Time Bombs

chapter four

The Attic
0138 Hours

     AUGUSTUS LARSSEN couldn't sleep. The bed was still too soft, his shirt -- Sebastian's shirt -- a little too clean, and his stomach a little too silent. Everything seemed too good to be true.

     According to the calendar stuck to the wall, he had been in the Philippines for approximately four months and two weeks. But somehow, it almost seemed like he'd been gone for years.

     He wonders what has become of his mother. His mother, too afraid to let her youngest son go, because letting him go meant bidding adieu to her final child. The final goodbye. There were four of them in the beginning. Wilson, the eldest, died on a test flight back home. He was twenty nine. The next one, Charlie, was among the 1,102 who perished aboard the USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor. He was just a few days short of his twenty eighth birthday.

     And then came Benjamin, Augustus' very own best friend, born exactly a year before he was. Lucas Benjamin and Augustus Bennet. Ben and Ben. They were thick as thieves until Benjie left to join the marines. He died on Clark Air Field the day after Pearl Harbor. He died the day after Charlie did. The neighbors didn't know how to help them. Their father succumbed to tuberculosis five years ago. Augustus was all their mother had left.

     So when he told their mother he had enlisted, all hell broke loose.

     "How come you didn't ask me beforehand?" she cried.
     "Because I knew you'd say no."

     Admittedly, he knew it was selfish. But he also knew he had to go out there, for a reason still unknown to him to this very day. Did he enlist to avenge his brothers? Did he enlist to fight for his country? Did he do it to finally get out of Buffalo? He didn't know why, but he did it anyway. And there he was, eight thousand miles away in a shirt that didn't belong to him, lying on a bed far softer than anything he had ever rested on. Why did it have to be him? Why couldn't it have been Charlie or Benj or Wilson that struck a gold mine and found Sebastian? Where was their good samaritan? How come somebody saved Augustus when no one saved them? What made fate decide they were unworthy of what it simply threw Augustus' way? Why him?

     He turned to his side and wept. Wept for his mother. Wept for his brothers. Wept for all the young men miles and miles away from the comfort of home and everything they knew, forced to point guns at each other. They were all pawns in a game of chess. The world's biggest names dictated their every move. They were fighting a fight they didn't create. A fight they never asked for. And yet, each loss had them to blame. Who ever told the world to be that way?

     He looks around the room, reassuring himself that things hadn't changed. He was still tucked safely  away in the attic, swathed in the most immaculate covers. He scans the books. A few volumes were familiar. There was the household staple, Shakespeare, as well as Jules Verne, and an author named F. Scott Fitzgerald who had volumes piled neatly next to the typewriter.

     The typewriter.

     It was an old Rheinmetall, most likely older than the ones he'd seen in Buffalo. It must've been more than twenty years old. The paint on the keys was beginning to show signs of wear, and some parts had slightly rusted, but otherwise, it seemed to be in pretty good condition. Whoever owned this used it a lot and took great care of it, for it to still be functional more than a decade later.

     Wincing every now and then, Augustus stands up and very carefully makes his way towards it. Regardless of how, when, and if it would get there, the least his mother deserved was a letter from her only surviving son. He contemplates for a moment, trying to put the past four months into words and debating on whether or not he should sugarcoat what he went through or tell his mother absolutely every last detail. He decides on the latter, because he technically owed it to her, but changes his mind and decides on writing two letters. One for each version. She might not even get them anyway.

     And with that, Augustus Larssen began to type. Type with immense fervor and gusto like his life depended on it, because it did.

J A C Q U E L I N E
The Bedroom
0200 Hours

     IT has been one month and five days since my family last had a proper sit down meal. One month and five days since I last had a family. Sebastian had decided to let the helpers go, which I personally think was a horrible idea considering that they were the only ones I spoke to within the confines of this so called home. My brothers were never around. Never around because of work, they say, but it's common knowledge that they're only doing that to avoid each other. Both Sebastian and Alonso would jump at the very first opportunity that would get them out of here, but I don't think it occurred to them that avoiding the house would mean avoiding me as well.

     Tack, tack, tack, tack, ding.

     Sometimes, I wish I was born first. If father left me in charge, this family wouldn't be in shambles. Not that I want to be mayor, but had I been born first, I might be the one sitting in office after elections. That isn't going to happen, of course, not just because you can't change the past, but also because I don't think San Francisco is ready for a female taking the lead. Sure, the world has changed since the excruciatingly patriarchal 1800s, but the women of today still have a very long way to go. A very long fight to fight.

     Tack, tack, tack, ding.

     I wonder how different the setting would've been if I had memories of my mother. Would things be better? Would I have been brought up the way that I was? Would we-

     Tack, tack, ding.

     What on earth?

     Tack, tack, tack, tack, tack, tack, tack, tack, ding.

     Why is Sebastian using my typewriter at this ungodly hour?

The Attic
0228 Hours

     TACK, tack, tack, tack, tack, tack, tack, tack, ding.

     Augustus doesn't know when the change happened. How he went from staring at the stygian summer sky, absolutely not knowing where to begin, to being completely unable to keep his fingers off the keys. He supposes his story began right where it ended. His story began after the fates decided to cut the strings bound to his brothers' lives. His story began when a dark eyed stranger offered him a hand and whisked him to safety in his attic.

     The room's sole window had been tightly shut, but the breeze outside beckoned him to crack it open. Perhaps some other time, he thought. The door, too, had been safely locked by Sebastian, and yet somehow, with all the walls surrounding Augustus, he didn't feel like a prisoner held captive. He was a guest, Sebastian had said, and so far, he'd done a very good job at making sure Augustus was aware.

     "I'm sorry, ma," he typed. "I'm sorry I left knowing I was all you had left. The world has spent more time being unkind to us than it has been its far more pleasant counterpart. But, I'll tell you this: There is still good in this world. Sebastian reminds me of that every time I see him."

     He stops. He hasn't met a good man since Benjie died. Not since this war forced the most genuine souls to put on the steely, utilitarian facade the army required. He straightens up at this thought and ponders on what to write next. Four months of experience have now been reduced to seven whole pages of ink streaking through pristine sheets of paper. Augustus doesn't know how to end. The rest of the story has yet to be written. The rest of the story has yet to happen.

     Click.

     The door opens.

     Augustus' hands grow limp.

     "Mano Bas, what are you doing? Don't you have your own typewriter?"

     What follows could only be described as the most bloodcurdling scream piercing through the air like a rogue bullet.

◯ ◯ ◯

Chapter Four is dedicated to Corporal Harlon Henry Block of Yorktown, Texas who died in the gruesome battle that took place on Iwo Jima. He was one of the six men who hoisted the American flag on Iwo Jima in the iconic photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal. He was only twenty years old when he died in combat. They say he was still waiting for his first kiss.