I heard something as I shut my diary—and it scared me. It was a cry, not of joy, not of excitement. It was a moan and the sound of it sent shivers down my spine. My heart rate sped up, and my mind began working overtime. Images of Jem and Walter flashed through my head, and a sickening feeling developed in the pit of my stomach.
I slipped my diary underneath my mattress and tiptoed out the door. I slipped down the hall and paused mid-way down the stairs. I heard someone, a woman, sobbing and wailing. With a start I realized it was my mother. With my heart pounding and mind feverishly praying, I rounded the corner.
I found my mother on the ground, her head in her hands, and her fingers clutching at her hair, screaming and writhing. My father was bent down next to her, holding her and rubbing her back. He looked up as I entered, and his eyes were filled with tears, and some trickled down his face. I flung herself to my mother's side, frantic to know what had happened and dreading the answer.
"What—what is it?" I asked, and I could not believe that the shrieking voice I heard was my own.
Mother grabbed my hand and began sobbing all over again. Susan came into the foyer, tears pouring down her face, which was red and blotchy. I was shocked. Susan rarely cried, and I'd never seen her cry so hard that her face would look as it did. Something horrible had happened—and I knew our worst fears had been confirmed. Susan came over to my mother, who slowly let herself be placed upright by the Father. Susan sat down next to her, and held her silently as tears trickled down her own face. My father turned to me, his face pale and drawn, and spoke to me in a voice saturated with sorrow.
"Rilla, we've just received news that Walter has been killed in action at Courcelette."
My world came crashing down. At that instant, the world seemed a bleak, horrid, cruel place. My brother was dead—Walter. My Walter. My wonderful, caring, loving, gentle, precious brother. My best friend.
"No—no, he can't be!" I exclaimed, hysteria bubbling up in my tone. "No! Father, it's a mistake!"
"Rilla," my father said gently, his voice sounding like he'd aged a decade in a few terrible minutes, "he's gone. You can read it for yourself." He held out a slip of manila paper and with a furiously shaking hand, I took it.
To whom it may concern, it began.
We regret to inform you that Private Walter Blythe has been killed in action at Courcelette. Please await further information.
The truth dawned on me then. Walter was dead—killed by a German bullet on a battlefield on the other side of the world. My brother was gone forever, and I'd never gotten to say good-bye, to tell him how much I adored him—how much I needed him, how much we all did. I felt absolutely nothing but cold, numbing shock.
My eyes met my mother's and I felt all oxygen leave my body in a rush. I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't feel. The walls and the people inside of them were spinning and I felt myself losing consciousness.
"Doctor!" Susan screamed. I fell then—not caring what I landed on—as a merciful cloak of black surrounded me. I slipped away from everything I knew—to the blessed, velvety darkness where Walter was and would forever remain.