status; open
when; after the dawn service
location; in front of the memorial hall
there was an itch, deep inside his bones. one he couldn’t scrach out, would never be able to. it was deep, rooted in the darkest recess of his mind. and it was making him loose his footing, control over so many hidden memories, reactions and fears.
he had promised himself, last year, that he would come today. courage had left him the last time– as expected for the coward he was. running away all your life, but it still followed him. ignored his plea for peace. he thought it was fine. and, it was, he supposed, most of the time. when his main concern was getting food for his dog, and pay his rent, and just fix cars. but here, as his fingers nervously played with the wristband, as he was facing the memorial hall, cowardice in his vein, robbie knew that war had caught up with him once again.
the dog tags burnt still on his skin, though they were nonexistent anymore. a light touch from his fingertips where they used to dangle confirmed their absence– a phantom pain, wasn’t it? or was that just from missing limbs?
at some point, his bad leg had felt weak, perhaps remembering the pain, alongside everything else. sitting down on a bench, after the ceremony, hands balled into fists in his pocket, robbie watched. watched the young as they fleeted around, attracted by the buffet and preaching moronic platitudes to their thousand of followers. he watched survivors, dealing with the guilt they all shared, though they did not fight in the same war. it was the widows and the families, crying over their loss, that made him look away. guilt over his own cynicism.
and when a shadow blocked his view of the sun, robbie could only figure that the other person just wanted to share the bench. “sorry,” moving to the side carefully, feeling older than he was when his leg protested, not looking up. “sorry,” he repeated without realizing, “didn’t mean to hog the bench.”
Sage has attended the memorial service every year since moving to the island. If there’s a clear source for the pull she feels, the deep, nagging desire to pay her respects, it remains a mystery to her. She’s not even aware that there’s something else guiding her steps. All she knows is that there is a deep sadness that weighs upon her as the service proceeds, a feeling of distant pride and, perhaps, a touch of regret.
As the public disperses around the lawn, young and old, she finds herself falling, as she often does, into a quiet watchfulness, brown eyes shifting from family to family, couple to couple, and observing their mannerisms, expressions, conversations, silently assessing and analyzing. She, herself, strolls slowly across the grass, considering the utility of war, the unfortunate consequences, the morality of it all, failing to come to one singular conclusion before her journey brings her to the bench upon which Robbie sits.
His pain is obvious, the way he favours his good leg, winces with the slightest of movements, as is his deep sorrow. She notes the fists desperately seeking peace in the quiet of his pockets, the hunch of his shoulders, and as he shifts for her to sit, refusing to meet his gaze, a hum passes quietly between her lips. Her own hands seek the pockets of her denim jacket as she sits, crosses one leg across the other beneath the linen of her skirt. “Thank you for your service.” She turns a knowing gaze towards him, head tipping to one side as she studies his profile. “It must be hard to be here.”
