The Last Relics

The Last Relics
Gray mist painted the landscape of an abandoned European city near Sussex, slithering over its unnaturally quiet countryside like some pallid, wing-ed creature. Along a lonely stretch of pavement stood what remained of a desecrated church, its momentous stained glass windows shattered on the concrete, sparkling in the dim pre-dawn light. A wolfs distant cry pierced through the aberrant silence, echoing through the church’s empty corridors until its cacophonous blare finally reached the expansive courtyard.
By the time the call reached Liselle’s ears it was a mere whisper against the wind, though by the way her bowed head snapped up, one would think it was deafening. Looking very much like a broken doll, a young woman knelt at the foot of several holy relics, muted light spilling over her solemn features. Large eyes of gray rested above her sunken cheeks and ashen lips, staring aimlessly at the cluster of broken memorabilia left of St. Andrews church. A weather-beaten journal rested beneath her clammy palm, a nearly indistinguishable color beneath months of rough wear – though it might once have been red. Delirious from trauma, slow starvation, and prolonged exposure to the elements, her eyes abnormally bright, Liselle slipped from consciousness into the bizarre world of pain-induced dreams.
Musicians filled the dreary corners of the Heyshott Train Station with falsely cheerful tunes, trying to inspire any amount of happiness to its solemn inhabitants. Several hundred teary-eyed females of varying ages were dressed in similar, worn looking coats, clutching handkerchiefs and carrying on frantic, last minute conversations. The train finally arrived into the bleak atmosphere, and five minutes later it disappeared, leaving Heyshott Train Station much more empty, of both hope, and people. No one noticed a remarkable blonde woman when she sunk to the ground, clutching a red leather-bound journal as if it was her only lifeline, crying to herself softly.
“You promised, Christof…” She muttered brokenly to herself, her hands covering her tear-stained face, “come back to me, my love, come back to me…”
No one answered her, and slowly the raucous sounds of grief dissipated as the women and children filtered out of the train station, leaving the blonde woman alone in her misery. Christof was an officer in the army, deported for the war that was plaguing the media, as well as everyone’s minds, in this horrible time of death and depravity. Her thoughts wandered back to their last embrace, the love in his expression, his whispered promise that nothing could keep them apart forever, however great its power. The sound of her name on his lips echoed through her mind, tormenting her, leaving her unable to find peace, forcing her to relive those terrible last moments with him. It was a long while until Liselle was able to pick herself up and walk out of Heyshott Station, her grievous expression a mirror image of so many others. Too many others…
Few things of this world can stand against the inconceivable power of man’s rage and bloodlust, the harsh tests of time, of fear that knows no earthly boundaries --and emerge whole. As Liselle lay in her unconscious stupor, thoughts randomly racing across her shattering mind, this philosophical wondering crossed a more lucid part of her consciousness. Her harsh destiny had slowly shaped Liselle into a raging cynic, angered at life in general – its unjust laws, the way it showed love to her, then wrenched it away. Unable and unwilling to move from her space at the foot of the few holy relics – Liselle felt a peace in her heart for the first time in several years, a lightness in her mind she had forgotten. Weakly lifting her hand, she scribbled a title across the cover of her small red journal – and then, her strength expired, slipped into the painless release of a coma.
For the past several hours Liselle had barely hung onto life, slipping into a dream world that placed her back to the fateful day at Heyshott Train Station, back with Christof. In her story, there was no miracle at the end of the day—no sunset to ride off into, no savior to pull her back into life—to comfort her, there was only her scattered memories. It was through her memories that Liselle managed to conquer the ghosts from her pasts, to draw upon strength she had forgotten, and pick herself up – just like she had done so long ago at Heyshott.
Thirty years later, tired with age, Liselle filled the very last page of the red, leather-bound journal with the same words that Christof had written on the fist. Repeating them softly to herself, she was filled with the same tranquility they always brought to her, and she leaned back in her bed, closing her eyes. Liselle Barringer felt a consuming peace when she lay on her deathbed, a smile on her lined face as she whispered Christof’s passionate promise one last time.
“Never doubt that I shall return to you, for nothing can keep me from your side forever.”
Several days later, long after the conclusion of Liselle’s funeral service, only two people remained standing by her graveside, one of the clutching her red journal.
“She was a truly amazing woman,” muttered a teary-eyed middle-aged woman, “wasn’t she father? I’ve never met someone with such passion for life…” she paused and regarded Liselle’s grave, “and I’m sure I have not even scratched her surface.”
Christof Barringer regarded his daughter silently before removing Liselle’s tattered red journal from within his coat pocket, tears in his eyes as he turned to its first page. He recognized his own bold handwriting, the page undisturbed and nearly as perfect looking as they day he’d handed to her as he boarded that fateful train. Throughout her life Liselle had never been far from her journal, constantly scribbling things into it, and then placing it back in its box and refusing to let anyone see its mysterious pages. Christof placed the red journal in the hands of his daughter reverently, entwining his fingers around her own, and smiling at her reassuringly though his tears.
“You probably don’t know what this is,” he whispered quietly, glancing at the journal, “but I believe that it is something you should finally be able to see. Inside my desk at home, I have an exact copy of this journal, though inside of it is my story…and inside this one is your mothers.” He sighed, as if the past still haunted him, “We never explained our past to you…not to anyone, but I think its time you finally heard the tale. There is so much you still don’t know about her…” he murmured, “and I always knew you had questions. Hopefully this will finally put your curiosity to rest.”
The young woman’s fingers tightened around the worn red cover of the journal, and she looked at her father with tears in her eyes. As he walked slowly away from her, she glanced down at the title, rubbing her thumb over its dirty surface until she could make it out. The Last Relics