How Heroes Fall
Creative Writing Assignment (March 24, 2011)
Based on the novel The Wars by Timothy Findley
Passage used: Pages 172-173
He was surprised to wake up to the sound of his heart hammering against his ribcage. It reminded him of throwing stones at empty cans when there were no bottles left to be broken. Hollow.
(Dead men weren't supposed to have heartbeats.)
He wished he could slit his throat. He laughed. How could he? He couldn't even knock down bottles anymore. Couldn't knock down anyone but himself, and even that he couldn't do properly. It was strange to be his own enemy.
Other enemies he'd taken down without so much as a blink. They were deadly and they were strong, but their eyes went just as wide and sightless as the weak when they died. Their blood was hot as it soaked the skin between his fingers.
(His own blood was hot as it congealed on his face and neck. The dizzying pain was a welcome change from the numbing uselessness.)
Barbara's blood was hot under her soft flesh and pretty, plush lips. She was a beautiful woman. Beautiful and cruel.
She never said anything about it when he returned. The shock was quiet in her mouth but she may as well have laughed in his face. He knew it was her nature to flutter like a butterfly from man to man, seeking out the most successful, the most heroic. The poison in her wings drew him in, sedating him under her spell like so many others before.
Then he was broken and of no use to her anymore, so she fluttered along, folding that Ross boy in her toxic embrace. And she was heartless enough to flaunt her new accessory--Ross was a fine young man, and Eugene knew this. He was whole and Eugene was not.
But she feigned guilt and apology so well one might've made the incorrect assumption that she felt something, that there was something more human than ice and shards of glass behind her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Eugene," she whispered, eyes glazing over with what looked like tears gathering on her dark lashes. His mouth set in a grim line and he wondered if all the other men had felt this way when she cut her ties with them. Did they feel like she'd severed every vein in their bodies?
She crumpled into Ross's side, and the young soldier was respectful enough to look away, at least. He murmured something but Eugene wasn't listening to him.
"--you, Captain Taffler."
He looked up. Men don't cry. Their hearts don't hurt. And they never lose their reason or will to live.
He nodded stonily. They left. Barbara avoided his gaze. Ross exited first. Barbara didn't look back. His door was left ajar for a long moment before someone closed it.
It was very quiet.
Eugene decided to throw his last stone.
He seized the end of his bandages with his teeth and tore them apart, letting them unravel messily onto the floor. He started scrapping the scarring skin off of the stumps of his arms, using the wall to carry out his final throw. He heard stones colliding with the rough, splintering wood, and felt the satisfaction drip crimson from his raw flesh. It hurt almost as much as the explosion that destroyed him in the first place. (It wasn't quite enough.)
Finally, finally, he felt a wet pop as he hit an artery. The room spun in his vision and he grinned. Victorious.
........
He was surprised to wake up to the sound of his heart hammering against his ribcage.
Defeated.
Based on the novel The Wars by Timothy Findley
Passage used: Pages 172-173
He was surprised to wake up to the sound of his heart hammering against his ribcage. It reminded him of throwing stones at empty cans when there were no bottles left to be broken. Hollow.
(Dead men weren't supposed to have heartbeats.)
He wished he could slit his throat. He laughed. How could he? He couldn't even knock down bottles anymore. Couldn't knock down anyone but himself, and even that he couldn't do properly. It was strange to be his own enemy.
Other enemies he'd taken down without so much as a blink. They were deadly and they were strong, but their eyes went just as wide and sightless as the weak when they died. Their blood was hot as it soaked the skin between his fingers.
(His own blood was hot as it congealed on his face and neck. The dizzying pain was a welcome change from the numbing uselessness.)
Barbara's blood was hot under her soft flesh and pretty, plush lips. She was a beautiful woman. Beautiful and cruel.
She never said anything about it when he returned. The shock was quiet in her mouth but she may as well have laughed in his face. He knew it was her nature to flutter like a butterfly from man to man, seeking out the most successful, the most heroic. The poison in her wings drew him in, sedating him under her spell like so many others before.
Then he was broken and of no use to her anymore, so she fluttered along, folding that Ross boy in her toxic embrace. And she was heartless enough to flaunt her new accessory--Ross was a fine young man, and Eugene knew this. He was whole and Eugene was not.
But she feigned guilt and apology so well one might've made the incorrect assumption that she felt something, that there was something more human than ice and shards of glass behind her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Eugene," she whispered, eyes glazing over with what looked like tears gathering on her dark lashes. His mouth set in a grim line and he wondered if all the other men had felt this way when she cut her ties with them. Did they feel like she'd severed every vein in their bodies?
She crumpled into Ross's side, and the young soldier was respectful enough to look away, at least. He murmured something but Eugene wasn't listening to him.
"--you, Captain Taffler."
He looked up. Men don't cry. Their hearts don't hurt. And they never lose their reason or will to live.
He nodded stonily. They left. Barbara avoided his gaze. Ross exited first. Barbara didn't look back. His door was left ajar for a long moment before someone closed it.
It was very quiet.
Eugene decided to throw his last stone.
He seized the end of his bandages with his teeth and tore them apart, letting them unravel messily onto the floor. He started scrapping the scarring skin off of the stumps of his arms, using the wall to carry out his final throw. He heard stones colliding with the rough, splintering wood, and felt the satisfaction drip crimson from his raw flesh. It hurt almost as much as the explosion that destroyed him in the first place. (It wasn't quite enough.)
Finally, finally, he felt a wet pop as he hit an artery. The room spun in his vision and he grinned. Victorious.
........
He was surprised to wake up to the sound of his heart hammering against his ribcage.
Defeated.