Tybalt sat there still clutching the cold hand
to his chest; the face of the body in his lap frozen in
an immortal scream. The fierce wind whipped the shattered
door forward then backward. A hammer lying on the floor
served as a makeshift doorstop. Snow drifted in through
the open doorway as the broken door and the hammer tapped
out their dirge in a rhythm that beckoned sadness. The
wind howled outside in an emotionless lament. Tybalt's
tired eyes broke free from the slip of parchment and
fixed themselves on a distant spot in the vast expanse of
white beyond the doorway. He blinked ever so slowly as
the white blurred to black and then faded to red. Red,
the color of the rose...
His errand for the
morning had been to retrieve some supplies from the
market just inside the walls of Britain. On his way home,
he stopped to play a game of marbles with a group of
children. Unaware of his parents' fate, he gleefully
bounced away from the group with a few more marbles to
add to his collection. Upon returning home, he saw the
gaping wound where the door had once been. Reluctantly,
he peered inside and saw the bodies of both his mom and
dad lying motionless on the cold floor. His father's hand
still clutched the handle of the hammer that hindered the
door's efforts to close. Between them lay a single red
rose on a sea of half frozen blood. The petals
frighteningly matched the deep red as if they had formed
from the liquid surrounding them. A slip of parchment had
been carelessly rapped around the stem of the rose. The
thorns sliced through the thin fabric and a few places
had been stained red from falling droplets of blood
making it appear as if the parchment itself was bleeding
from the wounds. His eyes lingered over the rose and the
slip of parchment for hours...
He slowly layed the
hand on her chest and rose to his feet. Picking up the
bag of edibles he had purchased for his mother in
Britain, he delicately stepped over the bodies in the
floor and marched for the doorway. He stopped just before
leaving, turned around, and gazed at the rose and
parchment in the sea of blood. Tybalt was still very
young and had not yet learned to read. This was a good
enough reason to start. He quickly plucked the rose from
off the floor and clutched it tightly despite the thorns
gouging into his hand. Taking one last look at the
inanimate bodies he turned and left the only home he had
ever known. His leather shoes had soaked up so much blood
that every step he took a bloody footprint was left
behind. Every few steps a single drop of blood fell from
the hand clutching the rose. He continued onward without
looking back; to do so would have been a sign of
weakness. Behind him the frozen rain slowly concealed the
bloodstained prints in the virgin snow just as time would
temper the anger keeping him warm against the bitter cold
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Stratics Central
