Five Years

The sky was a shade of deep blue, much like the ink she'd seen the boy write with. She had never learnt how to read. But she liked to watch the boy when he would write. And now the sky was the right shade, and the boy would come home. He had been a man once, but that was before the war. Now he was a boy again and not all was right with him, but he still was her world. Not a perfect one, but the only one she had. Like everyone does.

He rang the doorbell, and for her it might've been the tolling of the church's tower, although God was something she knew she wouldn't find in life. She ran up to the door, opened it, and embraced his bony figure. Even the hugs were different now. He just stood there. "Hello, mother." he said, with a resigned air. He had been walking in the woods nearby. Walks were good for him, yes. She did not like the idea of him being out alone, but it would have to do. She could barely see anything these days, she couldn't have stopped him.

"Hello, son. How are you!?"

"Stew again?” he questioned, sniffing the house's stale air, and clearly not liking it. 

"Yes! You like it, don't you? I know you do. Come, wash up, before it gets cold!" said the old woman, bent double with age, as she led him by the arm, despite his unwillingness. She had a twinkle in her eyes, one that could never be obscured by the cloud that would not let her see. He gave her a reason to live, and she had found her God in the pots and pans of their small kitchen. She would make him alright. He wouldn't be so thin and lanky. He would not talk of strange things, as he always did. He would laugh a lot more. Maybe they would get him married soon. It would be a tight fit with the bride, but the woman could cook for everyone. She smiled to herself, sunshine breaking into the chasm cast by the lines time had steadily worked on her face.

"Is something bothering you, son?" she asked him as she set down the meal, hands now clasped, somber, tense.

"Nothing." he said. He might as well have said yes. Mothers are the toughest to lie to, and the boy wasn't even trying.

"Come on. Tell mother." she said, as she sat next to him on the couch, touching his hand with her own rigid fingers. "Tell me, I can make it alright. We can eat later, when you father comes back from.."

"NO!" the boy screamed, startling the mother as he jumped to his feet.

"I...don't... what..." the woman mumbled. She could see his silhouette against the sole yellow bulb of the living room. The boy was acting strange. Again. No. Please, God. Not again.

"HE WILL NOT RETURN! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"But he was here a while ago, son." Please stop. Please. Not again. Anything.

"SHUT UP! He won't! You're crazy. He has been dead for five years now! You laid flowers upon his grave. How can you forget?" he bellowed as he looked down upon the crumpled form with evident derision.

"Son, come here. You aren't well."

"I am. It's you who's out of her mind. I hate this place. I hate your talk of our dead father and how you had tea with him last Sunday! I'm sick of this madness, this hellhole of a place, and your stupid belief that everything's going to be alright and your God will raise the dead one day! Lies! He is dead, cold, rotting. Do you understand? DO YOU?" he shouted the last few words with finality as he picked up his coat, looking at the woman with a speck of pity behind the rage.

And he stormed out of the house.

She cried. Again. Maybe that's what was making her vision so dim. She cried for her only son. Once a handsome man with a twinkle in his eyes. Now a boy again, full of his visions and nightmares and the demons that haunted his pitiful existence. He was out of his mind. He was deluded, mad. Maybe it was all the shells. Maybe they made him this way with their fire and smoke and noise. 

Why couldn't he be alright? She wanted to die knowing that he was happy. And he had stormed away. Again. She had failed. She cried. Looked up and asked Him why.

Tears crept back to sleep, and she was lost again. She was tired. 

He opened the door. Stew again. The sole yellow bulb . The old couch that had been as kind to his back as the bricks he lifted all day long. And on the couch lay his wife. Sound asleep. Safe. From herself.

She woke up. She was dazed and groggy. Then she realized it was him, and touched his face.

Then she screamed.

"He's lost his mind! Our son. OUR ONLY SON! He said that you were dead. I've tried everything. Why? Why did he have to go to the war?" she broke down on his shoulders, clutching his collar.

"Easy, now. I'm sure he will be okay. Please, dear."

“I hate it. Please bring him back. Please!"

“I will try my best, love. For you, I do." Smiled the man.

“You do?" she asked, and suddenly time had gone back to a day a few decades ago in an old churchyard. He remembered having said something then, when life was an easy thing, and he would say it again.

"I do."

She let go of his collar. He wiped her tears. Embraced her. On his shoulders, she found her angel. She smiled. 

"Goodnight, love. It's going to be alright." he said as he set her down. 

He went to the bedroom. There he stood for a while. Alone. Not even a reason for him to go on.

He did not know what filled him. He had been living the same day over for five years now. Nothing mattered anymore. He would die like they all did, and they'd get a new bricklayer. Maybe he'd sleep soundly then. Oddly comforting.

On the bed lay his son's uniform. Like every day, since five years ago.

When his son had gone to the war.

And never returned. 

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Five Years is a story that came to my mind while I was writing something else. I guess open windows, darkness and too many random thoughts have a lot to do with my writing.

The story is quite open-ended. In my world though, the last line is very literal.

And why Five years? Just.