Susan Boulton
The storyteller
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2006
- Messages
- 2,039
290 words
“You alright, sir?” Bright asked, as he moved to the end of one of the tables.
“I am fine,” Hardy said and moved his hand away from his mouth not feeling anything like. “Old habit. You don’t forget the stench.”
“Oh, I see.” Bright replied and looked towards Parker. The man nodded and Bright peeled back the cloth from the face of the corpse. A young man. Dark haired. Narrow of face. Eyes half closed the orbs beneath misted. Muscles round his mouth slack. Lips pulled back from white teeth. So familiar. Seen a hundred times. More. Hardy closed his eyes, trying to cut off the tumbling memories of torn and battered bodies strewn across no-man’s-land.
“Not one of ours, sir. Theirs.” The voice ragged, bitter even. Adams. Hardy opened his eyes. Adams stood at the head of the table. His army jacket undone. Thumbs tucked into his braces. Head bare. Eyes tired. Face strained beyond imagining.
“Why?” The question tumbled from Hardy’s lips. In life Adams had not been so dismissive of the dead, no matter whom they were even when plying his trade as the company sniper. Had becoming a ghost stripped him of part of his humanity, leaving only the horror that drove him to walk still in this world. Hardy wanted to laugh at the inanity of his thoughts. He was trying to analyse the thoughts and emotions of a ghost. A creature he was not even sure existed outside the twisted labyrinth of his mind.
“Now that is the question isn’t it,” Parker said, pinching out his cigarette and dropping it into a bucket by the side of the wall. “Do you know him?”
Adams’ eyebrow arched. The ghost also wanted an answer to the question.
“You alright, sir?” Bright asked, as he moved to the end of one of the tables.
“I am fine,” Hardy said and moved his hand away from his mouth not feeling anything like. “Old habit. You don’t forget the stench.”
“Oh, I see.” Bright replied and looked towards Parker. The man nodded and Bright peeled back the cloth from the face of the corpse. A young man. Dark haired. Narrow of face. Eyes half closed the orbs beneath misted. Muscles round his mouth slack. Lips pulled back from white teeth. So familiar. Seen a hundred times. More. Hardy closed his eyes, trying to cut off the tumbling memories of torn and battered bodies strewn across no-man’s-land.
“Not one of ours, sir. Theirs.” The voice ragged, bitter even. Adams. Hardy opened his eyes. Adams stood at the head of the table. His army jacket undone. Thumbs tucked into his braces. Head bare. Eyes tired. Face strained beyond imagining.
“Why?” The question tumbled from Hardy’s lips. In life Adams had not been so dismissive of the dead, no matter whom they were even when plying his trade as the company sniper. Had becoming a ghost stripped him of part of his humanity, leaving only the horror that drove him to walk still in this world. Hardy wanted to laugh at the inanity of his thoughts. He was trying to analyse the thoughts and emotions of a ghost. A creature he was not even sure existed outside the twisted labyrinth of his mind.
“Now that is the question isn’t it,” Parker said, pinching out his cigarette and dropping it into a bucket by the side of the wall. “Do you know him?”
Adams’ eyebrow arched. The ghost also wanted an answer to the question.
