It was quite the ordinary autumn afternoon. The sun softly gazed upon him from its perch on the horizon, waking up the world for the day. He sat comfortably on a wobbly bench swing, high on a hill. Leather boots caked in mud swung beneath him as yellow oak leaves fluttered all around. Dandelion tufts soared in the distance, scattering speckled shadows every which way. Gray fingers, wrinkled and scarred, scaled a trout he had caught just moments before. Chuckling to himself, he squinted out at the mockingly peaceful landscape.
Acres of aspens stood like rows of corn across the rolling hills. They reminded him of the times he would weave around the watching beams, fleeing from his cousins as they pursued their final victim in a game of “zombie tag.” How silly, he thought. If we only knew what was to happen in the coming years. His eyes darted over to the stream babbling down the hillside, wondering how long it would be until the fish became scarce. Nothing else seemed able to survive anymore; why should fish be any different?
Frustrated with all this pointless contemplation, he slung his catch over his shoulder and began the long trek through the woods back to his house. Approaching the blemished brook bridge, he smiled and leapt up onto the railing. His arms stretched far out to the sides as he slowly placed one foot in front of the next, swaying like a tattered flag in the wind. The bridge came to an end, and he let himself fall onto spongy straw.
A white blur caught his eye. He watched as the wind pinned a disheveled flier to a nearby tree. It didn’t take him long to recognize the familiar symbol of two crossed rifles, complete with the ominous bald eagle. Images of fleeing children and dark flames flashed behind his eyes. His smile vanished, and his eyes darkened, for a rising hatred had begun to surface.
Shutting his eyes tightly, he attempted in vain to block out the increasingly persistent memories flooding into the back of his mind. He missed having a real home, as well as any form of identity. It had been so long, so lonely, so bleak. He had begun to forget what a home was even supposed to mean. The scraping of leaves on asphalt snatched him back to reality and he found himself in the center of town. Of course, no one lived there any more, but there was still an eerie sense of communal rebellion that lurked and haunted the shadows of the buildings.
He turned into a brick alley and approached the old synagogue. The window loudly protested as he pried it open and squeezed through, trying not to think of the screams it so accurately mimicked. A soft purr relieved the tension in his shoulders, and he soaked up its ever so welcome familiarity. Mouse was lounging by the opposite window sill, her tail flickering impatiently, holding an ancient rat skeleton in her paws. Her emerald eyes shot daggers at the trout draped over his shoulder, and her ears perked up in anticipation. He tossed Mouse a filet and she set about to devour it.
Straightening up, he took in the familiar scenery. Various musical instruments of all shapes and sizes hung from the walls. There were flutes, harmonicas, a saxophone, and even a miniature accordion. But none of these beckoned to him as much as one in particular. He ran his fingers across the strings of the old guitar, plucking them as he did so. The guitar was made of dark mahogany wood and had a cutaway below the neck. The tuning pegs sparkled, silver beacons of hope.
He gently took up the instrument, swaying a little as he walked over to the leather sofa, which sat neglected under the consistently dark chandelier. He lowered himself into the leather and kicked off his shoes. Mouse meowed and abandoned her filet. She scampered across the floorboards and leapt up onto the arm of the chair. She made her way boldly to his chest and flopped down in a plume of gray hairs. He smiled and began to pluck a simple melody, closing his eyes. It was at times like these where he could remember that not the entire world was lost.
Acres of aspens stood like rows of corn across the rolling hills. They reminded him of the times he would weave around the watching beams, fleeing from his cousins as they pursued their final victim in a game of “zombie tag.” How silly, he thought. If we only knew what was to happen in the coming years. His eyes darted over to the stream babbling down the hillside, wondering how long it would be until the fish became scarce. Nothing else seemed able to survive anymore; why should fish be any different?
Frustrated with all this pointless contemplation, he slung his catch over his shoulder and began the long trek through the woods back to his house. Approaching the blemished brook bridge, he smiled and leapt up onto the railing. His arms stretched far out to the sides as he slowly placed one foot in front of the next, swaying like a tattered flag in the wind. The bridge came to an end, and he let himself fall onto spongy straw.
A white blur caught his eye. He watched as the wind pinned a disheveled flier to a nearby tree. It didn’t take him long to recognize the familiar symbol of two crossed rifles, complete with the ominous bald eagle. Images of fleeing children and dark flames flashed behind his eyes. His smile vanished, and his eyes darkened, for a rising hatred had begun to surface.
Shutting his eyes tightly, he attempted in vain to block out the increasingly persistent memories flooding into the back of his mind. He missed having a real home, as well as any form of identity. It had been so long, so lonely, so bleak. He had begun to forget what a home was even supposed to mean. The scraping of leaves on asphalt snatched him back to reality and he found himself in the center of town. Of course, no one lived there any more, but there was still an eerie sense of communal rebellion that lurked and haunted the shadows of the buildings.
He turned into a brick alley and approached the old synagogue. The window loudly protested as he pried it open and squeezed through, trying not to think of the screams it so accurately mimicked. A soft purr relieved the tension in his shoulders, and he soaked up its ever so welcome familiarity. Mouse was lounging by the opposite window sill, her tail flickering impatiently, holding an ancient rat skeleton in her paws. Her emerald eyes shot daggers at the trout draped over his shoulder, and her ears perked up in anticipation. He tossed Mouse a filet and she set about to devour it.
Straightening up, he took in the familiar scenery. Various musical instruments of all shapes and sizes hung from the walls. There were flutes, harmonicas, a saxophone, and even a miniature accordion. But none of these beckoned to him as much as one in particular. He ran his fingers across the strings of the old guitar, plucking them as he did so. The guitar was made of dark mahogany wood and had a cutaway below the neck. The tuning pegs sparkled, silver beacons of hope.
He gently took up the instrument, swaying a little as he walked over to the leather sofa, which sat neglected under the consistently dark chandelier. He lowered himself into the leather and kicked off his shoes. Mouse meowed and abandoned her filet. She scampered across the floorboards and leapt up onto the arm of the chair. She made her way boldly to his chest and flopped down in a plume of gray hairs. He smiled and began to pluck a simple melody, closing his eyes. It was at times like these where he could remember that not the entire world was lost.