A Quest West
Ann
I hadn’t been asleep for more than three hours before I awoke from a frightful dream. I couldn’t hardly remember it in consciousness, but every time I blinked a flashback made me leap near twice my height. Feeling possibly delirious, I paced around the wagon, unwittingly inching closer to Peter. I picked up the journal and leafed through the pages. Drawings shadowed the pages in detailed lines that almost made me drop the book. There were portraits and symbolism and pressed in plants with poetic captions. I read the few pages that actually were journal entries and became totally lost. It sure doesn’t look like kindling to me.
I set down the journal and slinked back to bed. I could see the beginning of the light just over the horizon but closed my eyes anyway. The clouds sang as they faded away. Days pass as years when every second breaks us down. I swear I can feel the despair drifting within the atmosphere. Then suddenly, without any reason, any warning, any possible way to impact the blow, I knew why.
Ann.
The voices is my head chorused her name. The wind whispered. The dust gossiped of her. Wagon wheels clicked in the key of her voice.
Ann.
Birds sang her favorite hymns. Shadows of the danced to her commands. I collapsed. The world spun around and left me alone on my knees in a world of smoke and mirrors. She was dying. They condemned her the minute she lost enthusiasm. The energetic little girl we knew had eyes of fog. Her smiles were thin lipped and her voice spoke tranquil words. She thought she knew death, she thought she had lost it all when she saw that gunfire. Did she even know what this was doing to us.
I don’t know what I should think of the news I was just told. I am the watcher. I have been assigned to witness her dying moments. Peter begged, actually begged to come with me. They agreed. Mom and Dad are both ill and couldn’t come. Soundless tears trail down their cheeks. They pray for her spirit to be an immediate angel. For her smile to be revived as soon as she leaves earth. I cannot seem to hope like them. I am losing her and this whole trip is pointless, even if we make it. Back home she would be chasing chickens. Back home she would be eating real meals. Back home she would still have her childhood. She is just the next corpse to be left behind on this foreboding trail. Peter and I are just the next unfortunate gravediggers. The watchers.
I set down the journal and slinked back to bed. I could see the beginning of the light just over the horizon but closed my eyes anyway. The clouds sang as they faded away. Days pass as years when every second breaks us down. I swear I can feel the despair drifting within the atmosphere. Then suddenly, without any reason, any warning, any possible way to impact the blow, I knew why.
Ann.
The voices is my head chorused her name. The wind whispered. The dust gossiped of her. Wagon wheels clicked in the key of her voice.
Ann.
Birds sang her favorite hymns. Shadows of the danced to her commands. I collapsed. The world spun around and left me alone on my knees in a world of smoke and mirrors. She was dying. They condemned her the minute she lost enthusiasm. The energetic little girl we knew had eyes of fog. Her smiles were thin lipped and her voice spoke tranquil words. She thought she knew death, she thought she had lost it all when she saw that gunfire. Did she even know what this was doing to us.
I don’t know what I should think of the news I was just told. I am the watcher. I have been assigned to witness her dying moments. Peter begged, actually begged to come with me. They agreed. Mom and Dad are both ill and couldn’t come. Soundless tears trail down their cheeks. They pray for her spirit to be an immediate angel. For her smile to be revived as soon as she leaves earth. I cannot seem to hope like them. I am losing her and this whole trip is pointless, even if we make it. Back home she would be chasing chickens. Back home she would be eating real meals. Back home she would still have her childhood. She is just the next corpse to be left behind on this foreboding trail. Peter and I are just the next unfortunate gravediggers. The watchers.