shiver (FEATURED) | ✓

oo5

vance

WHAT STAYS WITH me isn't really grief.

To me, it's just the feeling of the ghosts coming back. To me, it's a sentimental catastrophe.

Parrish. Parrish, Parrish, Parrish.

Today, we lost a worthy soldier, companion, and friend on the battlefield. He was loyal to his service, trustworthy, loving to those whom he cared for, and a humanitarian, which is more than we can ask for from people these days. The words run through my mind, and they make me feel sick. Small. Describing his death with words of of honour, and so soon afterwards, too, is disgraceful. I ought to be ashamed.

Jonathan would not approve of it.

Malcolm would not approve of it.

Nobody would approve of it.

My gaze lies fixated on the steering wheel that I hold tightly in both hands as I start my hovercar, the navy lacquer of the hood shining dully in the soft light that beams down from the blue street lamps. At last, I look up to look up at the road, expression flat, dull, unemotional as I drive. The car glides silently over the cobbled streets, turning corners effortlessly, the motor the gentlest whirr at the back of it.

Once again, my thoughts drift to Parrish, and I come up with a suitable conclusion as to what words they will commemorate his death with. There will be no use of the words 'brave' or 'gallant' or 'heroic.' There will be nothing of what any little boy might have dreamed of being; the next superhero, the next person to save a life. He will not be valued as a friend, nor as a foe, nor will he be spoken of with admiration. The more sentiment you put into a goodbye, the longer the farewell lasts, the more difficult it is to let go.

At least, that's what my father used to tell me, although I never knew whether I could believe him or not. I grew up with it, but emotion got the better of me. Now, I know that I cannot trust him. Not ever again.

All this is to say that my friend will not pass with gentle words. He will not be laid down into a coffin on a blanket of silk with flowers over the wood. No, not like how it used to be. Instead, he will be placed into a grave- into a hole in the ice, just fit for a man his size, and there he will rest, forever, another face staring up at the living, along with all the others that were not granted a proper burial.

The dead are no longer respected, in this world, and it is better like that. It allows for us all to move on, to focus on the present, to focus on what must be done to make Tetrahmon a kernel for the epitome of mankind.

No. What am I saying? He will be given a proper burial. It takes long to etch out a hole in this ice. There will be effort put into his grave. It is a proper burial. Just like everybody else who died, he will have been given a proper burial.

When Malcolm says it is proper- then it is proper. It is just and it is right, and he deserves his grave.

Good.

He has served the State rightfully, he has done his duty as a soldier. May others come forth and take his place.

In vita est nex. In life is death. Do duch is krveprolití.

There is no mention of the words 'today we have lost a soldier.' No, none at all. And so, my dear friend, farewell. You are nothing but a soldier, my dear friend. You are a chess piece that has been taken from the board- my dear friend.

They will call him a martyr.

And I- I will call him a sheep.

There was nothing right about his death, there was no purpose to it. It was manslaughter.

I think of nonsensical things such as these, and these things I most certainly do not appreciate. The doors of my apartment slide open, ever-loyal to my retina. I don't even need my keys anymore. Everything now is easy to get through. It is efficient, they would say.

It has been a tiring day, but I cannot let it show, for my own sake. So I go and fix myself dinner- something simple, say, pasta. Pasta sounds nice, yes.

Elle, no. It's not ready, yet, I already told you. Andy, sweetheart, go play with Elle. I think she wants your attention.

Oi, Ellie. There we go. Now come on, do you need any help with your homework? Oh, right. You learned about cells today then, hm? Fascinating. Did you like it?

I push my fork through the microwaved remains of last night's dinner. There are always leftovers when there's nobody around to share dinner with. Sighing, I close the lid of the container and place it back in the fridge. It should be good for another day or so.

I should work, now, I think, pouring myself a glass of water with three ice cubes.

By the time I go to bed, I am sweating, shaking, drowning. Drowning in air.

Drowning in memory.