Midnight by Anna Dove (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

fear of the past, the ghastly memories that hung about him like a dark cloud. Gone were his desires for self-preservation over all else, as he held the woman that he loved in his arms—and as he did so, his gaze moved from the stupefied judge upwards towards heaven, and he felt a strange sensation stirring in what he determined must be his very soul, that perhaps after all life was worth living, that the breath in his lungs was precious, that he was free—free from the chains of sorrow, free from the crippling power of guilt and shame, free from the man that he had once been. Love--he knew it. Hope--he believed it. Peace--he grasped it. His life stretched in front of him and the past faded as the darkness of the night fades into the newness of the morning.

A sharp crack split the air, and Jack felt as if he had been dealt a blow to his heart, and he stumbled back a step. His gaze sank to his chest--there was a hole, and dark red fluid seeped quickly from it. The sounds in the room escalated, and then faded as he spun confusedly to Katrin. Her face--her mouth was opened in a wide cry, but he could not hear it. His eyes met hers, and there they remained, as he felt his heart slowing. He willed his heart to beat, to keep beating so that she could have a few more seconds. Her mouth closed, and his vision began to blur. Keep beating, keep beating, she needs more time. She needs to know that I love her. Keep beating. Slower now, his heart labored, but he kept his eyes fixed on hers, even as hers began to swim in tears, and then she nodded, slowly, solemnly, and with that, he managed a faint smile, and closing his eyes, he gave up his spirit.

29.    From Dust

 

“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”

--

-E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly 

Rain. Gentle, cold October rain, falling steadily on the meagre procession of black hats, black veils, black overcoats wrapped tightly around the figures, hunched and chilled, making their way up the hillside on the path leading between rows of gravestones. The graveyard extends for miles and miles, the simple white tombstones spaced equally apart in rows as if they were still standing at attention. Wisping mist ascends from the ground, as the souls of the deceased rise to guard their resting place.

Somber rain, quiet rain. The faces of the procession are downcast, and muddy tracks from where the shoes shuffle in the dirt and the rain. They proceed slowly. At their front are six men in pressed military uniform, carrying a casket. The uniformed men place their feet carefully so as not to slip, and shoulder the casket bravely as they climb the hill. The mist swirls around them, chilling them to their bones.

They reach the top. There is a deep hole in the ground. Gently the casket is laid near the cavity. A man steps forward, clothed in black. He wears a cross around his neck. He speaks a few ministerial words, and motions with his hands to heaven, and offers a sincere prayer. From dust we come and to dust we return.

The six men step forward, and stretch an American flag taut over the casket. Another line of uniformed men, seven in all, step forward, and raise their rifles into the air, and the discharge sounds with a cruel crack that splits through the quiet, reverent air. A pause, and then again, and a pause, and one final time.

Then a quick drumbeat pattern, taps, plays, and the six men holding the flag fold it into a precise triangle, and one man turns, stepping rigidly towards a small woman in black. He offers it to her.

She hesitates, and then takes the flag, but then steps forward and as all eyes watch, lays the flag on top of the casket, her hand trailing slowly along the side.

The casket is lowered into the ground carefully. It disappears from view. The small woman, whose face is concealed under a long black embroidered veil, steps forward again. She kneels by the grave, apparently unaware that half of her black satin dress is now covered in mud. She reaches her hand to the earth and hesitatingly gathers a handful of wet clumps of dirt. Her hand stretches over the grave as she leans forward, and slowly, she pries her fingers away from her palm, releasing dust to dust.

One by one, the attendees make their way back down the hill, after standing for a while in the rain. They are bedraggled and wet, and each that leaves seems more disheartened than the last. Soon there are four remaining, and then two, and then one. She sits by the grave, as silent and still as the other bodies. The rain slows, becoming a drizzle, and a deep fog reaches over the graveyard, rising from the valleys and ascending the hills, blanketing the land as if to protect it from the winter chill.

30. The Inauguration

 

“I learned patience, perseverance, and dedication. Now I really know myself, and I know my voice. It's a voice of pain and victory.”

--

Anthony Hamilton

Mr. Granger was biting his nails and waiting for the news to come in. It had now been several days since the Supreme Court trial. He had heard rumors that dramatic things had happened in the courtroom, but there were so many conflicting reports that he did not know what to publish. Apparently there had been a shooting and all of the public had been quickly extracted from the building before they could really see anything. Would Mr. Gilman be sentenced to death? Oh, he was so glad he took this job. He would never be out of work with the way things were going.