Requiem for a Boy Lost
A/N: This is my entry for August's NJC challenge. The song for this month was Zornik's "The Backseat". We are supposed to say how the song influenced our story, so here goes…
I listened to the song too many times to count. The impact of the lyrics faded in and out for me (in terms of a story idea), but the music, the arrangement, wouldn't leave me alone and ended up forming the structure of the story. Haunting melody, techno/rock beat, sound of a 'shot', return of haunting melody that hasn't quite let go of the earlier beat. So that became my story. A requiem for something that will be lost. An event that highlights the loss, and then the return of a requiem that is now marked by the event. May be that I read too much into it, but that is what I kept coming back to…well, enough writer-rambly…hope that you find this interesting. –Ana
He looked down at the tattoo on the inside of his wrist. It was an old man's mark now, the ink the faded grey-green of worn money, the lines less distinct, broken and blurry in places. Yet, as he traced over it, calloused fingers rough against weathered skin, he could still remember the silver hot pain of the needles biting into his skin, the vibrant colors seeping into the angry flesh. It was his own permanent reminder of days and nights spent flying over a beautiful green world dropping the bombs that had turned it into a hell on earth. A kid's way of saying 'screw you' to a universe that had sent him over there with no chance at surviving as anything more than a damaged man. And in the end, a memorial to those that hadn't survived at all.
Memories rose to the surface and he closed his eyes, a stoic's move against emotions that served no purpose other than re-opening old scars. But they came anyway, just as they always did, this time the anger and the grief bleeding into newly formed fear and frustration. Because now they were taking his son and God only knew what they would do to him, how they would change the man that he had not yet had the chance to be. He'd tried to talk to him, to explain what they might demand from him. It hadn't done any good. The boy had a romantic's naïve ignorance of the consequences that sometimes came with duty and honor.
He opened his eyes to find his son staring back at him, waiting for the next plea, the next argument. But the words were gone. The two of them were so much alike, but for now, they were separated by more than two decades of hard learned lessons that couldn't be translated into words.
"Guess your mind's made up, isn't it, See?"
"Yeah, Dad. It is. Look…I get what you were trying to tell me. I really do. I know you went through…..well, I've seen it in you my whole life. Maybe that's why…I don't know, I…I can't explain it. This is just something I have to do. It's what is right for me."
Too weary, too heartbroken to respond, he watched silently as the boy walked closer to him and knelt beside his chair, expectation in his eyes.
"Please, Pop. Tell me you understand?"
He was just a boy asking for his father's acceptance, wanting acknowledgement of his choices, and he couldn't bring himself to offer it, not even when he saw the hurt cloud the eyes that were an exact copy of his own.
He turned away, but he could still hear the wounds of a disappointed child hidden behind the raw anger in his son's words.
"Fine. That's okay. You'll see though. I'll be alright. Better than alright. One of these days…one day I'll come home and maybe you'll see that.
He'd abandoned the vehicle several miles back. In this place, the heavy sound of the engine would have been a warning, the trail of dust a signal of advancing danger.
He walked as long as he dared, reducing his posture as he traveled, snaking his way over the last hundred yards on his belly.
Once he reached the crest and peered over the precipice, he methodically dispensed with the mechanics of preparation. Gauging. Measuring. Sighting.
With all his duties but one complete, he allowed one moment to feel the sun searing the back of his neck, the friction of the sand against his skin, the stinging itch of sweat trailing down his shoulder. The fear, the adrenaline. The disgust.
One by one, he shed it all. The scorching heat, the desert grit, until the physical discomfort disappeared into the vacuum. His breathing slowed to a well-practiced rhythm. The rapid cadence of his heartbeat faded to a whisper.
He discarded everything until his world shrank to a bright circle marked by two intersecting lines. He waited until the face on the other side lost its humanity and became a series of flat shapes, nothing more than circles and ovals, angles and lines.
Then, he pulled the trigger.
"Honey, look who's here!"
Mildly annoyed at the interruption, he lowered his newspaper and looked up expecting to see one of the neighbors, maybe one of the ladies from her garden club. His eyes traveled from the shining excitement on his wife's face to the person standing next to her. His throat constricted as he took in the deep green uniform, the brass and colored ribbons that covered it, the wary look in his son's eyes.
He blinked once, and then stood, his hand gripping the edge of the table to hide the tremor. They stood facing each other, still so alike, still separated by more than two decades of history, and while some of the bridges may have been crossed, new chasms had taken their place.
The silence between them grew heavy, until he could not bear it any longer. He spoke, wincing inwardly at the caution he heard in his own voice.
"Son."
"Dad."
The simple acknowledgement gave him the courage to venture further.
"Got some leave time, I guess."
"Yes, sir. Something like that."
The evasion triggered his concern and the distance between them was forgotten as he leaned closer.
"You alright, Seeley?"
"Yeah, Dad. Everything's fine. Just earned some unexpected leave and thought I'd spend some time with you guys. If that's okay….you didn't turn my old room into a sewing room for Mom or anything while I was gone, did you?"
He heard the levity in the words, saw the smile on his face and wanted to believe it all. With hope in his heart, he extended his hand.
"Sure you can stay, son. It's good to have you home."
As he watched his son's hand reach for his own, he began to accept the possibility that he may have been wrong. That the worst hadn't happened to his boy.
Until he saw it. The heartbreakingly familiar stain of grey-green at the edge of his cuff, made visible when he had extended his arm.
When their hands met, he turned his own slightly so that both of their wrists were exposed. He pushed back the starched green fabric until he could see it. See the mark nearly identical to the one he had put on his own arm so many years ago.
He knew what it meant, but he searched the face across from him for some sign that he was wrong.
But the son turned away and the father began once again to mourn the loss.