Hello. This is my first go at historical fict. Here goes!! I'm glad for any reviews, and if you have any ideas for titles, feel free!!
It was a lukewarm sort of day. The type of day you expect around late April or the first few weeks of May. The date, however, was July 6 and it seemed as if summer would never come. This was the second year that spring had come late and the affects were devastating. The early crops have been lost, cattle were sick, and epidemic was running rampant throughout the town. Diseases such as small pox, influenza, and polio seemed ever present as if they were cultured by the dark, wet, landscape and even damper spirits. All this bore weight upon the young man as he slowly made his way to the cemetery and yet his mood did not reflect the dreary weather and suffering community. For weeks he had been delaying this visit with excuses of fatigue, sickness, and household responsibilities. But now the house was clean, his sickness cured, and complaints of fatigue ignored. The move to Vermont had been mandated and this was the last day he would spend in Smithfield. His final moments at home.
The brethren had told him that it was typical to feel some remorse over past decisions, that the overriding guilt he was experiencing was natural and that it would pass after he gained redemption. The man did not doubt this council. In fact he had no concern about the non-existent guilt subsiding. What worried him was that this “typical” guilt and remorse had never taken place. It was because of his emotional deficiency that he had been, at first politely but with growing hostility, asked to leave. The reasoning? That such talent could not be wasted upon the heartless. The cold. The uncaring. But they didn’t understand. Instead of dwelling upon the deaths, the man had focused on the knowledge, the advancements which had been made possible because of his work. Wasn’t it true that he alone had been able to cure Jess Madison’s daughter of whooping cough or little Tommie Jewkes of the German measles? Because of this, no doubt crept into the man’s mind as he thought of the mistakes he had made. Of the deaths which had occurred in order to achieve those medical miracles. Oh, there had been so many and still tears remained unshed and logic outweighed passion. It had been the eldest of the four who had first told him that in order to accomplish greatness he must be willing to get his hands dirty. Share in the blood which had made nations great. At first, the man had no stomach for this, until he realized his talent. When he discovered the way he could make people feel better once he knew the anatomical details of their aches and fevers, their coughs and their wounds. It was at this moment his perspective changed and he saw existence not as one life, individual of another, but life as a continual circle, a world where the life of one could be bettered by the dedication and sacrifice of another.
These were the thoughts which filled the young man’s head as he continued towards the cemetery in a casual, unhurried, stride. He quietly slipped through the front gates and made his way to a familiar plot. It was only two years ago that he had visited this particular spot but in extremely different circumstances.
It was two years ago that he had attended a funeral in August. This particular funeral had almost broken him of his work, but reason prevailed and he silently made plans to visit again that night. Yes, it was true that the child was only seventeen days old, but she had died of polio. This was just the patient he needed and (by his reasoning) a chance like this could be another twenty years in the making. The night was dark, only a small sliver of moon peeking out behind midnight curtains to view this now common scene of the young man slipping into the cemetery and heading straight towards the small but bright white glow which marked the freshly covered grave. It did not take long to exhume the small, pine, coffin or to transfer the body into the shoulder bag he had carried. As he recovered the now empty casket, he glanced at the small, white headstone which was all that remained to mark this child’s seconds in life. Violet Kearl. For the second time that day, the young man internally debated his dedication to this particular experiment. He had grown up with the young girl’s mother. Irony seemed to rear an ugly head as he remembered the time spent with Elizabeth Kearl. The butter and sugar sandwiches, races to the river, their first kiss, and eventually the quiet, gentle promise which bound their lives as one. Still he pushed these thought from his head and hurried along the abandoned streets towards his home, gently holding the small child his chest.
The first cut had been the hardest. It seemed every exposed inch revealed a story from the past two and half weeks. A tiny hand which had curled around his little finger, soft brown curls, cobalt blue eyes which still reflected the laughter of life, the tiny button nose. It was not until he had sufficiently dulled his nerves and offered several prayers begging for strength that he had been able to accomplish this deed. Time seemed to blur after this as the knowledge grew, and the pain of others seemed to decrease. It was a secret he had kept all these years. A secret he would continue to hide to protect the innocence of other.
A shrill of excitement startled the man out of his reverie. He turned to see a young woman and a child crossing towards him. At this moment his perspective returned. This was the outcome of his cruelty, his sadistic nature, his cold heartedness. The child was running.
Bye!!!
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