Den livlöse mannens berättelse.
En livlös man sitter i en alldeles för mjuk och trådsliten fåtölj i mitten av ett rum. En teveapparat blinkar och viskar i ett hörn. Skuggorna blir långa sedan korta. Långa sedan korta i snabb följd. Längst ut på hans högra hands fingrar hänger ett slitet, böjt och disigt fotografi av en ung kvinna. Fotot är väldigt gammalt och har följt med mannen från hans ungdom, när han var viril och stark. En gång i tiden var fotot inte bara en halvt bortglömd dröm utan verklighet. En person, ett namn, ett ansikte, en doft, en personlighet - en människa.
Spöken av en svunnen tid ekar i tystnaden. Vibrerar mot ramar med halvt bortglömda historier, detaljernas fängelse. Platta ansikten med liv de ej längre innehar, glädje som inte existerar. På väggen hänger oljemålningar från en annan tid som berättar egna sagor - om penselns starka, tydliga drag. Det släpande ljudet av hästhår mot kanvasduk, ett lätt insug av luft och smackande av tänder. En idé som går från koncept till verklighet, från tanke till känsla. Ett skåp med tallrikar som ansamlats med tanke på formen av rummet de står i - inställda med precision och syfte. I ekot av alla dessa drömmar seglar fotot och blir en del av dammet på det nötta, mjuka trägolvet. Ännu ett ansikte som försvinner in i glömskan. Ännu en människa som nu bara är ett minne hos de som existerat före och efter, som lika gärna aldrig behövt existera.
En ung, livfull man sitter och tittar mot den spänstiga, unga kvinnan som kommer gående mot honom. Han ställer sig upp, super in höstluften och börjar gå mot henne. Gruset under hans skor knastrar härligt, ljudet av en bilmotor passerar och vibrerar hans diafragma. Deras läppar möts, deras fingrar smeker mot kinder som är rosiga av kyla. Hennes lätt försynta skratt dallrar i luften och hans leende skär igenom ett lite för brett ansikte. Mörka ögon möter ljusa gröna och själar dansar med passion, eld och glöd få förunnat.
Ett skrik skär genom natten och en oförskämt lycklig man får hålla i sin nyfödde son, sprattlande röd. En ung själ möter en äldre själ och dansar även de en dans, en dans av kärlek, förmodad trygghet och framtid.
Den unge sonens själ har blivit äldre och dess behov av trygghet har minskat. Ut i världen dansar den unge sonens själ och kvar blir den äldre faderns. Moderns själ lever kvar i minnen och tårar som torkar mot kudden och lakanet om nätter som fadern inte delar med någon annan.
Den unge sonens äldre själ möter även den en yngre själ som i sin tur behöver trygghet, kärlek och förmodad säkerhet.
Fadern delar sina minnen med den unge sonens yngre son. De skrattar och ler. Tårar träffar fortfarande kudden och lakanen. Bilden av henne har börjat böjas. Han försöker lägga den mellan två böcker. Det hjälper inte.
Åren går och fadern blir äldre. Hans favoritfåtölj börjar bli trådsliten och mjuk. Bilden börjar bli disig och sliten. Det är ett vitt streck över mitten där den blivit böjd allt för många gånger. En ung kvinna ler mot honom och lovar saker som drömmar är gjorda av.
Kudden blir inte längre blöt av tårar, ej heller lakanen. Ett lätt dammoln slås upp när fotot träffar trägolvet. Kärleken som det innehåller ekar ännu idag.Tack för att du finns.
Månen skiner.
Välkommen gryning, välkommen nya dag.
Inte kan det väl sluta på detta sätt?
Mina drömmar.
Blotta dina tänder, vargasjäl.
En mörk tid i mitt liv; kommen.
Det skär i mig.
I en tumlande vind.
Något som jag blir glad över...
Det här är en kort liten berättelse jag skrev på ett rollspelsforum.
________________________________________________________
The sound of rotors. The smell of burning flesh. The sensation of ground shaking. I am placed on a world dying. It is dying a shuddering, heaving death. I am to procure a single item - a person, actually. If that person does not come back to the guncutter I need not return. I have thirty-two minutes to do this before the planet is scheduled for summary destruction by the fleet in orbit. My legs are pumping beneath me and my breath is gushing out in white around me. It is freezing and yet I am only clothed in a leather jacket and a woolen shirt beneath. My gloves are black leather and my pants are of some fabric unknown to me - it's warm, but not enough. Not today. Snow is falling and so is the temperature as the world is disrupting beneath my feet. I hop over the trunk of a ground vehicle, its inhabitants frozen in perpetual fear as the cold hit them unknowingly. The beams of frost are of unknown origin; I've only been told to stay clear of them. My legs are still pumping beneath me when I force-tackle my way in through a glass door and into the ground floor of a vast complex of chromed steel and glass. I look at some kind of orientation tablet and I am utterly confused. Doctor Helyena Weemble. Why are you so important they keep a planet from being expunged because of you?
My fingers trace the tablet for that name and finally I see "Dr. Weemble, H.". Twelve floors. The lifts have stopped working, their otherwise green buttons flashing red. I look at the stairs and sigh.
Eighteen minutes to go - I will never make it. I tackle my way through a white door, my shoulder almost breaking. I feel it crack beneath my jacket.
I see a woman in her mid-forties in a white lab coat standing over what seem to be sample jugs.
"You!" I say, pointing, panting heavily, "Are coming with me!"
She looks up at me and I instantly realize I am dead. She will not go anywhere.
"I can't - all my research!" she says, almost beginning to cry.
"Fed it! I don't care about your research, neither does the Imperial Navy in orbit! They care about you! Now come on, woman!"
"Can you hear that? Outside? It's a world dying. It's your world dying around you - and you and I will be dead as well unless we hurry."
I look at my watch. Sixteen minutes. I am dead.
"I..." she begins, her lips quivering.
"We need to move. Now. Or we're both dead. Bring those jugs, they'll be helpful - trust me."
She looks stupidly at the jugs and pick one up in each hand.
"I guess you're right."
"Come on, woman! Now!"
She starts walking toward me and I jog up to her and start pulling her toward a walkway that joins the two parts of the building together. I look down at a glass roof, covering what was the cafeteria of the building.
"This is going to hurt me more than you, my lady." I say, bowing. I then grab her coat and pivot myself over the edge, with her back to my chest. What seems like an impossible amount of time airbourne my back finally touches glass - it doesn't shatter. My shoulder and back explode with pain and I can barely think. My chest gets pushed in and I feel a couple of my ribs break. My breath is pushed out of my lungs and I hear her sobbing. We're gliding toward the floor, the cracked pane giving off crackling sounds.
"That... hurt, lady. You might need to run by yourself." I say, through gritted teeth as we're slowly gliding toward what is certain to be my doom - my right arm is cramped up and I can't feel my other arm.
She twists around and looks in my face.
"No. If you're not going, I'm not."
I curse and try to look at my watch - twelve minutes. No way.
"Alright, woman. I'll come."
Stumbling and shambling out of the building, my left foot broken from the recent fall, I try to make her run ahead of me.
"I'm coming, trust me - I'm right behind you! Just run! See that gun-cutter? Go there! Run!"
Nine minutes.
She starts running. Although she keeps looking back her legs are pumping beneath her, her breath white.
I keep shambling after her, my entire body wracking in pain. My left arm is completely useless and my right held close to my chest. My chest is heaving, my lungs trying to compensate for my pain by breathing more - it's not helping. My body is shooting adrenaline into my veins to keep me moving - it's hard, but I keep going because she keeps looking at me. Like if she's going to turn back. I can't allow that. I wave my right arm at her, to pick up the pace. She doesn't look back. Not even once more. Six minutes. My legs finally give way beneath me. I curse again. I try to get up, my right arm trying to gain purchase on a slippery hood of a ground vehicle. My fingers are broken too. I wince in pain. I get up on my right leg and start hopping forward. My face must be covered in ice as I am freezing. The gun-cutter's engines are revving, I can hear them. I look up only to see my wife looking back at me. I smile.
I press the button on my micro-bead.
"I love you" I say, through gritted teeth.
"Please, Seth, please!"
I look at my watch, hearing my beautiful wife's voice. Four minutes.
I try to take a step, but my left foot is swollen and useless. I fall down again. My wife is crying, I can hear her. Pleading me to get up. I can hear the servitor running pre-flight checks and my fellow Acolytes trying to get my wife to realize what is happening. I kneel down on both knees and look up at her. My face must be swelling as well, as I can no longer look through my right eye. Must be all those doors. My knees are freezing and I can barely feel my right leg. My left foot is throbbing with pain. I look around me, at the world quaking in its destruction.
"Tell Yulinna and Gwen I love them both." I say before ripping the micro-bead out of my ear. I see them controlling my wife from opening the hatch. Two minutes. I am merely seventy five metres from the gun-cutter but the servitor has locked it down. She's beating the servitor and they're wrestling with her for her weapon. I smile. Always a wild one, that. I sit back on my haunches, wincing with the pain. I fall over to my right, leaning against the carborator of the ground vehicle next to me.
"What a way to die, huh?" I ask no-one, hissing from the pain in my right arm. I hop into a better position, as to better watch my own demise. I look up into the sky, trying to look through the clouds. I see distant bright lights flashing. Thirty-six seconds. I guess it was impact, or they're just eager. I smile. I see the lances hit, very far away from me. It's quite unreal. My demise, so close, yet so totally unrealistic. I smile again. Hope is the last thing leaving your body, so they tell me. I have had little hope ever since I landed on this planet. Ever since the dreams. I look up, straight up and my left eye sees the lance that is aimed at the complex behind me. I wince and try to cover my right ear with my arm, hissing in pain, as the enormous blast reverberates over the landscape. A guttural, tearing sound. This is what it feels like. Armageddon. I look over to the complex, over my left shoulder - the beam is cutting closer to me, it's planet-destroying capabilities soon ripping me to shreds. I close my eyes, thinking of my two daughters. Oh, so beautiful. Six and three years old. Blonde hair, blue eyes. So alike their mother. The ripping sound is so close now. I don't cover my ear anymore. I just relax. A small hand holds mine as I open my eyes again, looking into those of an angel. A small, brown-haired girl is looking deep into my soul and I try to smile at her.
"I saw what you did to that woman." she says.
"You saved her."
I smile and close my eyes again. I am in too much pain to talk.
The light is shining through my eye-lids now, the ground shaking. I feel sleepy, almost falling asleep before the warmth hits me, that incredible warmth. It feels like home. It feels like it's meant to happen. Her hand never leaves mine.