A Reminder

"You plan to make a move, fella? Tonight, perhaps?" Tearing his eyes from what he held in his right hand, Horace shot a glance across the table. The stranger watched with interest as he tossed his cards to the center of the wooden surface. "Not much of a gambler, eh?" Horace shrugged, returning his gazing to his right palm. When the next round of cards were dealt Horace glanced at his for scarcely a second before tossing them as well.

"What's that you keep on starin' at?" Horace's gaze was cold as his eyes whipped back to the man's face. "It is... not your concern." The stranger's beard twitched, its thickness fell far short of masking his amusement. "You ain't placed a single bet since we started the game. And the whole time you been staring at something where no one else can see it. A man can't be curious?"

The two others at the table were watching Horace now as well, and their expressions made it plain that they agreed. When Horace made no reply the bearded man's smile vanished, and his eyes narrowed. "You best give me an answer. We don't care for secrets here." Horace's eyes darted from one face to another in rapid succession, calculating. He was outnumbered three to one, and it was unlikely he would be getting any help from the tavern's other patrons.

He was in a strange part of town, having desired a change of scenery. By leaving his neighborhood behind, he thought maybe he could also leave behind the misery that had been crippling him for the past seventeen days. He had entered the first bar he saw, heedless of what it looked like. The men residing in it weren't a rowdy bunch in the least, yet they had eyed him darkly upon his entrance. Some people just don't like outsiders, regardless of behavior or appearance.

Even now he caught malevolent glances being thrown his way from every direction. No, a fight wouldn't end in his favor tonight. Worse still, the misery he had hoped to escape had only traveled with him, defeating the purpose of his excursion entirely."Last chance, fella." Horace eyed the stranger for a moment, and then softly exhaled. The sound was low, and carried heavy on it the weariness he felt.

"It is... a reminder."

The man was unsatisfied with the answer. "You'll have to do better than that, stranger." The other two men nodded in agreement, and slowly Horace began feeling the stares of more sets of eyes on him. A man moved over from the bar to stand over his shoulder, the stench of whiskey emanating strongly from his person. "It's a picture, Jim." Horace had felt the man's drunken gaze and closed his hand a moment too late.

The bearded man, presumably the one called Jim, raised his brows with interest. "A picture, eh? Hand it here, boy." Horace stared at the man's extended hand but did not move. The three men at the table rose from their seats. "I said give it here!" Horace got slowly to his feet, averting his eyes from their glares. "I think I'll be going now."

He began moving towards the door but they moved to block his path, and Jim's cronies grabbed Horace by the arms. He struggled for a moment, feeling hands scrabbling his clenched right fist, slowly prying the fingers open. With a shout of triumph Jim came away from him with a small, circular photograph gripped in his fist. "Got it! The hell you think you playing at, you-"

He broke off upon seeing the picture, and the entire bar had fallen silent as every pair of eyes in the place was fixed on his face. He lowered his hand, and the picture came into sight. The face... those eyes, so innocent and full of life...

Maria. He had found her on the street, her fragile frame broken. How, he could not know and she could not tell him. He had failed to act, and she was gone. And each of the following days were repeats of the same nightmare. The coldness of her limbs as the life drained from her, the eyes that had peered up into his as though assured that he would save her even while she died in his arms.

Oh, they had all said there was nothing he could have done, that it was in no way his fault. But the words had fallen onto deaf ears. Horace refused to believe there to be any truth within the hollow words of sympathy. He had been the girl's protector. She was his responsibility. And he had failed her. The ending of her life was the shattering of his own.

With a jolt Horace returned to the present. He had fallen into a reverie, and Jim's accomplices no longer restrained him, they were studying the photograph with avid interest. The bearded man saw Horace's eyes on the picture and he grinned, revealing a mouth full of bright yellow teeth. "A bit young for my taste but I'd still have some fun with the little bi-" The man's comment was never finished.

Horace's body seemed to move of its own accord, speeding him forth like an arrow from the bowstring. His fist landed solidly with Jim's jaw, and the man fell back onto a table that was incapable of supporting his falling weight. The man crashed to the floor in a shower of splintered wood. Even as he fell Horace was following him down, to rise from the heap with a table leg in his grip. He felt its solidness in his hand as he watched the others approach him, murder in their eyes.

Do not forgive me, Maria. For I cannot forgive myself.

With a cry he sprang forward into the mass of humanity with his lone weapon in hand and death in his eyes. His own death.

WORD COUNT 987

SUBMITTED FOR WRITER'S CRAMP 5/4/11

PROMPT: A PHOTOGRAPH EVOKES PAINFUL MEMORIES