Speak
Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge! or Atonement, period. I just love both with all my heart.
He had been given one more chance, one more last time to live. Somehow, he had survived it all: the excruciating hardship of training, the physical enemy whom you must fight until the end and of course the number of times you meet death face to face. Yet, there was one thing that he could not win: his own self. I had visited men who shamefully spoke of their times at war. They would stare at the floor with a tin cup filled with water. Tears would run down their haggard and wind beaten faces their bleeding lips barely moving. I had met men who had gone crazy, thrashing and screaming with their might, as if they could bring back the dead they had killed. But the worse cases among all were the silent ones. They would lie in their beds, staring at the ceiling. Most of them died before anyone could identify who they once were, what title they bore in life. Others would be condemned to abed for eternity, never to speak again.
This boy, this mere lad of twenty hardly spoke at all. He instead, lay, mumbling an inaudible and confusing language that only he could understand. Occasionally, he would speak barely above a whisper, but that was it. I had been reading to him. He never seemed to be listening, but I pressed on forward. Perhaps, I rationalized, with a few simple words I could save him. I started with Wuthering Heights, a somewhat safe, but moving story of love and betrayal. He showed no emotion. Yet, after just finishing the scene between Catherine and Heathcliff before she died, did I catch a brief spark of life. Tiny beads of tears were trailed down his eyes, mingling with his scruffy bread. His eyes darted briefly to me before mumbling, barely above a whisper, "Cecilia."
I later started upon a more controversial and heavily reviewed love story. I thought it somewhat foolish, especially the narrator. He had a naïve and narrow view of life, which according to him revolved around love. If only I could meet the narrator and warn him of what life truly held. Once again the boy at first showed no emotion. He merely lay, mumbling words barely above a whisper. He merely lay speaking to himself in that invented foreign tongue. "The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return," I finished softly before shutting the book. The ending was cheesy too.
The boy blinked in response.
"Son?" I asked, clasping his frozen hand.
He blinked again.
"Son?" I said a little louder. My heart raced; perhaps my words had helped after all?
The boy moved his head slightly, his hair leaving trails of grease behind on the pillow case. The dirt accumulated from the lack of baths, smudged against his shrunken cheeks. His blank eyes gazed into my own with steady confidence. "Shame," he whispered. I paused, barely able to comprehend what was happening.
"Shame, live without shame," he whispered again, his eyes crinkling in emotion. I continually stayed frozen. The boy had something to say.
"Read," he croaked, his voice cracking from the lack of use. He jerked his head toward the nightstand. Unsure, I hesitantly opened the drawer. Inside was a pack of letters with a postcard, concerning a house by the beach, on top. I held them up to his eyes and he nodded in confirmation. With as much dexterity as a surgeon removing shrapnel, I took the bottom letter from the pile. The handwriting was a scrawl that spoke of aristocracy and arrogance. I cleared my throat.
"My dearest…"