Archive for the ‘Sob Stories’ Category
Gone For Good
The lonely man stood at the end of the pier, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his grey windbreaker as if grasping at buried secrets. A year ago he had been here. And two years ago, and three. It had been so many years now that he could hardly remember the time before he’d stood at the end of that very same pier looking out into that very same sea, thinking the very same thoughts.
I’m glad you can’t be here, because what you would find would only break your heart. We had worked so very hard to get away, to cut clean, to start new lives out here far away from everything we had known. Little did we know everything would go to ruin and we would be left with nothing more than hollow memories. You, so dearly departed, don’t have to know what it has come to. You, love, departed dearly at the best time, before it all came crashing down. And I was left with the broken pieces, stuck trying to put the sky back together, as if I had the power.
I’m glad you left when you did, that you didn’t have to see me be everything you never wanted, hated, feared. You didn’t have to see me miserable, crawling through every day on my hands and knees, barely able to even remember what we stood for, or that we stood for something, or that anything in the world could even be worth standing for.
It’s better that you’re not here, because I couldn’t bear to see your dreams crushed, your spirit broken, your will lost. I couldn’t bear to wipe away your tears, to hold you in my arms, to have to lie to you and tell you that everything will be all right. You always believed in me. It would kill me to see you realise how wrong you were.
You stayed for only the bright times and were gone before the dusk, and it is all for the better. I’m happy you don’t have to suffer with me. I’m happy you believed to the end.
But despite it all, despite everything, selfishly, stupidly, I still wish you were here.
For What He Was
It hurt her, to have to watch him cradle a half-empty bottle of beer. It hurt to see his beautiful eyes glazed and bloodshot and to see the red pain behind them. It hurt when he looked up at her unable to focus on her face and couldn’t recognize her to remember that she cared about him more than she cared for her own life.
She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sober, or the last time she’d seen him outside of the house, or the last time he’d spoken without the alcohol coloring his words. She remembered when he’d been strong, and vibrant, and happy, and tried to see behind the ashen locks of hair that obscured his face the boy he had been.
It was all she could do to remember that he was still human, that he was still her best friend, that she still loved him, because whenever she looked at him all she saw was a stranger. And she wanted to cry and maybe grab a bottle and sit down right beside him but she couldn’t because he needed her for more than that. She didn’t know if she was helping or making it worse or if he would be better off without her, but she couldn’t leave him. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right, but she was the only one who still remembered him, and because she was the only one who remembered him, she couldn’t break.
Sometimes she hated him, and in those moments she found it hard to convince herself he would come back to her, and she wanted to give it all up because she knew she was better than this, better than who he had become. She knew she deserved so much more and out there in the world there was so much more for her, and she had loved him once but he was no longer the man she loved and there was only so much of herself she could give. And she would almost walk out that door. But, by god, sometimes he would smile at her, and, by god, when he smiled she saw the old fire behind his eyes, that rare spark of light, his soul shining through, and when he smiled at her, she saw the boy he had once been. And oh, but he had such a beautiful smile. And she knew deep inside that no matter who he was, no matter what else happened, if only for those rare smiles, it was worth it.
The Outcast Prince
“I met her when I was fifteen, do you know?” The Prince said, staring deep into the fire over his cup of wine. “She was thirteen that summer, standing on the rafters throwing stones at the birds. I taught her how to throw them quickly and soundlessly and with deadly accuracy. She hit one, killed the poor thing, and then she cried and made me carry it down to the gardens so that we could give it a proper funeral.” The corners of his mouth curved upwards with the hint of a smile. “I’ve never given a crow a funeral before.”
“James,” The Prince’s best friend said, using the personal address, “You shouldn’t blame yourself. No one could have seen it coming. Your kingdom could have been betrayed a hundred ways. They were gathering around the doors, ready to pounce. It could have been anyone.”
Black and White Formal
Willowy girls in red, green, purple, gold and silver, the purest ivorys, the deepest ebonies on the arms of sharp young men black and white in tuxedos swirled around the room that wasn’t the auditorium of the city hall tonight but a magnificent ballroom hung ceiling to floor with shimmery pale blue. The music pulsed through bodies, soft and smooth and ethereal, gently guiding the dancers that flowed across the gleaming floor.
She was there, radiant and glowing in silver, a very angel casting light and hope into the faces of whoever she deigned to shine on. She was one among many, but she was the only one for him.
And Her Tears Lit up the Sky
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The sunlight that had been filtering through the windowpanes had just begun to lose the pale white tinge of early morning and the air had just begun to grow warm when she finally lifted her head from the hard floorboards.
She hurt. Everywhere, every muscle, every bone, every inch of skin on her wan, weak body hurt, ached. All of it, down to her very fiber, her very being, her very soul, all of it hurt. She was broken, finally. Her spirit—broken. Her dignity—crushed. Everything she had to live for could no longer outweigh the welcoming darkness that overcame her every time she gave in to it, nor was it enough to make her want to keep resisting the beckon and call of a permanent darkness.
Papa was a Vagabond
She wondered, as they lowered the casket that held her father’s body into the earth, just how many tons of soil went above six-feet-under, and how the lid of the coffin could hold all of it without collapsing inward. She wondered how long it would take for the tenacious creeping roots of dandelions and daisies to take hold over the site, how long before the grass would grow over the grave. She wondered if the worms would bump their soft pink heads against the maple-wood coffin as they bored their way through the soil. She wondered if it would be cold down there, colder than it was up in the air on this September morning as she stood all dressed in black mourning the father she never knew.
The General, the Dawn, the Meadow
Senlac Hill, the site of the Battle of Hastings
The general stood on the edge of the precipice looking down onto the pristine green meadow. Nestled between rolling hills, it lay dewy and glistening and still and peaceful. The general knew that when the sun came up, which wouldn’t be very long now, it would bask the valley in its soft golden light, rendering it glowing and verdant and beautiful. He wondered how long it would be before the animals–the little sparrows, the foxes, the squirrels and hares and deer–came out to frolic.
He wondered how many of those woodland critters would be able to run fast enough to escape the bloodthirsty cold sharp blades of two determined armies.
The general wanted to sink to his knees, to raise his arms to the sky and beg the gods to strip him of his honors, his medals, his glory. Here, in this dawn, standing over this meadow he was soon to destroy like the many that lay desolate and smoldering and bloody behind his advancing army, the general just wanted to be a man. He wanted to shoulder his share of bags, to have to stand watch before the guard fire deep into the night, to have to wait his share of rations in line, to rush into battle brandishing the banner of his land and shouting the name of his king. It was too much, sometimes, to be a leader. The general didn’t want to think anymore, he just wanted to follow orders.
Most of all, the general didn’t want to have to be the man responsible for destroying the beauty that lay before him…and for what? Another army defeated, another little square of land taken for country and king? It hardly seemed a worthy sacrifice. In a few hours he would give the command to charge down into the green and when they walked away at the end of the day, all they would leave behind them would be death, ruin, and decay. It was too much, sometimes.
It wasn’t his fault, the general wanted to shout to whoever was listening. It was too much to stand before his army day after day in his greaves and helmet and armor carrying his spear and pretending to be a man when he knew there was nothing manly about this senseless killing. It was too much sometimes to see the trust and loyalty in the eyes of his men, to hear them shout his name and swear to him their fidelity. He wanted to tell them that they shouldn’t trust him, that he could very well be leading them into battle, that if they followed him maybe all they would come to show for it is a grieving wife and fatherless children.
Yet how could he? He was the general, and he had to stay strong. The fate of his homeland, of these tens of thousands of soldiers still sleeping quietly in the camp behind him lay in his hands. He couldn’t give in, for the sake of his country, his sovereign, and that of his two little boys at home who played so fiercely with toy swords and swore that someday they would be great generals like their father. If only they knew their father would do anything to spare them that fate. It didn’t matter that 99 days out of 100 he was admired, he was great, and he had honor, glory, dignity, if for that one other day he felt less than a dog.
But it didn’t matter. There was a reason he had risen to the office of general, after all. Because at the end of the day he was the one man out of hundreds that could look at the smoking trampled ruin of what had once been a perfect green meadow and give the order to move out and march on to the next meadow and not look back. He was the one man they looked to to send men to their deaths, to look the enemy in the eyes and shout an attack. There was a reason he did what he did so well, the general knew. So he cast one last long look down into the valley, took a deep breath of the cool dawn air and beckoned forward his commanders, who had been waiting quietly and patiently behind him, to discuss tactics.
By midday a shepard standing looking down between the hills would see only the sunlight reflecting off the armor and spears of two armies, hear only the clashing of steel and screaming of dying men, and smell only the rank odor of blood. He would turn away, muttering to himself, glad to be rid of the scene.
But then, the lowly shepard doesn’t have the steel-cast heart of a general.
Lost Without Him
She looked up to him in the way that a only a little girl could look up to her big brother. He had been her protector since before she’d been able to talk or walk, let alone go out into the big bad world and get her heart broken. She swore she could recall a memory, a snapshot of time from before she was supposed to have developed the ability to remember, of lying in the soft warmth of her crib while her big brother, a chubby cheeked toddler, dangled something shiny above her. Later, she remembered him defending her from the bullies on the playground, or blowing on her knee to stop the hurt when she scraped it falling off the monkey bars and then taking her to buy her an ice cream to make her forget about it. She remembered that he sent the boys who teased her running away scared and showed her the big high school that used to be so intimidating when she was 12 and was now only a cradle for memories. She remembered how he was the one there to comfort her when she cried because she had been fifteen and stupid enough to believe that a seventeen year old boy meant it when he told you he loved you forever and always.
Always Carnival Folk
The littlest tumbler pulled on her “off” clothes, jeans and the sweater that always kept her perfectly toasty, and stepped out of the trailer and into the crisp night. She tilted her head back and breathed in the scent of sloppy joes, cigarettes, coffee, gasoline, and faintly, the cloying cologne Leo always wore too much of. She had known this smell all her life; it smelled of home, of peace, of security, of love. The littlest tumbler looked up at the sky, past the fireflies gathering around the hanging electric lanterns. She scanned the sky, searching.
“There you are,” she said into the night. “So bright tonight, do you bring good news?” Overhead, her star twinkled back at her. She frowned.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
Breaking
“Hi Rachel,” he said, standing on her doorstep.
“Hey,” she gushed, and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh Matt, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I forgot. I was on the phone with T–well, I lost track of the time. I’ll make it up to you. Look, let’s go out now. I know a place, an adorable Russian place, just let me grab my coat.”
She did look like she was ready for a night out, too. Satiny red dress, distractingly low cut, provocatively short, ebony curls that shone in the glow of the streetlight. She stood there like an angel, back lit and radiant, and for a moment he almost forgot that he had spent an hour sitting, waiting at a table reserved for two lit with candles and two glasses of red wine sitting growing warm. He forgot–almost–that he still had the three red roses in his hand, and that they had grown droopy now, and that he now probably smelled more like pasta than his 70-dollar cologne.
