Spirits of the Dead [4/4]
anonymous
March 14 2010, 04:37:21 UTC
America embraced the silence that followed, allowed his mind to try and recover in the fluctuating temperatures of his body. Now, in the privacy of his home, he could feel his soldiers fighting against themselves.
It made him sick to know that they were one nation (a united nation of people) who wanted to split into two and three and maybe four if they could somehow manage it. His eyes burned a little, the same burn that had bothered him since 1845 and even now scared him.
Diseases were not something he wanted to experience, much less an optical one. He breathed in deeply through his nose, waiting a few moments until he moved the cloth away. A few moments more and he sat upright on his bed.
Something fell from his chest. He squinted, trying hard to distinguish the object from the sheets on his bed. It reflected in the sunlight, a soft glare that hurt him a little more than he expected it would. He lifted them up, tracing his fingers over the rounded frames and the arch that connected it from the top.
Where had they come from? The maid could not have left them; she wouldn’t have had the money for such a thing and besides that, it wasn’t as if anyone would have known if he needed glasses unless he mentioned something about it. They felt warm and much too familiar to be anything but a part of him. “A mystery of mysteries…” he muttered as he turned them about in his hands.
He traced his finger over the frames, stretched the nosepiece enough to fit it over his nose. It fit well on his face, he discovered, as if the glasses were made specifically for him. The world was a much clearer place now, the brilliant hues of sunlight seeming even brighter against the walls of his room.
Alfred never did see that man again, never saw the snow white bride that stood beside him as he walked down the streets of Baltimore and New York. America was glad of course (more glad that anyone could ever imagine) but since then at the turn of the New Year, he would feel the pricks of doubt and shame and pain in his heart.
It bore down on him occasionally, as sharp and unavoidable as every other murder or death that he felt he could have prevented. A century later, after a World War, after the bombs fell and caused more damage than he ever wanted to see, that he found a way to ease the pain just a little.
A bottle of French cognac, a few roses, and a note.
A small tribute, true, but he tried to follow it every year. Sometimes he wasn’t close enough to the grave to do it; other times he was too busy. Often it was because of another author that vied for his attention, or another anonymous soul that cried for recognition as he had when he was young and wanted his brother’s love.
Whether or not he did it, he made sure to keep his library stocked with their works, and on their birthday (or their death day) he would pick one off of his shelf, find a quiet spot in whatever room he found himself in and read by the glow of a candle light.
Firstly, I would like to thank you for make such a request. I love the concept completely and I would enjoy it this were to get more love. Secondly, I need to apologize. I sort of... strayed from Hemmingway, who you seemed to be hinting at, and went into Poe/Hawthorne. Thank you again and I hope you enjoyed this!
It made him sick to know that they were one nation (a united nation of people) who wanted to split into two and three and maybe four if they could somehow manage it. His eyes burned a little, the same burn that had bothered him since 1845 and even now scared him.
Diseases were not something he wanted to experience, much less an optical one. He breathed in deeply through his nose, waiting a few moments until he moved the cloth away. A few moments more and he sat upright on his bed.
Something fell from his chest. He squinted, trying hard to distinguish the object from the sheets on his bed. It reflected in the sunlight, a soft glare that hurt him a little more than he expected it would. He lifted them up, tracing his fingers over the rounded frames and the arch that connected it from the top.
Where had they come from? The maid could not have left them; she wouldn’t have had the money for such a thing and besides that, it wasn’t as if anyone would have known if he needed glasses unless he mentioned something about it. They felt warm and much too familiar to be anything but a part of him. “A mystery of mysteries…” he muttered as he turned them about in his hands.
He traced his finger over the frames, stretched the nosepiece enough to fit it over his nose. It fit well on his face, he discovered, as if the glasses were made specifically for him. The world was a much clearer place now, the brilliant hues of sunlight seeming even brighter against the walls of his room.
Alfred never did see that man again, never saw the snow white bride that stood beside him as he walked down the streets of Baltimore and New York. America was glad of course (more glad that anyone could ever imagine) but since then at the turn of the New Year, he would feel the pricks of doubt and shame and pain in his heart.
It bore down on him occasionally, as sharp and unavoidable as every other murder or death that he felt he could have prevented. A century later, after a World War, after the bombs fell and caused more damage than he ever wanted to see, that he found a way to ease the pain just a little.
A bottle of French cognac, a few roses, and a note.
A small tribute, true, but he tried to follow it every year. Sometimes he wasn’t close enough to the grave to do it; other times he was too busy. Often it was because of another author that vied for his attention, or another anonymous soul that cried for recognition as he had when he was young and wanted his brother’s love.
Whether or not he did it, he made sure to keep his library stocked with their works, and on their birthday (or their death day) he would pick one off of his shelf, find a quiet spot in whatever room he found himself in and read by the glow of a candle light.
Firstly, I would like to thank you for make such a request. I love the concept completely and I would enjoy it this were to get more love. Secondly, I need to apologize. I sort of... strayed from Hemmingway, who you seemed to be hinting at, and went into Poe/Hawthorne. Thank you again and I hope you enjoyed this!
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