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The time and the place do not matter.

Nothing could change the tragedy that had happened.

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Children ran and laughed in the street, so she shut the door. The ticking of the clock in the sitting room seemed echo relentlessly in her head, so she went to the kitchen. And there she sat, her head buried in her hands.

She could not understand. Why them? Why then? She had heard the eulogies, speaking of what fine individuals they had been, and of the potential they all had. But every word of praise only increased her anguish. Of course she knew it all already; they were family. The tributes only served as further reminders of what could have been.

They had been ripped away in the primes of their lives. Bright futures lay before them, and suddenly it was all gone. The future prime minister, the war hero, the angel of mercy of Barnet, the budding couple: all would never be. The world was so much poorer, and yet it would never be the wiser.

But she could not bring herself to cry. No, she almost hated them for dying, for leaving her alone to suffer. And if there was one thing that she could not stand, it was suffering. Yet a whole life of it seemed to stretch before her, and her alone. How could they have been so cruel, so unloving?

She wanted to also die, to be with them in whatever infinite void to which their spirits had fled. The priest said they had given themselves to God. But no God could allow such a thing to happen, she reflected bitterly. They had been His faithful servants, and now they were dead.

Nietzche's words beat a monotonous rhythm in her head. God is dead, God is dead, an inextinguishable voice taunted. They are dead, God is dead. I want to be dead, God is dead, they are dead. Like a clock it beat, with no respite or pity. She could not stand it any longer. Never mind that Harold was in the next room, longing for some peace and quiet, and mourning for the son with whom he could never be reconciled now. There would not be peace in Alberta Scrubb's soul. "Where was their God?" she screamed to the high heavens. "There was no reason!"

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Alberta was surprised at how much more she remembered of her son in the long days that followed. Every awkward attempt at an embrace, every laugh and smile was recalled and replayed. Ungrateful and unloving she had thought him, but he was still her flesh and blood, her only child. Now he had been taken away, leaving her with a bare home and a nominal husband. But it was in vain that the tears begged to flow; hard hearts did not crack so easily. And she tried hard not to think of all the scoldings and quarrels. I never truly loved him and the others while they lived, a soft voice whispered, and it was quickly silenced. They had never loved her; what did I do wrong? another voice said. They destroyed all my hopes and ambitions for them. I loved them, I provided for them when my brother failed, and this is how they and their illogical deity repay me. Now I am alone. Harold? Humbug!

Some weeks passed before she ventured into Eustace's old room. It with decades of habit that she pushed open the window, and she realised too late that an unfamiliar dust had accumulated all over the room. So sighing and covering her nose, she went to fetch a cloth and began dusting.

Alberta stopped when she reached the bookcase. All the books of unscientific and uninformative material reminded her of how much Eustace had changed. She recognised "The Bridge of San Luis Rey," among others. But there was one book in particular that she noticed, lying on its side. It was a little black notebook that she had given Eustace for his ninth birthday. In the old days, he would proudly record his marks in it and show them to one and all. But she had not glimpsed the inside for years. The once impressive book was blotched all over with water and dirt stains, seemingly only a good kick away from crumbling into dust. So fitting, Alberta thought. She remembered the earth enveloping and hiding her son forever from her gaze, before he returned to primordial matter. And she turned away, her mouth trembling slightly but eyes focused on the dust around her.

It was just a breath of wind that whistled past the trees and through the eaves and shutters. It would not chill a body, whether it housed a vibrant heart or one as icy-cold as Alberta's. Most people going about their business did not pay it the slightest heed. But it caught the pages of the notebook and flipped through them. The rustling drew Alberta's attention, in time to see a sprig of heather, which had been marking a page, floating through the air. Even as it flew, the last bits of brown leaf crumbled, and then it was no more.

Alberta's hands shook as she reached for the journal, having seen the date on the revealed page. Curiosity was getting the better of her, and yet she feared what she was about to read. Would it be simply another reminder of what she had lost? But she fought back; trembling, she cradled the crumbling pages and began to read.

7 May 1949

"Dear journal: it has now been six years and eight months since Pole and I were in Narnia. Six years and eight months! It seemed like an eternity, and yet that eternity has passed. I wonder what new adventures await us. I wonder if R. and P. and G. will still be there, or if the old muddle about times has happened and they're all gone.

Sixth form is finally almost over, after what also seemed to be an eternity. Our last book was jolly decent though; I shall have to buy a copy of "A Tale of Two Cities" for myself. Of course Pole, being a girl, said it was tragic and depressing, but I suspect that she rather enjoyed it. Actually, buy two.

The hero, Sidney Carton- fancy, I'll be in the same profession that he could have been. Splendid story, but I do wish he had been a better man before he sacrificed himself. In dying for another he atoned for a worthless life; yet he died alone. Only a spy and a seamstress knew of his sacrifice while he lived. The woman for whom he sacrificed himself never realised his love till the end. If he hadn't been a drunkard, if he had some self-respect, what would have happened to Sidney? Could he have lived, as Pole thinks, or at least had the comfort of having been loved before he died?

I found myself thinking of this yesterday, when I told Dad and Mum that I had decided to be a solicitor and apologised for taking so long to decide on a career. Dad accepted it, but it seems that nothing will satisfy Mum. She and Dad started arguing about what the market will be like for the profession when I graduate, and about how much they should contribute. The upshot of it was that they agreed to provide for me up to a year after I pass the bar. But they acted as it was as if this was a duty, and an unwanted one at that. They don't know how much it hurts to see them so unhappy because of me. Dad…Mum…I want us to be a family. I want to see you love each other as husband and wife; I want to call you Dad and Mum; I want to feel the love that money will never carry…if there's a greater gift, I haven't seen it yet."

There were blotches of ink all over these words, but then the writing continued in a more legible script. An image passed before Alberta of her son muttering, "Bother, pull yourself together, Eustace."

" I also told Peter and the Professor. Peter was full of advice and college recommendations, like the elder brother that he is. But to my surprise, the Professor didn't seem to care. He said that it in the end, it doesn't matter since we have to be ready to give it all up when He calls. I suppose D. is right, though I don't understand why he's so pensive. It's as if he has a premonition of some sort.

He must be thinking about death, and I even find myself thinking more and more about that. I'm almost afraid-I don't know what will happen in Narnia, yet I'm leaving in a tiff with Dad and Mum. Might it have been my fault? I'll never abandon the principles I've learned these past seven years, as they would have me do. But could I have been a better son? Might I go with a hearty handshake from Dad and a kiss from Mum instead of having to be a sneak about leaving? I look back and think of all the times I've been a regular beast towards them, and if He would let me relive my life I'd be off like a thunderclap. But here I think of Sidney, and I take comfort in knowing that if I die it will be in the service of Him. Sidney was nothing and had nothing in life, not even love, but in death he gained everything. I'll always remember his last words: 'Yes, this is a far, far better thing that I am doing than anything I have ever done in my life. The eternal rest that I am going to will be a far, far better rest than any I have ever known.' At the end, after death, he was finally loved…

So much seems to be happening at once. Lucy says Auntie and Uncle are going to be on the same train as us today, before they catch one for Bristol to try and talk with Susan, to ask her to go home. I feel so sorry for S.; she doesn't realise what a blessing it is to have loving parents.

And I do love Dad and Mum, so much. I don't know what else I can do to show them that I do love them."

Alberta Scrubb closed the journal with a sigh. There was no more; the notebook was filled, to the last line. And I do not know what became of it afterwards. Perhaps she grasped these words and this admonition from beyond the grave and, with the stubbornness inherent in her family, never let go. The withered love in her heart, sprinkled by the blood that had been shed for her, would have grown and blossomed. Or perhaps, as she had already done so often, she shut out these words. In that case, they would find their final earthly repose in the ever-growing heap of good deeds rejected and forgotten by the Alberta would have to decide; it is not for me to know and tell.

But this is not how the story ends…

I will be changing my pen name to ResOmnesBeneFacere before the next update.

The last chapter (Eustace and Jill) was, I believe, rather weak as far as the theme of sacrifice. Hopefully this makes up for that.