Jeremiah, Memories That Speak, gen
Title: Memories that Speak
Disclaimer: I don’t own Jeremiah, I make no profit off this hobby.
Note: For Suz, because even though she doesn’t know it she kind of inspired it. Title from the poem below. The lead-in is shaping up to be longer than the actual piece.
. . .
Fear cannot touch me. . .
It can only taunt me,
it cannot take me,
just tell me where to go. . .
I can either follow,
or stay in my bed. . .
I can hold on to the
things that I know. . .
The dead stay dead,
they cannot walk.
The shadows are darkness.
And darkness can’t talk.
--Christopher Rice, A Density of Souls
. . .
Jeremiah was always small-compact-but strong to make up for it. When he was younger he was a target; he learned to fight on the fly. Earned every scar marring his body. If there was a fight he always tried his damnedest to be the last one standing no matter what it took, and he was good at it. He won more than he lost, just like anyone else who made it to a rip old age. He wasn’t easily beaten by any means.
So it kind of scared the shit out of Markus when he walked into the mess hall in the dead of night and found Jeremiah hunched over a table with the remnants of terror plain on his face. Markus wasn’t sure for a moment what he should do.
“Jeremiah,” he decided on saying, “what’re you doing up?”
Jeremiah looked up as if Markus had shot off a gun he hadn’t noticed before. “Markus,” he said slowly while he hid his reaction. “It’s late.”
“Exactly my point.” He took the seat across from Jeremiah. They were silent, eyes finding anything but each other for a few moments. “So. Wanna talk about it?”
For a second, Jeremiah just blinked. “I saw it again, Markus.” It took so much effort for the words to come out. “And now I can’t stop seeing it. Again and again. Every time I try to sleep, it’s there.”
Markus’ heart lodged in his throat. Hundreds of images flashed through his mind: his parents, all the little kids dragging the bodies from the mountain, the funeral pyre blazing in the still, moonless night. Meaghan. The river taking her body away.
They must have sat there for hours, each to their own memories.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Jeremiah, I make no profit off this hobby.
Note: For Suz, because even though she doesn’t know it she kind of inspired it. Title from the poem below. The lead-in is shaping up to be longer than the actual piece.
. . .
Fear cannot touch me. . .
It can only taunt me,
it cannot take me,
just tell me where to go. . .
I can either follow,
or stay in my bed. . .
I can hold on to the
things that I know. . .
The dead stay dead,
they cannot walk.
The shadows are darkness.
And darkness can’t talk.
--Christopher Rice, A Density of Souls
. . .
Jeremiah was always small-compact-but strong to make up for it. When he was younger he was a target; he learned to fight on the fly. Earned every scar marring his body. If there was a fight he always tried his damnedest to be the last one standing no matter what it took, and he was good at it. He won more than he lost, just like anyone else who made it to a rip old age. He wasn’t easily beaten by any means.
So it kind of scared the shit out of Markus when he walked into the mess hall in the dead of night and found Jeremiah hunched over a table with the remnants of terror plain on his face. Markus wasn’t sure for a moment what he should do.
“Jeremiah,” he decided on saying, “what’re you doing up?”
Jeremiah looked up as if Markus had shot off a gun he hadn’t noticed before. “Markus,” he said slowly while he hid his reaction. “It’s late.”
“Exactly my point.” He took the seat across from Jeremiah. They were silent, eyes finding anything but each other for a few moments. “So. Wanna talk about it?”
For a second, Jeremiah just blinked. “I saw it again, Markus.” It took so much effort for the words to come out. “And now I can’t stop seeing it. Again and again. Every time I try to sleep, it’s there.”
Markus’ heart lodged in his throat. Hundreds of images flashed through his mind: his parents, all the little kids dragging the bodies from the mountain, the funeral pyre blazing in the still, moonless night. Meaghan. The river taking her body away.
They must have sat there for hours, each to their own memories.