Brigit's Flame Entry- Week 1 January; All Stars Contest
Title: Last Look
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: R
Warnings: character death, disturbing imagery
Word Count:1296
Prompt: “Take the Cloth”
A/N: Written for week #1 of Brigits_flame, the All Star's Challenge. I had terrible trouble with this. I think I wrote about three different stories, but I eventually settled on this one, which turned out really weird. I'm not sure what to make of it!
The winter was too hard.
The thought was a mantra in his head, a pounding rhythm. It was the only unifying thing through the fever dreams that terrorized him. He wasn't sure what were visions and what was real, but he did know that.
The man didn't know how long he'd lain there. He'd thought he'd known pain before, and illness - but he'd been wrong. He'd never known the kind of utter misery that had wracked his bones and sapped his strength. There wasn't a cell in him that hadn't screamed out in torture. He had burned with fever and chilled with ice. His head felt split with his own axe, and his tongue had swelled so much that he couldn't drink even if he'd had the water. The man had never suffered so much in all his days.
When it was over, when he could again crack an eye to the light, she was gone. He couldn't say where, or even if she'd ever been there at all. The cabin was cold, and he wondered that he hadn't frozen to death. He was weak as a babe, his limbs wasted and thin.
A babe.
The man threw off his filth-matted blanket, a memory jogging loose. Anxiety rose in his breast as his heart fluttered in his chest, a fragile thing trapped against the bones. He had never been weak before. It was impossible to tell from his tangle of delirium what had happened, if what he remembered was real. The horrors couldn't have come true. There were too many nightmares, too many twisted monstrosities from the fever. But where was his son?
The man's eye's rolled in their sockets before they settled on the box in the corner. It was there. It was no shadow, no figment. In the cold light of day, the box was still there. It had not evaporated in the rays like his other torments.
There was a keening, a great wail that would not stop. It took the man a moment to realize it was coming from him. From the depths of his sorrow, he was screaming. He thought he might never stop. He knew what was in the box. He had a memory of the fever taking his son in the dark watches of the night. Why did that thought have to be the one that stayed? The image of holding the thin body until the last breath departed, the bellows of the body just collapsing seemed an affront to sanity. It was not something the man wanted to keep. He clawed his hair to knock free the remembrance, but all he got for his efforts was a sharp headache.
He could not dislodge the memory of holding close his son, the wasted frame and hollowed cheeks heralding death. Davy had always been plump and pink, but the fever had turned him blueish, his little stomach rock-hard and his face pinched with pain. The bloody flux was a force beyond reckoning, and the man had cried silent tears, weeping into the soft curls as he held his boy tight. It had been a blessing that the child had only been sick a day, his breathing slowing and stopping in a mercifully short time.
The ground had been too hard for the man to bury him, and the ravages of illness had begun to take him, as well. He'd lain here ever since. He'd lost all meaning of time. And he'd - senselessly - survived.
The man rose on shaking legs. The spade lay where he'd dropped it, right next to the door. He'd see this done, even if it meant his own death in the process. He wouldn't have his son unburied a moment longer.
The mountains in winter made it hard to do justice to a Christian burial. The man was determined, and he attacked the ground with everything in his power. A light dusting of snow covered everything, even his woodpile, be he chipped away until he had a slight indentation in the hard earth. The rest could made up with rocks. The man assembled as many stones as he could for the cairn. He could make the cross later, but he owed it to Davy to see the boy in the ground before the next nightfall.
The box was heavier than he'd expected. He stumbled carrying it over the threshold, but he mustered the last reserves of his strength. He would not drop his boy, not like this. He would find whatever it took to bear the burden. The man ignored the odor and the seeping from the bottom as he lurched across the yard to the hole he'd made. He set the casket in the cradle of the earth. It was surreal to him to bury the boy with only the crows to bear witness.
He'd never imagined this scene when he'd held him, fresh and bloody from his mother's womb, and watched him nurse for the first time. What a sight that had been! His Davy, his firstborn son. There had been nothing like it in the world, nothing that had prepared him for being a father. He'd heard about the joy of it, of course, but until he'd looked into those eyes - eyes just like Mary's, no matter how much she laughed and protested - and smelled the sour milk smell that only Davy had, he didn't know that his heart could tug like that. Little fingers wrapped around his. The man could cup his calloused hand against the whole fragile skull and feel the bones pulsing beneath. That baby's life, flowing right under his palm. It was his to take care of. He'd felt the love flush through his veins. His heart had opened up and poured through him, and every day that Davy grew, his own heart had grown, too. No one had told him that.
The man stared at the hole in the ground. The hole that held his heart.
A morbid curiosity overcame him. He wanted to get one last look.
He had his memories, but it still didn't seem real. He couldn't believe it was true. He wanted to see the proof with his own eyes.
Once the idea made itself known to him, he couldn't shake it. He took up the spade, ready to cover the lid, but he paused. He knew it was shameful, but he was torn. He wanted to see his son. How wrong was he? Who would deny him that right? He was the father. He'd had total dominion over life, and so should he in death. He would do it.
The man knelt and placed his hands on the lid. A tremor shot through his body. A fear rose in him. What if the body were monstrous? What if he couldn't recognize him? Why did he have to do this? The man didn't understand his desire, but he was seized with a need to look upon the body. Only then could he bury his boy and say good bye.
A splinter lodged under his thumb, drawing blood, but the man ignored it as he drew back the lid. There was no turning back.
A ghastly smell assaulted him. It was decay and filth, it was rot. Tears rose in the man's eyes. Still, he had to see this through. He reached out his hand, bleeding and spindly, the image of a specter itself, and took the wrapping cloth from his son's face.
He did not flinch. He saw beauty there, and light. He saw his salvation, and he was not afraid.
When the last stone was placed upon his son's cairn, the man sat in peace and waited for his own death to find him. His wait was not long.
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: R
Warnings: character death, disturbing imagery
Word Count:1296
Prompt: “Take the Cloth”
A/N: Written for week #1 of Brigits_flame, the All Star's Challenge. I had terrible trouble with this. I think I wrote about three different stories, but I eventually settled on this one, which turned out really weird. I'm not sure what to make of it!
The winter was too hard.
The thought was a mantra in his head, a pounding rhythm. It was the only unifying thing through the fever dreams that terrorized him. He wasn't sure what were visions and what was real, but he did know that.
The man didn't know how long he'd lain there. He'd thought he'd known pain before, and illness - but he'd been wrong. He'd never known the kind of utter misery that had wracked his bones and sapped his strength. There wasn't a cell in him that hadn't screamed out in torture. He had burned with fever and chilled with ice. His head felt split with his own axe, and his tongue had swelled so much that he couldn't drink even if he'd had the water. The man had never suffered so much in all his days.
When it was over, when he could again crack an eye to the light, she was gone. He couldn't say where, or even if she'd ever been there at all. The cabin was cold, and he wondered that he hadn't frozen to death. He was weak as a babe, his limbs wasted and thin.
A babe.
The man threw off his filth-matted blanket, a memory jogging loose. Anxiety rose in his breast as his heart fluttered in his chest, a fragile thing trapped against the bones. He had never been weak before. It was impossible to tell from his tangle of delirium what had happened, if what he remembered was real. The horrors couldn't have come true. There were too many nightmares, too many twisted monstrosities from the fever. But where was his son?
The man's eye's rolled in their sockets before they settled on the box in the corner. It was there. It was no shadow, no figment. In the cold light of day, the box was still there. It had not evaporated in the rays like his other torments.
There was a keening, a great wail that would not stop. It took the man a moment to realize it was coming from him. From the depths of his sorrow, he was screaming. He thought he might never stop. He knew what was in the box. He had a memory of the fever taking his son in the dark watches of the night. Why did that thought have to be the one that stayed? The image of holding the thin body until the last breath departed, the bellows of the body just collapsing seemed an affront to sanity. It was not something the man wanted to keep. He clawed his hair to knock free the remembrance, but all he got for his efforts was a sharp headache.
He could not dislodge the memory of holding close his son, the wasted frame and hollowed cheeks heralding death. Davy had always been plump and pink, but the fever had turned him blueish, his little stomach rock-hard and his face pinched with pain. The bloody flux was a force beyond reckoning, and the man had cried silent tears, weeping into the soft curls as he held his boy tight. It had been a blessing that the child had only been sick a day, his breathing slowing and stopping in a mercifully short time.
The ground had been too hard for the man to bury him, and the ravages of illness had begun to take him, as well. He'd lain here ever since. He'd lost all meaning of time. And he'd - senselessly - survived.
The man rose on shaking legs. The spade lay where he'd dropped it, right next to the door. He'd see this done, even if it meant his own death in the process. He wouldn't have his son unburied a moment longer.
The mountains in winter made it hard to do justice to a Christian burial. The man was determined, and he attacked the ground with everything in his power. A light dusting of snow covered everything, even his woodpile, be he chipped away until he had a slight indentation in the hard earth. The rest could made up with rocks. The man assembled as many stones as he could for the cairn. He could make the cross later, but he owed it to Davy to see the boy in the ground before the next nightfall.
The box was heavier than he'd expected. He stumbled carrying it over the threshold, but he mustered the last reserves of his strength. He would not drop his boy, not like this. He would find whatever it took to bear the burden. The man ignored the odor and the seeping from the bottom as he lurched across the yard to the hole he'd made. He set the casket in the cradle of the earth. It was surreal to him to bury the boy with only the crows to bear witness.
He'd never imagined this scene when he'd held him, fresh and bloody from his mother's womb, and watched him nurse for the first time. What a sight that had been! His Davy, his firstborn son. There had been nothing like it in the world, nothing that had prepared him for being a father. He'd heard about the joy of it, of course, but until he'd looked into those eyes - eyes just like Mary's, no matter how much she laughed and protested - and smelled the sour milk smell that only Davy had, he didn't know that his heart could tug like that. Little fingers wrapped around his. The man could cup his calloused hand against the whole fragile skull and feel the bones pulsing beneath. That baby's life, flowing right under his palm. It was his to take care of. He'd felt the love flush through his veins. His heart had opened up and poured through him, and every day that Davy grew, his own heart had grown, too. No one had told him that.
The man stared at the hole in the ground. The hole that held his heart.
A morbid curiosity overcame him. He wanted to get one last look.
He had his memories, but it still didn't seem real. He couldn't believe it was true. He wanted to see the proof with his own eyes.
Once the idea made itself known to him, he couldn't shake it. He took up the spade, ready to cover the lid, but he paused. He knew it was shameful, but he was torn. He wanted to see his son. How wrong was he? Who would deny him that right? He was the father. He'd had total dominion over life, and so should he in death. He would do it.
The man knelt and placed his hands on the lid. A tremor shot through his body. A fear rose in him. What if the body were monstrous? What if he couldn't recognize him? Why did he have to do this? The man didn't understand his desire, but he was seized with a need to look upon the body. Only then could he bury his boy and say good bye.
A splinter lodged under his thumb, drawing blood, but the man ignored it as he drew back the lid. There was no turning back.
A ghastly smell assaulted him. It was decay and filth, it was rot. Tears rose in the man's eyes. Still, he had to see this through. He reached out his hand, bleeding and spindly, the image of a specter itself, and took the wrapping cloth from his son's face.
He did not flinch. He saw beauty there, and light. He saw his salvation, and he was not afraid.
When the last stone was placed upon his son's cairn, the man sat in peace and waited for his own death to find him. His wait was not long.