Without exception, dreams descended upon Eugene that night, paying homage to the thorny vines of terror encapsulating his heart.
Clad in thin linen pyjamas the hue of a deep, drowning ocean, Eugene stands by the window. His naked feet embrace the soothing touch of the floor texture, seep in its coolness and transport it throughout his entire body. A coolness which, come tomorrow, would leave him with a mild cold. His right hand separates the vermilion curtains, preventing them from their ritual of gentle, shy hugging. Eugene's tiny facial features press tightly against the window panes. His mouth hangs slightly open, awarding him the expression of a student in a timeless stupor. His breath is not mirrored in the glass, for it remains fogless, devoid of any inkling of life. A second, more sinister reason coerces the window panes into refusing Eugene's breath to be imprinted upon it. Curtains drawn apart and flawless glass without a speck of dust to thwart vision, Eugene has his eyes properly and dutifully focused upon the unfolding massacre.
Belches of fire burst spontaneously across the sky, often followed or preceded by a cup driven savagely into earth, engulfing miles, trees and houses. Civilian masses accompanied by shouts of terror scramble, stumble and scratch their own neighbours in a frantic pell-mell for the shelters. They are black, except for the quick funnels of fire erupting constantly, highlighting them in hellish yellow and orange. Ceaseless, teeth gritting shattering booms not too far away spread gentle thuds across the floor, shaking both inhabitants of the house tenderly. Tenderly not out of love, but out of malice, of pure spite.
Care borne from the desire to leave a boy's mind tortured and insane, for him to witness the whole spectacle. Caution taken lest panic overwhelms him and he bolts from the scene. So the play unfolds furtively and crescendos of sound build higher and higher. Wounded engines and men alike scream incomprehensibly in the din of warfare. It does not occur to Eugene that any scream might have the source of his father's voice, or the spluttering failure of his aircraft. The poor boy is oblivious to all. All but one. Death looms over the entire battlefield, revelling in blood and fire, pain and destruction. A spider web held together by the excessive fuel of slaughtered souls. Instead of being tucked away in a long forgotten corner of a derelict building, it is a spider web which covers a world that has long forsaken hope. Yet Eugene does not make an appearance of one which has allowed fear to grab hold of him. His mouth is not pursed but remains slightly hinged nonetheless. His eyes stare vacantly ahead, not narrow slits nor glistening, not bright nor large. Neither do they belie anything other than his stoic impassivity. Eugene's senses are as dilute as those of a medieval soldier right after battle, deaf from the incessant pounding of cannons and maddeningly indifferent to the carnage around him due to the long hours of fighting and drawing blood.
Surreal thoughts float around Eugene’s head, solidifying into reality as Death turns its gaze slowly towards his haven on earth – home. A scream tears at his throat, but the gift of speech has been hoarded away. It has no place in a dream like this. A merciless rhythm of icicles repels the warmth from his body and Eugene feels cold, lifeless. Numbness, like a steady shot of anesthetic, courses through his veins. Death slithers closer to his house, a fat, heavy needle of blackness as thick as oil about to burst with turbulent souls. They put up a frantic fight to escape its embrace, their efforts reflected in a white sheen emanating from within the invisible, hardened skin of Death. It was the dead within Death which ironically allow Eugene to trace the latter’s serpentine path edging closer.
Death resumes his inhumane, ghostly frame. A cloth, long and thin with orbs of tumbling white underneath. It is there, next to the boy, frozen in the throes of his calamity. Nothing has changed. Not the boy or the curtains. The mahogany door remains closed and the windows are still shut. Gusts of wind do not pervade the room. Wisps of smoke define Eugene’s form, and Death’s forked tongue tickled the place where his navel would be.
Choose.
Two keys, one in each hand. The one on the left is coal black, embossed with intertwined snakes in golden scales. They lead to one key head equipped with miniature fangs and eye slits. It feels old and rustic and carries the weight of lead. The right hand key is more of a simple crude imitation of the actual item than anything. A halo of silver shimmers around it, light and radiant. Both keys contain a heat that scorches his palms, pressing home the eminent decision at hand. The left one is almost too heavy to bear.
Eugene’s fingers curl around the right key, forming a jointed fist.
Right.
Death hisses and his control over Eugene is relinquished. Souls find themselves free, but freedom scares them. Hums of sorrow pound against Eugene’s head. The only leverage left for the dead, he was the one remaining outlet for their wrath. He was still alive. Father is amongst them, the only recognisable human face from the lot. Terrible anger distorts his otherwise pale dead features. He points a damning finger at his helpless son, bearing down on him with all authority of Death itself. So Death laughs, uttering horrible shrieks of glee at his marvelous trickery. And the ghosts descend on their prey, baring their wounds of flesh. Eugene stumbles backwards and falls as his father’s soul wrestles with many like it, to steal the life of another. It was not a sin, for the dead have no morals. The boy watches, dumbfounded, as his father is trampled beneath the horde, and his body makes a powerful thud as it lands next to his son. Now there is no ghost, only a legless body parading an undecipherable face..
The dream lifts from Eugene’s mind. His eyes flash open. A sick, tortured feeling resides in his stomach, almost as if his body remembers terror faster than his brain. Breath comes in ragged, short gasps punctuated by random, recalcitrant sobs. Memory sneaks up on him at last, unbidden, inflicting new pain upon the lonely child. “No.” He can speak again. “No.” A tear rolls out from his left socket, forming a path for others to follow. His mind registered blandly the trivial fact that the first tear of pain falls from the left, that of happiness from the right. Eugene closes his eyes, eyebrows glistening with tepid liquid in an attempt to compose himself. “I mustn’t let father down, I mustn’t…”
Oh father. Father. Emotions override him like a cleansing tide and his resistance begins to waver. A strangling sob chokes him. His nose runs. His pillow absorbs the tears from his wet cheeks. Some of them fall on his open mouth, and he tastes the salty grief it brings. God please, let me fall asleep from exhaustion. Exhaustion, father, wasn’t it you who always joked about suffering from chronic fatigue when you came back from work? Your work father, not the one you have to carry out "for your country". You said it was the correct political term for exhaustion. You always irritated mum so much, pondering on specific words, do you remember when..
A sudden, crunching sound startled Eugene out of his reverie. Shards littered the floor as the door knob now sported an obsidian, gaping bruise instead of a face. The door stood impaled to the wall as if Rose had transferred her fear into this nonentity. Eugene swung his head to the left side of the room, and he only managed to catch a glimpse of his mother before she descended upon him, unkempt hair and the lot. Icy hands extorted a forceful grip to his right wrist as Rose dragged her son out of bed.
“Get up, get up, get up,” she screamed, issuing the command thrice to assure herself that Eugene would hear it above the stirring siren. The comforting caress of the sheets was instantly dispelled along with previous lethargic feelings. Mother and son fled out of the room, their feet practically skimming over the resentfully hard floor.
“What is it with you, you sleep like a log waiting to get burnt! Apparently even with Italy on our doorstep!”
Which goes to show how much you know about your own son, Eugene clamped his mouth firmly shut to resist the temptation of retorting. But a maw of guilt and shame sat somewhere above his midriff as understanding dawned upon him. The dream had been so lifelike; he had not paid any heed to the stirring siren springing people out of their beds. Nightmare siren and reality siren had coalesced into one – in his sleepy frame of mind, he had been unable to distinguish between the two. Puzzled, he ran into his mother’s back, almost toppling her down the stairs.
“Will you watch it!” she screamed in utter panic, right arm flailing comically as she struggled to regain her balance. Eugene yanked her back to temporary safety; they had to make it to the shelter in time. Their rawest, most basic instincts overwhelmed any other complex states of being which defined them as mother and child. Danger was shelling down around them, and their top priority was hiding rather than facing it. Rose released her fierce claw like grip on her son’s hand and skipped the stairs two at a time. Her son followed, a little less desperately. Once he was standing beside her, the hand grapple found its way hooked around Eugene’s arm again. The house was shaking as if undergoing immense duress, but the two stumbled into the dining room.
Furious panic bubbled inside Eugene. “Mum, the shelter! Where in hell are you going?”
“There’s no time. Dive!” she ordered in a methodical, dictatorial tone. There was no room for questioning. Together they bent down under the spindly table where they also kept their gas masks. Putting them on was no mean task to accomplish, especially during a night air raid. They had agreed to place them right in the middle, so finding the gas masks did not involve any blind scrabbling in the dark. Holding his against his chest, Eugene ran through the instructions mentally.
Grasp the side straps firmly, pressing the mask inwardly by your thumb. Eugene managed without too much difficulty.
Fit your chin into the mask whilst simultaneously releasing your thumbs. Three times he had to attempt this before he got it right.
Do not release the straps. Draw them over the top of your head and adjust if necessary. To follow the final instruction, he jutted out his elbows to the side, hitting Rose on the side of her head.
She yelped in frightened pain as she rubbed her forehead. “Sorry!” hollered Eugene above the amalgamated sounds of terror. His mother didn’t hear him, so she lashed out at his stomach mildly to retaliate. Both sat in sullen silence of their own world before the thought of losing each other penetrated their pride. It started with the clasping of each other’s hands to reduce the loneliness of it all. Their lips uttered fervent prayers to whoever would listen – an obligatory act required to remain sane for as long as the siren whirred. There had been times when they were forced to stay underground for a whole night, listening and trembling as the country’s population was snuffed out. Who knew when it might be them? Homeless or dead?
Tweaks of sunlight appeared over the horizon, a hazy red flower blossoming over an aerodrome. A single ordinary event to combat the evil madness the world was suffering from. The aircraft retreated, and it seemed nature had won a victory, however insignificant, over the combined prowess of man and machinery.
Eugene’s head lay on his mother’s bosom, a symbol of life and love to contrast with the rampant killing. Rose’s arms hugged her son’s gas mask tightly in emotional distress. Four damp cheeks bore the marks of tears, evidence to the kaleidoscope of feelings shared between the two. Motionless and uncomfortable, they held onto each other for a few extra precious moments. Faith had spared them this time round from a close up scrape with Death. Eugene removed himself from his mother, as the longing for the comfort of bed return in a savage urge.
“I’m going to sleep. I’m tired.”
The gas mask looked up into his face and nodded its ascent. With a huge effort, he lifted his legs over every step of the staircase and finally clambered into bed, not even bothering to remove his gas mask.
Warm beams of sunlight brought morning gently inside the room. Eugene stirred, and his brain registered a new day, perhaps one of hope, to make up for the horrors of the night before. A ghost of a smile played upon his lips as he remembered the gentle warmth of being close to mum. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he muttered inaudibly in an encouraging tone, “Perhaps today will be better.”
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