12-03-2018, 11:55 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 45%; text-align: justify; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: times new roman;"]He wasn't sure where it'd come from. He'd noticed it right out of the corner of his eye, lingering in the shadows, much like the thought itself. Maybe it was a harbinger of all that he knew but refused to admit. Undeniable evidence of their failure. He opened it up. A history book, with a worn cover and worn pages, but not so worn he couldn't make out the words and the pictures. A detailed history of the entire French and Indian War, complete with pictures. As he flipped through the pages, he felt his heart twisting. A detailed history of the French and Battle of Lake Erie. 1813. His year. The tenth of September. His day. The Queen Charlotte. His ship. The British had 41 causalities that day and 94 wounded. Causalities. His causalities. He hated that word. They were deaths. They were murders. That was his number, he realized. There was a list of all those lost, with pictures for those wealthy enough to have them.
Clarence William Aston. His name. 25. His age. He looked so much older. He already had the long stare, he realized. The war didn't give him that. In the picture, there stood a man with dark features and absent eyes. That had been right after he resigned to defeat. He accepted the fate of the navy because his sibling would be safe. His mother would have enough food and enough money to survive. No one would be blamed for Thomas' death. Their soul for his. It was a worthy cause. He wouldn't change it. But that didn't change the fact that things from that day on were irreparable. Maybe it was worse now, but it had all started back then.
There was Finnis too. He saw his picture. The man who he had last seen just a week ago. He was dead. Long dead in this world. Even after all the training, even after being able to keep everything in, he felt his body involuntarily shaking and tears stinging his eyes as he bowed his head to the book, as though praying for some sort of relief. For a different outcome. That maybe he was just mad and he'd wake up in a hospital bed somewhere. That this was all some terrible dream.
Then something else occurred to him. This book wasn't like the ones he was accustomed to. This was different. The paper, the smell, everything. He flipped to the front, where he knew there should be some sort of publication date. Maybe that would give him an indication of how long it'd been. 2017. He had to have read it wrong. That couldn't be right. He would be dead. Everyone would be dead. But there it was. 2017. His breath caught further and he closed his eyes but he swore he could smell the gun powder and hear the firing of canons and wood grating against wood. He let out a soft gasp, trying to keep himself from crying as he looked. He was the last one. No one else would be here. Everyone was dead. His sister, his mother, his fellow soldiers, his enemies, even. All of them. Every last one was dead. He didn't know how to respond to that and so he just sat on the beach, trying to stop himself from crying and from hearing canons and smelling gun powder and swearing he could see hulking ships sailing on the little body of water in front of him. He told himself that was all impossible. But it was still happening, with his mind reeling. How could he let this happen? Why was he saved and not them? Why couldn't he have died with the rest of them?
Clarence William Aston. His name. 25. His age. He looked so much older. He already had the long stare, he realized. The war didn't give him that. In the picture, there stood a man with dark features and absent eyes. That had been right after he resigned to defeat. He accepted the fate of the navy because his sibling would be safe. His mother would have enough food and enough money to survive. No one would be blamed for Thomas' death. Their soul for his. It was a worthy cause. He wouldn't change it. But that didn't change the fact that things from that day on were irreparable. Maybe it was worse now, but it had all started back then.
There was Finnis too. He saw his picture. The man who he had last seen just a week ago. He was dead. Long dead in this world. Even after all the training, even after being able to keep everything in, he felt his body involuntarily shaking and tears stinging his eyes as he bowed his head to the book, as though praying for some sort of relief. For a different outcome. That maybe he was just mad and he'd wake up in a hospital bed somewhere. That this was all some terrible dream.
Then something else occurred to him. This book wasn't like the ones he was accustomed to. This was different. The paper, the smell, everything. He flipped to the front, where he knew there should be some sort of publication date. Maybe that would give him an indication of how long it'd been. 2017. He had to have read it wrong. That couldn't be right. He would be dead. Everyone would be dead. But there it was. 2017. His breath caught further and he closed his eyes but he swore he could smell the gun powder and hear the firing of canons and wood grating against wood. He let out a soft gasp, trying to keep himself from crying as he looked. He was the last one. No one else would be here. Everyone was dead. His sister, his mother, his fellow soldiers, his enemies, even. All of them. Every last one was dead. He didn't know how to respond to that and so he just sat on the beach, trying to stop himself from crying and from hearing canons and smelling gun powder and swearing he could see hulking ships sailing on the little body of water in front of him. He told himself that was all impossible. But it was still happening, with his mind reeling. How could he let this happen? Why was he saved and not them? Why couldn't he have died with the rest of them?