The man who sold the world

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t either, but if I don’t then you know what will happen.”

“Yes… I know but what if I don’t ever see you again. What if the worst happens?”

“Have faith. You know what I am. I will come back to you no matter how far you are from me.”

“I have to go now. Remember, I will be back. That is my promise to you my love.”

The man walks towards the door. His young bride behind him staring at him longingly. Fearing the worst for her man. The man ties stones on his heart and readies for the long journey ahead.

A large green truck waits for him. Filled with sons leaving their loved ones behind to dance in the theatre of war. He climbs onto the back of the behemoth and gazes upon his home. Not knowing when he will see his wife again, his heart urges him to desert his duties and go back to her. His soul refuses this suggestion. He knows he must sacrifice for a cause greater than himself.

The ride to the frontlines is arduous but beautiful. The dips in the road cause the man’s back and bottom to ache. His mind travels back to his wife. Oceans of tears blur his vision; he wipes them away. The man scans the scenery around him. He finds moments of respite in nature. the forests in the distance protecting the beasts inside from the horrors of human conflict, the clouds look like white paint dropped inside a glass of water, the wind traverses through his long hair. The day is a dreamy belle gracefully waltzing in a ballroom. He is infatuated with his surroundings. These final moments before his destination are what he has on his mind. Fantasies of him and his wife alone in these surroundings. He closes his eyes and feels the soft petite grasp of his wife in his hands. He thinks of walking endlessly, smiling endlessly with her in this garden. He remembers the soft kisses from his wife, and the softness from which she spoke to him, and her eyes brown like the sweetest honey, and her soul pure like mountain spring water.

The truck abruptly stops. His flying spirit crashes down to the reality of diesel smoke and rattling engines.

The men get out of the truck and are greeted by a giant officer. The man is the spitting image of Thor. his belly slightly protruding, but his build thick and muscular. He might be able to crush a mans skull with his bear meaty hands.

As the recruits are briefed, a whistling sound is heard. All look up to the sky.

The man realizes the sound is of a bomb falling from the sky. His eyes close. He accepts his violent fate. He accepts his body evaporating. The bomb falls. A large explosion. A deafening boom. His face ripples from the shockwave. The blast throws him like a discarded banana peel tens of meters away from where he was standing. Oozing darkness prevails. The man’s soul floats calmly in the ethereal waters of another world. Above him is the blackest night with the brightest, biggest stars. The water slightly cold but comforting, and on the horizon a massive teal blue moon shines. Dark spots, craters, blemishes, and shadows are sprinkled on the surface. He is at peace here. He can hear pops and bangs from a thousand miles away, but he is at peace in this black and blue place.

The man smi–– a deep gasp and exhale. His eyes open wide as ever. Covered in dirt and blood. Nothing broken just his left eye stinging from the blood spurting from shrapnel stuck in his eyebrow. Woken from a sleep so serene. He realizes where he is. Survived the bomb. Lying in a ditch. He looks around and sees bullets bolt above him. Wisps of smoke, and the reverbs from the bombs coupled with the screaming of men. He rushes to his feet to fight like a lion for that greater cause.

One year later.

A lone woman in a lonely home completes her chores.

The brooms bristles push the dirt away.

The wetness from the mop shines the wooden floor.

The duster cleans the curtains and decorations.

She cooks a stew for sustenance.

Her cat rubs himself on her feet.

Her eyes filled with bags of sadness.

The lonesome woman sits on an old, scratched, chipped wooden table. In front of her is a meal and glass of milk. She eats spoonsful of the chicken stew. Her thoughts drift to the day her husband left. She hates him for leaving but knows he had to, to protect the land from invaders. Her mind goes further back to the times of love and happiness she shared with him. The times before the war. Before the madness. How he held her in his arms. His bigness and strength made her feel protected and comfort when she lay in his arms. She remembers the way he smiled at her and how he gave her his heart always. She reminisces the times he’d make steaks for her, and always manage to either burn them, or salt them like the dead sea. She would eat them no matter how bad they were, and he would always apologize and tell her they would be better next time… they never were. These memories stab her heart. Her eyes wet with tears, but she is accustomed to them by now. The tears and the cat her only companions as of late.

The lady cleans the table after eating. She turns the knob on the radio to listen to some music. She listens and slowly dances to the rhythm. In the middle of the song an announcement interrupts the dancing.

“The war has been won! Our brave sons have persevered. The enemy has been driven out of the nation.” The news although good, does not manage to shift her blues. She still waits for the man who left. The man who sold the world.

Night falls. She readies herself for bed. She cleans and washes herself. Taking a long while. Dreading having to sleep alone. Wishing she did not have to do so.

A knock on the door at this late hour makes her heart sink.

She grabs her husband’s revolver and goes to see who it may be. She demands in a brave booming voice who it is.

“It’s me” the tone monotonous and lifeless, but the voice is his. She opens the door. He stands there with scars on his face. The bag on his shoulder drops. He drops to his knees with it. He embraces her legs.

“I’m back to you” he says.

Her mind does not comprehend what is clutching her legs. She brings herself to reality.

She asks, “Is it really you? Have you come back to me?”

He does not respond. His grip grows tighter. She knows it is him. She grabs his forearms to loosen his grip and joins his level. She raises his face to hers. She sees the weariness on his face and the scars littering the flesh. She pecks each scar and wound on his face and embraces him for what seems like hours.

The two have been reunited.