putting them into question. But this time it had been different. Because Libby was his friend, he liked her; everyone liked her. Her smile, her laughter, her always gentle voice. She was like an angel in a dystopian world.

Smith knew, if God had told him the whole truth about her, he would have refused to listen. He wouldn't have gone to Innsmouth. He wouldn't have entered the church. And Libby's betrayal would never have been revealed. He wouldn't have killed her, and she would still be alive.

But the future of this world would be a different one, without any hope.

Smith threw a last glance at the grave. He had only done what needed to be done. But he would never forgive himself that he hadn't found a way to save her. Slowly he bent down to place the wild rose onto the burial mound; then he turned around to leave. There was still a lot do.

:::

Title: Grief (Part 2)
Characters: Mr. Smith, Jeremiah
Words: 361
finished: 01.06.2015

Jeremiah had already wondered about the wild roses he found on Libby‘s grave ever and ever again. He had told no one where he'd buried her, only Kurdy knew. But today, when he came here to visit her, he saw him. Smith was kneeling in front of the little mound, placing a rose on it.

Hate was rushing through his body. Of all the people: Smith! “What the hell are you doing here?” Jeremiah jumped forward, pushing the little guy aside violently. Then he bent down, reaching out for the rose and throwing it into the near undergrowth. “Stay away from her. You have no right to be here.”

"I am sorry."

"You are sorry?" Jeremiah huffed. "That you killed her? That you destroyed my life? I did love her; I would have trusted her blind. And now they say that she wanted to betray all of us. That she only was a spy of Simms." He breathed in deeply, visibly trembling. "It's all your fault."

“She only betrayed herself. Her life, her future, and her love.”

Jeremiah stared at him with narrowed eyes. "Don't talk about her like that. You did never know her as I did."

“I know that she never had a chance. She was still a little girl, scared and alone when she met him. He is strong, powerful, and many people follow him blindly. There was no chance for her to resist him.“

“I was alone too. I've lost my parents. I saw my brother dying. Do I betray my friends? Someone I love? How could she do that?"

“Libby met the devil. If you come across someone so evil, your only chance is to turn around and run. Or it will be too late. She loved you, Jeremiah, but there was no way back for her.”

He put his hand on Jeremiah's shoulder, then he turned around and left. For a long while, Jeremiah looked after him, unable to move. But finally, when Smith was out of sight, he picked up the rose and put it back onto the grave again. "I hope you will find your peace now," he murmured.

Title: Everyone's fate
Characters: Mr. Smith, a young man
Words: 737
finished: 28.08.2016

:::

He couldn't be much older than fifteen. Every day he came into the cafeteria, was sitting there for hours, always alone. He didn't talk to anyone, was only staring at the tabletop in front of him. Erin had tried to convince him to eat at least a bit, but usually his plate stayed untouched.

Smith dropped down on a chair beside him, but he didn't even lift his head. "Hello. Erin asked me to look after you.“

"Why does she care?"

„She is worried.“

He shrugged. „No need to. I'm fine.“

"Maybe. Maybe not. It was the first time, wasn't it?"

Finally the young guy lifted his head, his eyes sparkled annoyed. "It was okay what I did! I just regret it that it was so easy for him. I should have let him suffering much more for what he has done.“

His voice sounded defiant, but Smith noticed the horror about the own doing deep in his eyes. Slowly he nodded. "I know. But this didn't make it easier. You killed him; you looked into his eyes before you shot him into his chest and head four times. No matter how hard you try, you'll never get rid of this memory. The best you can do is moving on."

The young man narrowed his eyes. "Moving on," he whispered. "As if this is possible! I can't sleep anymore without nightmares. I have his dying eyes in my mind all day long. Tell me, how can I live with this?“

Smith put his hand onto the arm of the young man; he winced slightly but didn't pull away. "I know what you are talking about," Smith said in a low voice. "I guess most of us know."

+++

It was only a few weeks after the breakout of the Big Death. The world had turned into chaos. No one thought about the future; it was only of interest to surviving the next day.

He was a young boy like so many others, barely fourteen years old. Alone. His parents dead, like all the adults. His brother, he didn't know. When he had made his way home, no one had been around. Unable to stay in the silent house, he had taken refuge in his old treehouse for the first weeks, hoping for a wonder. Which never happened, of course. This was not a nightmare you could wake up from; this was reality.

Maybe he would have given up. But then, one day, this boy was standing in the garden, maybe five years old. More dead than alive. He didn't know him, but for whatever reason, there had been a bond between them. Together they were strong; together there was a little chance that they could survive all this.

The hope lasted for some weeks. Until they met the group of skinheads one day. The little boy was afraid of their loud voices, the guns they carried; started to cry silently. They laughed about him; one of them, a big guy with a lot of tattoos on his skull, pressed his gun into his much too small hand and pointed at one of the women of the gang.

„Kill her!“

She didn't even dare to protest, was just standing there with wide eyes, staring at the little boy. He was shaking with panic, not knowing what to do.

„Kill her, or you are the next,“ the skinhead told him.

At that moment, the boy knew what he had to do. Protecting his little friend, who, in the meantime, was like the brother for him he had lost. He stepped forward, tore the gun out of his small hands, aimed at the woman… and pulled the trigger. Hard to say if it was luck or calculation that he did miss her.

She looked at him, her eyes full of hate before she turned around. But the skinhead patted his shoulder, laughing aloud. „You are my guy,“ he told him and pulled him to the truck.

+++

Smith kept quiet for a long while. "A lot of people can tell a story like this," finally he murmured. "Most are fighting with memories they can't shrug off.“

The young guy eyed him sadly. "It's your story, right? What has become of him? The little boy."

"I dream about him almost every night. Sometimes there is a happy end, and someone else took care of him, offers him the chance to grow up.

Sometimes..." Smith paused and shrugged.