Shrill

8th June 1946, London.

The soldiers marched past the old man with uniform unrestrained pride; as if they had conquered the Earth, as if they gave the meters of the Iliad corporeality, as if each man had overcome the twelve labours in penance. They made him feel indebted but he owed them nothing. They smiled and took the cheers and flowers from the crowds but looking on from his bench the old man could distinguish in them nothing that was worthy or true, they seemed to him, line upon line of men posing, he reasoned that not a quarter of them had seen front-line fighting. These men were cheap imitations of his golden generation, their plaudits thrust upon them by luck of situation only, he would rip the medals from their hearts and show them, still beating, to the adoring crowd before dropping them at his feet and crushing them under heel.
He drew his weary gaze away from the men and cast it over a sad, beleaguered old row of trees, gnarled and misshapen, roots clinging with admirable tenacity to the ground as the vicious stabs of the wind assailed them.

The old man watched this war from the bench he frequented. He let himself drift from the opaque corridors of his existence to the bright but aged corners of his mind where his most treasured memories were still fighting against the tide that was washing the album of his life away.
He was a veteran of another war belonging to another era, a war that had almost escaped the collective consciousness of the country. A hero, he could easily be branded. But that was a past life, his bravery, his chivalry, his integrity – of body and mind - had withered away with the coming and going of the years. The rising and setting of suns had defeated this man when his enemies could not.
His mind wandered away from the aura of the golden memories and back to the desert of the present, unwillingly of course, but he was heralded by a sudden question that had broken into his head and, once there, settled in a solitary corner where it poked and prodded his mind demanding attention and appraisal.

‘If God created everything then why make eyesores like those trees, why create such depressing things? I know if I had the chance to create a world I would make it beautiful and perfect, there would be no disease, no death; it would be a Utopia. Is this by design?’ It asked him.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think the trees are depressing, you only see what they look like now; I can see past that, at least in my mind, I can see their desire to live even though they are designed to die. It reminds me of one of the flaws I have.’

‘What flaw’s that then?’

‘Well, the first time you or I saw a tree, or a waterfall, or a pebble on the beach, however beautiful it was, we gazed in wonder at it, it genuinely amazed us, we felt privileged to behold it.’

He laughed. ‘Yes of course, because I was a baby and I’d never seen anything like it.’

‘And you knew no better than to appreciate it, but now, now your eyes cheat you, you’ve seen a tree thousands of times and they’ve lost their appeal, their wonder. It’s like you’re in a stupor that gradually tightens its grip on you as you grow older. That’s the flaw. That’s the veil that’s been drawn over our eyes, that’s the veil of age.’

‘Don’t start another rant about how the olden days were better.’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about, but they were better all the same.’

‘Better for whom?’

‘For me, and probably for everyone else to be honest.’

‘Why though?’

‘Why do you think?’

He lowered his head and stared at the ground, a tear ran down his cheek.

‘I could be ten stories tall and nobody would notice me. If I couldn’t physically see my hands and feet myself I would think I was invisible. I don’t belong here and this cruel world that I inhabit constantly, unflinchingly reminds me of it. But I suppose I shouldn’t complain should I? That’s what God would say, he would remind me that ageing into obscurity is natural, that the deaths of my friends is natural, that I should know my place and be grateful for the life I’ve had. Look at me now; I’m sitting on a park conversing in my head.’

‘Loneliness can be cured.’

‘Not when my appearance wards people off, no, it scares people off.’

Tears were streaking down his face, but were lost in the uncaring wind that harried him still.

‘An old man with a feeble mind, a feeble body, afflicted by hate for this age, stripped of his senses he harks back to other times which he stresses were far superior to anything your world contains. I wouldn’t talk to that man.’

‘You need to embrace this world, where no-one is under the control of the Nazis anymore, where you can call anyone and talk to them as if they were sitting beside you, even if you’re separated by an ocean or a mountain range.’

‘Because I’d have great use for that wouldn’t I? Nobody cares enough to greet me on the street let alone bridge an ocean just to hear my voice.’

~

The old man left the park bench, wrapped himself up in his coat and braved the elements to return to his apartment, passing more of the soldiers who were now turning towards his side of the street, the crowd waving, cheering, the crowd beaming, exulting in their mutual victory.

A trio of soldiers broke rank and came over to see a group of schoolkids beside the old man. He couldn't bear to think that these children held those posers up as shining figures of heroism, even worse when the real hero, the one deserving of all the praise.
He couldn't bear it...couldn’t bear it...couldn't bear it.
Pushing the kid in front of him to the side he stood up face to face with the smiling soldier and spat in his face.

~

When he got back, the apartment was so cold that it numbed his hands and feet; paying for heating was impossible on his meagre pension and he had to rely on an ancient stove in the corner of his room that he lovingly tended. There was no point in preparing a fire now; it wouldn't make doing this any easier.

The fresh bruises on the old man's face, still bleeding from where the stones had hit, stung as he took a towel, wet it under the tap and pressed against them. Crimson blotches blossomed on the towel until the whole surface was covered and the old man gave up, his wounds would never heal anyway.

Through his window he could see that the clouds had finally cleared and he realised with bitter irony that he could see the sun; it was low in the sky almost touching the peaks of the mountains in the distance.

The old man then realised that he had no idea whether the sun was rising or setting; he didn’t care.

He shut the blinds and lit an old gas lamp on his mantelpiece.

‘Am I doing the right thing?’

With difficulty he slid open an old wooden drawer and fumbled for the rope he had bought the other day.

‘You don’t want to do this; you’re a coward if you do.’

Slowly and deliberately he tied the rope into a noose.

‘I’m not a coward and I’ll tell you why I’m not. For me to be a coward someone has to label me a coward, someone has to care about my motives; nobody does.’

The old man’s hands were shaking as he dragged a stool into the middle of the room. Then he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, placed it on the stool, smoothed out the crinkled surface and started writing:

~

‘These fragments I have shored against my ruins.’
Reader, I don’t blame you if you don’t much care for this sentimental nonsense but I will ask that you consider it all the same. Goodbye.

~

The note was folded and placed in his pocket.
The old man climbed onto the stool with the noose in hand; with all the strength he could muster he tied the end of the rope to a strong beam in the roof of his old habitation.
Taking the noose in both hands he drew a great shaking breath, of fear, of relief, and lowered it over his head so that it rested on his shoulders, struggling to see straight now he constricted the rope around his neck.
All he had to do was rock the stool until it fell over. His neck would snap and this torture would be at end.
Although he tried to divert his thoughts to those of happiness he simply couldn’t and was left thinking about the unfairness of life, childish thoughts though they were, they had been in his mind for a long time. This can be a Utopia, to those who are ignorant; I’m not, so it’s a Dystopia.

‘It’s all futile.’

The old man started rocking the stool, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

~

A shrill scream, a biting, chilling, nerve-piercing sound burst through the old man’s dulled senses; it cut apart the stagnant air with its rapier notes.
The phone was ringing.
The old man’s stool settled until it was steady. His facial expression, a moment ago a virtual death mask had travelled the entirety of the spectrum and was now wide-eyed incredulity.
He stared at it. It was vibrating furiously and in doing so was shaking off the layer of dust that had settled on it.
Someone was calling him.

Alone in that dusty, grey old room, standing on his stage of death, wearing his instrument of death, he somehow broke into a broad smile.
He didn’t even answer it, he didn’t need to. That might ruin it.
When a man is on the very edge of a precipice he is conflicted, to the point where his mind is tearing itself apart trying to decide what to do next. This man is easily swayed further over the drop or even back to the safety of land; he is a penny spinning through the air, whether he lands on heads or tails is up to fate to decide. To this man, though it may seem unlikely, a ringing phone is a strong arm that grabs the man and hauls him back from the black release.
The old man ripped the noose free of his neck and cast it to the floor.

~

The veil of age he had worn had been lifted from his face and he awoke to the melody of the world.
He smiled and greeted people and tipped his bowler hat that he had unearthed from his wardrobe, and though introvert at first, without exception they smiled back or said hello or even in one endearing case, tipped their hat back.

The parade was long over so there was no chance of a face-to-face reprieve with the poor soldier. He decided to go to only place he would think of going after a great victory, the bar. Along the main avenue, the bars were all packed, he made straight for his old haunt, the bar he celebrated in after the Armistice announcement was made. Tables were laid out haphazardly and spread into the centre of the avenue, among the groups of revellers was a table full of soldiers each with a drink in his hand and each with a contented expression on his face. The soldier nearest him turned around and, on seeing the old man, stood up and walked over to him.

'My friend told me you were the guy from earlier.'

'Yes.'

'The one who spat at him?'

'Yes, but I didn't come here to-'

'Just go back home, leave us alone old man.'

'I came to give you something...to give to your friend, if you will.'

'No.'

'Please, sir. See how humble I am now, I've changed my principles, my perspective has realigned. I'm changed.'

'Frankly, I don't care.'

The young soldier turned to go back to merrymaking and would've had the old man not caught his wrist and pressed a small metal disk into his hand. The old man then left without saying another word.

He looked down at the thing in his hand, it was unsightly owing to his lack of care, it had been forgotten for many years; an old relic. But as he brushed some of the dust and soot off he saw underneath it gleamed a bronze fire. The young man's face turned to shock, his eyes widened as looked up and saw the back of the old man walking into the distance, the man that had tainted this day of days, the man who had disrespected his friend with whom he had stormed the beaches of Normandy, this old crippled figure with surely such a paltry life, this old rag who had given a stranger his Victoria Cross.

~