Chapter nine
He watched the explosion from a hill fife miles away. He felt a glorious sense of triumph as the lights boomed, once twice, thrice. A sudden wave of heat preceded the dull sound with its thud like quality. Almost like the sound of a ceramic ornament falling onto a shag carpet from a trinket- table. He frowned slightly, it wasn't supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be sharp and clear and loud. But the frown disappeared quickly when he thought a bit more. No, if the sound were too loud, it would overshadow the art of the destruction. People would look back in fifty years time and say 'yop, all I can remember was a huge explosion, like the sound of a canon goin' off right next t' yer ear.' He didn't want that. He wanted this; 'first son, you saw the lights. Like fairy lights exploding on a Christmas tree they was. Then, If you's was close enough, this godawful wave of heat. Then a thud.' But that wasn't it, now other things were starting to go as well. He sat up and watched in interest as the school started to go. First the junior school. Then the high school, then the middle school. All had gone in a pop and a flare of orange-red fire. He felt a sense of almighty justice as even from this distance he felt the heat and heard the screams. He was lucky, there was a strong wind, and the sounds carried perfectly. He threw his head back and laughed. Now the properties of the rich were going up in flames. He watched the demon he had created eagerly eat everything in its path.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and replaced his cap on his head, unknowingly mimicking the action that in his childhood he had seen his father carry out many times. He picked up his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder. Half running, he got to the bottom of the hill and climbed into his battered but incredibly cool black '78 Tonnerre Wolverine with the silver streaks. He loved his car more than life itself, and would protect it with his own life if it came to it.
"Come on buddy, lets get moving." He revved the engine and the car purred into life immediately. He released the break and accelerated. Within seconds he had left the smoking ruins of the Paige Wordely district behind him.
The cold and uninviting corridors with their smell of Lycrol made him uncomfortable. In this building, hundreds, no, thousands could die, and no one would think anything of it. Because what else did people do in hospitals? They died. Even if they didn't die in the place, even if they were mended, they still died. Because if you are whole and then you break, hospitals do the equivalent of taping together a worn out toy, or replacing a light bulb. Eventually more bits of the toy would come off, or the lamp would short circuit for good. Hospitals just prolonged the deterioration process. He fidgeted with the end of his braid, looking down at his lap and trying to swallow the huge lump that had arisen in his throat. A hot, sharp tear escapes the side of his eye and it felt like a shard of glass. He felt like a fifteen-year-old again, he hated this feeling. He remembered the night Hilde had gone into the hospital. He shook his head to rid himself of the memory.
"Duo." He looked up at the man standing before him, and his throat tightened in delayed grief. And although he could not say the words on his tongue, the man understood.
He stood up and almost simultaneously collapsed. Trowa caught him and held him tight. Duo could only sob into his best friend's chest.
At any other time before that, one would have looked on this pair and thought them odd, embracing in the middle of the hospital corridor at 11 at night, one of them sobbing.
But on the evening of June 13th, these two were wholly typical, one mourning for the loss of a wife and loved one, one trying to console what he could not understand. Thousands cried that night, millions even. But even though people similar to themselves surrounded these two, crying in grief or pity, they saw none of them.
Duo couldn't think of anything beside his grief and self-pity and loathing of an event doomed to repeat itself.
Trowa thought 'how many times must I watch him lose the people he loves? How many times must he go through this pain? Were our actions in vain? Is this pointless war doomed to repeat itself?'
He watched the explosion from a hill fife miles away. He felt a glorious sense of triumph as the lights boomed, once twice, thrice. A sudden wave of heat preceded the dull sound with its thud like quality. Almost like the sound of a ceramic ornament falling onto a shag carpet from a trinket- table. He frowned slightly, it wasn't supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be sharp and clear and loud. But the frown disappeared quickly when he thought a bit more. No, if the sound were too loud, it would overshadow the art of the destruction. People would look back in fifty years time and say 'yop, all I can remember was a huge explosion, like the sound of a canon goin' off right next t' yer ear.' He didn't want that. He wanted this; 'first son, you saw the lights. Like fairy lights exploding on a Christmas tree they was. Then, If you's was close enough, this godawful wave of heat. Then a thud.' But that wasn't it, now other things were starting to go as well. He sat up and watched in interest as the school started to go. First the junior school. Then the high school, then the middle school. All had gone in a pop and a flare of orange-red fire. He felt a sense of almighty justice as even from this distance he felt the heat and heard the screams. He was lucky, there was a strong wind, and the sounds carried perfectly. He threw his head back and laughed. Now the properties of the rich were going up in flames. He watched the demon he had created eagerly eat everything in its path.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and replaced his cap on his head, unknowingly mimicking the action that in his childhood he had seen his father carry out many times. He picked up his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder. Half running, he got to the bottom of the hill and climbed into his battered but incredibly cool black '78 Tonnerre Wolverine with the silver streaks. He loved his car more than life itself, and would protect it with his own life if it came to it.
"Come on buddy, lets get moving." He revved the engine and the car purred into life immediately. He released the break and accelerated. Within seconds he had left the smoking ruins of the Paige Wordely district behind him.
The cold and uninviting corridors with their smell of Lycrol made him uncomfortable. In this building, hundreds, no, thousands could die, and no one would think anything of it. Because what else did people do in hospitals? They died. Even if they didn't die in the place, even if they were mended, they still died. Because if you are whole and then you break, hospitals do the equivalent of taping together a worn out toy, or replacing a light bulb. Eventually more bits of the toy would come off, or the lamp would short circuit for good. Hospitals just prolonged the deterioration process. He fidgeted with the end of his braid, looking down at his lap and trying to swallow the huge lump that had arisen in his throat. A hot, sharp tear escapes the side of his eye and it felt like a shard of glass. He felt like a fifteen-year-old again, he hated this feeling. He remembered the night Hilde had gone into the hospital. He shook his head to rid himself of the memory.
"Duo." He looked up at the man standing before him, and his throat tightened in delayed grief. And although he could not say the words on his tongue, the man understood.
He stood up and almost simultaneously collapsed. Trowa caught him and held him tight. Duo could only sob into his best friend's chest.
At any other time before that, one would have looked on this pair and thought them odd, embracing in the middle of the hospital corridor at 11 at night, one of them sobbing.
But on the evening of June 13th, these two were wholly typical, one mourning for the loss of a wife and loved one, one trying to console what he could not understand. Thousands cried that night, millions even. But even though people similar to themselves surrounded these two, crying in grief or pity, they saw none of them.
Duo couldn't think of anything beside his grief and self-pity and loathing of an event doomed to repeat itself.
Trowa thought 'how many times must I watch him lose the people he loves? How many times must he go through this pain? Were our actions in vain? Is this pointless war doomed to repeat itself?'