The Soldier's Wife
The End of the Wait By Sc_q_jayce
There was no clock in the room, no constant beating that her ears became acquainted to. Instead there was the sound of the near-tortured screaming that ensued within. There were no men here. There was only the sound of demons, the sounds of those that haunted her. The Gryphon's Nest was a bar, a military hovel swarmed with pestilence, swarmed with filth, and swarmed with the devils that lived in that shack.
Her steps were slow, horrified by every sight she saw in front and behind her. She observed two of them at a table lined with a jade-tinted cloth. Upon it, a multitude of colored balls were speckled all over, ranging from a single black ball, to the eleven other colors randomly scattered around. There was a stick with a big, brawny man clenching it with his fists, talking to the other fellow demons in the room. Then looking over and without warning, he stooped over, aimed the long wooden shaft at the pearl-like ball, and suddenly sent the pole flying. The deafening crackle that she heard was one, which made her jump in shock, but looking around she never saw one even flinch from the sound. Never had she experienced the horror and pain of these hovels.
She saw in other areas, devils and demons of many shades, some of them sparking a conversation with another, another of them banging giant mugs down after a gulp, which seemed like one eternity. One glass caught her attention, one that was filled to the brim with a lightly translucent pinkish liquid, glass held by a small stout demon staring at the drink with the utmost concentration. Then she blinked. And the liquid within was gone.
From then on, she kept walking, unable to stare at anything in particular and look at everything at once. The place only added to her hatred, with the music that seemed to degrade the human race as a whole, the monsters rambling out curses as if they were child's play, or perhaps the devils that simply hung around being drunk.
From there she only saw a pity that overcame all sense of hatred she had for them.
It was a simple pity over those demons sitting at a table and conversing with their comrades. A simple pity for those that dragged their bodies into and out of the fray of battle. A simple pity for those that suffered.
Her eyes only showed transparency, filtering off the disgust that she had not been accustomed to seeing. So perhaps it was only a temporary feeling, something that passed her by once. For at that moment, she felt almost at peace with these fiends, her spiteful hated enemies. But that feeling came only in an instant; anger and fury arose within herself, engulfing her senses and seeing them again as what they were: demons.
And demons they were, the horrible little creatures simply wasting their time and withering their life away. They withered their life through everything they touched and everything they did, from the crackle of the ball and stick to the creatures that simply mired in their tables, their hands firmly grasping their nectar, the fluid in front of them even as they spoke their tongues which dare not be said in the streets. Others tossing their head back haughtily, swinging their brazen mass of hair up and down all over as the pointless rambling of music continued to flood through the room. These demons never shamed themselves, most of them shoddily dressed with the bare skin on their chest, some black and some a ghastly pale white that left her eyes trailing elsewhere. All of them had on the ragged azure pants that she saw whenever they signed their contract with them, the UED. It was a disgrace.
It wasn't something for her to deal with now. Her mind was elsewhere, scanning the room for a table void of company, company of devilish proportions. There was the overwhelming desire for her to suddenly rest herself in a chair, and she found herself brushing aside and smashing through the foreign devils, stepping over the messes of food and drink splattered all over the floor, and over used tables as she continued her search for her table in which no one would disturb her. At last, she found herself sitting in at a table, her hands simply on top of the slab in front of her, a glass of water given almost immediately as she sat down, but by who she knew not who. There were sounds of muttering and screaming coming from the group she had just pushed aside, and her eyes met them with a blank stare.
One of them was looking directly at her, a tall gentleman-like soldier, probably the only one that was even wearing a uniform. In his hand was an emptied glass of what was once a dry martini, now only a clear strip of liquid sloshing around the empty cup. His face was flushed with and without color, clearly without sense of judgment. His feet tangled as he stumbled over, not surely the step of a sober gentlemen, and his mind looked as if it were elsewhere from his body. The void had consumed him, and now he took a step forward.
Then he leapt forward without warning, a push that sent him to her almost instantly. The soldiers laughed with hilarity and the woman was drawing her chair back, cautious and frightened of what he would or could do. Her hand was snatching for something in the air, unaware that the water glass had already been taken away again, only leaving her to clutch nothing else but her bandages.
That man wobbled to the chair and slumped over almost immediately after. His eyes seemed to trace the woman's, unaware that hers burned with the fury of a phoenix. He didn't seem to notice nor did he seem to care, for at that moment there was a thundering sound that was brought down on the table as the empty glass in his hand slammed across it. The room then grew silent, a stillness that was rivaled only that of the sleeping cemetery. All eyes turned to the two, the music suddenly fading away and lights no longer flickering left and right. All attention came to the two.
The man then raised his glass high. "Yeshir! She's quite a hottie! I think she'll..." his head turned towards her, his elbows on the table not for superiority, but only because that was the only way to keep himself standing up. The voice droned like an echo around the room. Some people in the back began to murmur softly.
"Wass a lass like you doooin in a place like dis?" His eyes flared the signs of drunkenness to her, causing her to be more cautious than ever, scooting her chair back even further until *clank* it hit the wall.
Stop talking with him, he serves you no purpose. With that her hands firmly were planted against the table, pushing against them as she began to get up until the man's hands dashed out and wrapped onto her wrist as if he were not drunk at all. In the back, the murmuring had spread among them and began to reach the front of the crowd.
"Waaaaiiiit. You somehow wook familiwar. Pherhaps shumwun I swept with before? Or... no...." The man's voice suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, his hand still tightly holding hers and his mind unable to concentrate due to alcohol and the constant murmuring in the background, now voiced from everywhere. It gnawed holes in the mind of the woman, holes that sent her into a feared frenzy.
But if there was fear in her eyes, it was not evident. No, anger filled her eyes first, and with a sudden jerk she broke away from him, wrenching her hands away from his grasp, recoiling, and delivering a punch that drove the man back into sobriety. A gasp of air burst from his lungs and he wheezed for breath. But she wasn't done yet.
Almost using her past experiences like her teacher, she plunged her hands in even deeper, this time her palm open and nails of her hand driven past this man's clothes into the flesh of the lad. And with the force that drove her hands into bandages, she forced the nails together, driving them into his stomach and tearing through his skin. Soon the blue of his uniform was stained with the red blood that flowed from within.
"NooooooO!" He somehow wildly broke away, and with a few staggered steps, the man looked towards the entrance. His hands clutched his stomach, and with an unnatural stagger, he stumbled his way out of the bar, into the streets, and out of sight.
The entire room stared. There was a barrier now, an invisible force that separated her from them. She would never be like them. She could never be like them. It was the solitary rule that kept her distanced, that kept her apart from the rest of the city. After her eviction, it was her choice to live elsewhere, away from the city, away from the dungeon, away.
What did she choose? A prison. The city was dark, diminishing and devastating, filled with voices, corrupt thoughts, and a certain group of people that drove her to insanity. That's why she left. That's why she took her life from technology, the city of abysmal ideas flowing from within every corridor.
Abandoning everything, nothing except her blue dress, a small cardboard box, and a burgundy box, she was out in the streets, walking down that path, passing the television store, passing the toy store, passing the book store. Her feet carried her all the way out, out of the asphalt and onto grass.
Yes, grass. It was a sensation to her feet, something that she never felt for so long. Like a burden had been lifted off, she found herself away from the city, from that dungeon.
And away from the military.
Her thoughts returned to her, and now she was back, sitting in the chair, with everyone, who by this time have stopped their murmuring, and were completely silent, staring at her. They slowly inched back, feet by feet, some tripping over the chairs, over the tables, on top of thin wired trash cans.
It must have been that sense of superiority, or the hate she had of the military, for at that instant she stood up, some evil glare suddenly in her eye.
"What's wrong with you all? Aren't you the UED? Why are you scared of me?" She took a step forward, watching everyone back away in disgust. They feared her, they loathed her, but why she did not know.
"Tell me! Why are you scared!" She was screaming now, the entire military hovel silent except for her voice, which echoed through the room.
There was one soldier that talked. His hand was trembling even as his finger shook wildly at her. "You-you-you're that soldier's wife! You-you're Sarah!"
She stopped. "What?" Her tone had died away, replaced by a more inquisitive voice, a more innocent sound, and one that made her own voice tremble. "What about me?"
The man, a short and dark-skinned man, spoke, words quivering slightly. "W-why are you here? You ha-have no business here! You, the soldier's wife! J-Jonathon's wife! You!"
It flew over her head. "What does that have anything to do with it? I am a wife! Why are you trembling?" Her voice was growing angry again. It was the sense that she hated riddles, the sense that she hated the military even more, and their pathetic excuses.
The man stepped forward. "You mean, you don't know? I-" His voice was cut short as he stepped to the side, flung sideways smashing his back to the table. A loud voice pierced the room with a sigh, and then a voice, rough and grouchy.
"What's going on here... oh. Good morning, Sarah. My name is Agnus."
The man that replied, she saw, was not too much taller than she was, if not shorter. His eyebrows sensed that he was the harbinger of something that was beyond her vision, whether mentally or physically. And she still sat there, as if oblivious to everything that happened, as if she had not heard a single word that the man had said.
Agnus looked around. The storm was brewing and he was in the eye. "All of you, out. Now." His hand extended and the chapped finger had his nail pointing at the door. Yet no one moved. They all stood there in the room, some looking at the man standing near Agnus, Agnus himself, and the wife they called Sarah Rosefield.
"But sir! She's Sarah Rosefield! She's the Soldier's Wife!"
The reply this man got was a thundering slap that left his right cheek red and his body sprawling to the floor. His hands were against the floor now, trying to hold his body up, trying to escape the man who had damaged his opinion so. But he was too slow anyhow.
Then the man, bearing a long staff in his left hand, continued his path of destruction, delivering his right foot into the man's body, slamming into the stomach that the man so held dearly to. A muzzled groan arose from the man, then scraping sounds as his feet tried to get himself off the floor. He was clutching his stomach, sliding out of the building, walking out just like that first drunken man had.
Then came the thunder, then came the shuffle, and then came the march. It seemed that the rest of the people in the bar, no matter how many, began to follow suit, slowly walking out. Some of the men eyed Agnus with a bitter gaze, others only looking at the ground.
Soon, the thunder was elsewhere, and soon the bar was empty, save the two people, one standing near the table, and the other one not too far away, goldenrod scepter in hand.
"Sarah? Did you hurt the other man outside?"
She didn't blink, nor did she look away. Her eyes remained focused on Haleberg's eyes, also not blinking. "Yes."
A grunt came from the man, and he turned around. At the entrance there were four people standing there, watching the two and wondering what would happen. A shuffle and a second later, hands were in the air, and the entrance was cleared of feet, and moments before the door closed, the woman saw a pair of eyes watching from a small, blue car. Then she was isolated from outside, only her and the man who he called Agnus.
But he was the military. And the military was not to be trusted. Her eyes only scanned across the room, careless of the man and careless of herself. Only she heard a noise.
"Jonathon." That name she heard again, not from her lips but his, a man she knew not, a face she saw not, and a voice she heard not before. Not the raspy voice before when he had wrenched life from that man. No, this voice was soft, a smooth purr to her ears, a beckoning voice that lulled her senses and made her think of that man, Jonathon, that man whom she so dearly loved.
So she turned her head. And she saw the man lean on a chair, making it creak the entire way when he shifted his body left and right. And she saw the small black pistol on his waist, a sleek instrument of death.
With that there was a shuffling as her chair went back another four feet, sliding back, her eyes not taken from that man's eyes. The man was not even looking at her. Instead, his eyes stared at the goldenrod scepter in his hand, resting on his lap, fingers simply holding it. And he said it again.
"Jonathon." This time, he didn't end there. "He, well... he was a good friend of mine. I met him only a few times during his service in the UED. Before that, we worked together in the same place. It was an ice cream shop. Only, I left to college and..."
The man was still talking but the woman was not listening. Instead now she thought back on that man that stumbled before her.
"I'm the Soldier's Wife... what does that mean?" The voice was inaudible to the man, perhaps only spoken to herself. "What does that mean?" Her voice rose... higher and higher.
"Finally I saw him again in that barracks, before he left. He looked like a fine man, and you would... what?" His eyes finally perked up and met her eyes, burning, a fire inside that he could feel radiating from her. Therefore, he sat back, making the chair crack and stir as he slid the chair. At last, he spoke again, this time directly at her eyes, and at her ears. But he didn't know whether she would hear him.
"You are the Soldier's Wife. The nickname given to you from Jonathon. Didn't you know that? He was the only soldier that was married in his entire bunk."
Then he started a small, growling sort of chuckle, one that seemed as if he were trying but failing at suppressing. His stomach turned and his chuckle finally emitted a low laugh. To her eyes, he was straining to tell the truth. In his eyes, there was nothing but the laughter in his dorms long ago.
And then he burst out with laughter, suddenly a twinkle of a tear from his eyes, his mouth wide open and the loud snort that left the woman cringing with sickness.
He tried to tell the story even as his hand was on his stomach, bulging with weight and keeling over almost in his fit of laughter.
"Your husband played a dirty trick on you. You see, the boys were making fun of him because he was the only one married. You know, 'Chained to a rock,' and fellow things like that. But you see, Jonathon was the brightest lad I've ever met. It took him a few weeks, and by the time he finished, the entire platoon afraid of you as if you were a raving ultralisk!" He had to stop there again, his cheeks brick red from the blood in his face, his stomach quivering with laughter, his entire body just shaking almost. The chair beneath him, creaking and crackling, almost seemed to give way to his unbearable weight. But it still held him.
"What he did was, you see, he began very simply with just a few side phrases about you, maybe just degenerating you a little, making you seem harsh to the eyes of the others. And of course we laughed. I laughed too, I'm a pretty good thinker you know. And as the days progressed, he came up with more violent stories about you, like the time when you nearly stabbed him four times while you two were still dating. He said you were mad that he didn't bring his wallet after the restaurant. I know it seems far-fetched from these stories, but the entire group bought it. He was, I believe, the most brilliant of all the soldiers that were in that platoon. And listen to this..."
The clock spun its hand around the globe while he told her stories, ranging from when she broke the arm of her next door neighbor because she was talking to Jonathon, the story of which Sarah was using porcelain vases and was throwing them at Jonathon. There was more, but he went by them so quickly, only that woman would have comprehended. When at last he finished his statement, the clock's second hand has wound its way around the clock to the opposite pole.
And now this man, called Agnus Haleberg, was still rolling with laughter, with the silent and weary woman sitting across the table, no smile on her face and no sense of hilarity within her. Her hands, hidden under the table, were resting on her lap, nails biting at her bandages and a new scent of red spilling from her palms.
Ignorant of all, the man continued again. "And you know, there was a saying they had, 'Beware the Soldier's Wife.' Everyone knew who you were, even those that were already married. From his descriptions, most of them could recognize you a mile away. It was almost like a test question! And all from a set of li-"
There was a loud thud as her two fists rained blows on the table, suddenly cracking and then splintering as her fists rammed into them again and again. The table shook violently before she pulsed into it again, knocking off an entire portion of the whole table onto the ground. There was wooden shrapnel everywhere, and pieces of it sticking out of what remained.
She was standing now, her hands up high, bandages bloodied again and at her hips, palms facing that man. She was simply standing there, a bewildered look that was painted upon her face and a tear flowing from her eye.
"T-those stories! They aren't lies! Every one of them are true! I did everything he said! I did! I did! But you wouldn't believe me anyway, you damn bastards! What are you to the world anyhow? I don't see you doing anything to help! Your fleet was wiped out long ago, and still you joke about a Soldier's Wife? How can you all be scared of me and not fear the enemy! Out there!" Her finger pointed outside, towards the door where dozens of people were cheering.
"Why do you lie to these people? Why can't you just tell them you lost? Why?"
Then silence. No words were exchanged again, the look of Agnus a face of shock and bewilderment. Her hair was whisking back and forth as she looked at the door and back to him again. Her finger, now trembling, slowly lowered back into her hand.
The man was still sitting there, his hands quivering on the rests of the chair he sat on. With an uneven motion, his hand reached into his jacket, pulling out a slip of paper and placing it on the standing side of the table. He slowly, cautiously stood up.
"T-those are the directions to the cemetery. Good-bye, Mrs. Rosefield." He had nothing to anchor himself upon now. Now he shuffled out of the room, his head not looking back, both hands clasped to each other, and then opening the door and disappearing into oblivion. She was all alone.
Exhausted by her screaming, she sat down again, one finger feeling her throat, and the other reaching for that slip of paper.
But she was in no mood to open it. The events that passed by her mind seemed minute between what she had heard, not seen.
She could not open the paper. There was something holding her back, some image that faded within her mind, an image of a knife-wielding woman and a man that only smiled at her. There was the image of the woman who was throwing glasses of porcelain at her beloved while all he had done was smile at her. There were images that she...
There were images.
And she read the note.
She only said a few words as she read the note, directions to a cemetery out of the city and in the grassy plains about four-teen
miles from her prison.
"My loving husband."
And she wept again, her eyes never void of tears that seemed to endlessly flow down and down. The floor seemed to cry with her, the floor seemingly swallowing every blood-stained tear that passed by her fingers and onto the floor. There was no one there to comfort her, and there was nothing for her to do now, except...
And that was how the storekeeper found her when he finally entered the room, all alone in her chair, paper in her hand, her bloodied hands from the palm to her tips, both on her face, weeping.
