Through A Shattered Glass.
This story was written by me, but the idea itself was no conception of mine. But as I wrote along, I grew quite fond of the characters in this story; I think it has become something of a dream, albeit a very sad one. I hope you enjoy this short piece of work and remember, I wrote it. Not you. So hands off.
Through a Shattered Glass
By Adi Putra
Written by Celleron
It was during the last moments of the day. The dusk-light bathed the 66th Allied Regiment tent in an eerie, purple glow. Inside the meagerly constructed tent, two American soldiers are delivering package albeit this particular package was neither weapons nor ordnance. The ‘package’ made no effort in gazing around the canvassed interior, its gray eyes framed by two even lighter rings was sullen and lifeless; they flitter around lazily in no particular direction. It would help to know that this ‘package’ is on a wheelchair, and is in fact a boy of about ten years old.
Not a sound or whimper escaped the boy’s chapped lips, even when the sharp alcoholic smell of chloroform assaulted his senses; he did not reel or express concern.
“Louis Beauvais?” A gruff Yankee-accented voice interrupted the boy’s silent revelry. The boy tilted his head. Anglais, he presumed. But not d’Angleterre.
“I’m Dr. Kirkland,” The man introduced himself, an echo in French followed suit, although in a distinct dialect that Louis was hard-pressed to understand. “But let’s get down to business here.” Louis heard the rustling of papers, and Dr. Kirkland has in front of him, a packet. Inside were sheaves and sheaves of paper
“Tell me then Louis, what can you remember?” Louis visibly winced as his mind desperately fought to remain quiet, but that proved futile as Louis can’t help the torrent of words escaping his mouth.
It was a pleasant night like most nights; the air was crisp, and the moon lies fair. The warmth of sun-ripened blankets and the softness of his pillow envelopes Louis Beauvais, the ethereal scent of beurre-noisette filled his nostrils in a way that only the scent of a mother can.
“… Alice said, a little timidly, why are you painting those roses red?” Yes, why? Louis mused, cocking his head sideways.
“That’s it for tonight dear, now off to bed.” The matronly voice of Anna Beauvais reverberated inside their small cottage. The sudden end elicited a cry of displeasure from Louis.
“Mother, why is everyone talking about the war?” He shifted closer to the fragrant warmth that is Anna. With a deep sigh, she stroked Louis’ hair, staring into her son’s sightless eyes. “Remember the caucus?” A nod.
“Well the war is exactly that, complete nonsense.” Anna looks at a portrait of a man hanging on the opposite wall, the insubstantial lines on her aging forehead furrowing; the memories of the late Antoine Beauvais remained an unhealed wound. It is only when Anna felt her son’s loving grip on her own hand that she was brought back to the present.
With another heavy sigh Anna’s free left hand took a cylindrical-shaped container from inside the drawer.
“Now open wide.” Which Louis did almost instinctively.
“These mushrooms will keep you in the right size.” Anna cooed. A constant reminder of their nightly ritual.
Although Louis cannot see the exact contents of these nightly ‘mushrooms’; the bitter-tasting pills were quite intriguing as he would oftentimes roll the curiously oblong-shaped pills with his tongue, numbing them in the process.
“Now no more questions, it’s time for bed.” With a parting kiss and the sudden drowsiness that always accompanied the medicines, it did not take long for sleep to claim Louis.
Morning comes with the cry of a chook, but not for Louis, whose first sensation when waking is bright light over his not-vision. There are moments during the days of his drug-addled mind where his usual sightless view of the world is awashed with colors he can only dream of. These moments of wonder are few and far in between, but as Louis let his mind wander, he could finally see the world around him and in his own special way, the world that his mother described to him.
This morning is such a day; Louis liked to imagine that the bright light ahead of him was not obstructed by his bedroom door but rather, shrouded by a copse of trees that for some odd reason loomed above him like a canopy. Rubbing the clammy sensation of sleep from his eyes, Louis fumbled his way to the direction of the light; he arrived in front of their home’s many windows, but unlike the others, this particular one to Louis was best. He slipped both his index and middle finger through the horizontal folds of the curtains; a shaft of light poured through the open space and illuminated the small figure of Louis Beauvais.
“Mother, what does the world look like?” Muttered Louis, his eyes squinting under the sun.
“Again Louis?” The voice of Anna Beauvais wafted through, the sound of kitchen knives accompanying it. “You’ve been asking that question for God knows when.” Anna walked to her son and softly encircled her arms around Louis. “Think of it as a garden, where everything touches the sky and animals walking about.” She buried her head ever so slightly into her son’s brown locks. “It’s beautiful.”
It’s so much easier to not tell him the truth, thought Anna, gazing down on Louis, who seemed to have melted languidly in her embrace. Anna let out a sigh at her son’s antics. Living with blindness was difficult all by itself and the looming threat of Fascists in their doorstep has made it even more unimaginably so.
“A bottle of Zoloft pills”, “A leatherbound Lewis Carroll anthology”, “A rabbit doll”. Three items were placed in front of Louis “Do they remind you of something?”
It’s that American man again – Kirkland or something, Louis thought, quite agitated from having his story interrupted. Why is he asking these questions? The times where Louis tried to ask some questions back would only be met with curt responses; in a language he does not even understand no less. Thusly, Louis decided to continue.
Louis remembered fondly at how safe he was, how the warmth of his mother smothered him an embrace that he never wanted to end. But end it did as a sudden knock emanated from the front door of their home startled both mother and son. Whoever could it be were the two exact thoughts in their heads. Anna opened the door and in front of her stood the smiling figure of Jean-Pierre Dupont. Surprised was an understatement for Anna; it has been quite some time since Anna last talked with the man. Jean-Pierre’s immaculately coifed white hair was now frayed and thinning, but the ever-present Gauloises – Paris’ finest cancer-sticks on his lips remained the same.
“Jean-Pierre, what do you want?” Anna curtly asked.
“Is that how you treat an old friend Anna?” Jean-Pierre grinned, which only earned him a cold stare.
“I’ve nothing to say to you Jean-Pierre, now if you will excuse me-”
“Wait Anna,” The man’s hand barred the door. “Anna, they’re coming.” She gasped. The once jovial Jean-Pierre too, turned stern. “Bertrand saw them a few villages away.” Said Jean-Pierre, his brows furrowed.
“How far?” Anna replied with a voice that is barely above a whisper.
“I can’t say-”
“Damn it Jean-Pierre, how far!?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Jean-Pierre stomped the cigarette with the heel of his boot. “All I know is that this isn’t a safe place anymore.” He fished yet another Gauloises from the box and lit up the cigarette.
“Mother, is that Mr. Caterpillar?” Asked Louis, toddling to his mother’s side.
“The name’s Dupont, kid.” The man chuckled dryly. “I really wish you’d stop calling me that.”
“But you smell just like Mr. Caterpillar.”
Jean-Pierre’s silent reply was a heavy sigh; he gave Anna a knowing look and left. Jean-Pierre did not see Anna’s own eyes, transfixed upon his back with an intensity that seemed to almost say, He’s my son. Not yours.
“Mother, what did Mr. Caterpillar come here for?” Louis asked, breaking the silence.
“Are you hungry Louis?” Anna took Louis’s hand to her own.
“Well, yes but-”
“Come Louis,” She led her son deeper inside the house. “I think it’s time for a tea party.” Anna concluded, with merriment in her voice that was not reflected on her face. Anna then hands Louis a crude rabbit doll, the same one that was placed upon the table by the American, the very same one with its beady button eyes, currently staring at Louis in silence.
Louis however is all but silent, his palms wet with perspiration, a blush of crimson coursing through his arms up to his narrow shoulders - now sagging with tremors from deep inside his body. He opened his mouth, but nothing coherent comes out, only the guttural sounds of withdrawal.
“He’s at it again,” Muttered the white-clad American. He immediately unscrewed the bottle of pills and urged Louis to swallow it in one fell swoop with a speed that rivaled even the most veteran doctors. The American gave Louis only a few seconds of respite before he motioned the boy to continue with his story. With a dark look on his face and bated breath, Louis reluctantly complied.
Not more than half-a-night has passed when the house was loudly awoken by the distant booming of artillery
“Mother!” A rattle of machineguns caused Louis to cover his ears momentarily. “What’s going on? What are those noises?” True enough, to Louis it was a complete whirlwind of events, but not to Anna, who can only mutter ‘Nazis’ in reply.
“Louis, stay here.” The boy however, was so shocked from the abrupt manner in which he woke that he could scarcely hear what his mother was saying.
Confusion and surprise were the only two emotions revolving in Anna Beauvais’ mind. Jean-Pierre did warn her of this, but it did not cross her mind that the Germans would arrive this soon. Immediately Anna thought of escape, but how far can a woman and his blind son go? Louis – and Anna hated herself immensely for even thinking this – was only a liability. Yet that thought was dashed away as she cast a glance on Louis, her beautiful and kind-hearted son whose rosy cheeks were now stained with tears. Filled with maternal zeal and renewed resolve, Anna rushed through their shared bedroom, she picked up a suitcase and threw her son’s ragged doll, his medication, the little clothes he possessed and lastly, a leather-bound storybook; all the things that indicated a child’s presence in the house neatly erased inside the suitcase.
A glimpse of red from the window caught her eye. Knowing exactly what that color pertains, she handed the suitcase to Louis. “Louis, I need you to be a brave boy for this,” She whispered. “When I say run, you just go, and don’t think of anything else.” Anna hugged her son tight, relishing the little bundle of warmth that is Louis as well as positioning the boy towards the opened cellar door. As Anna felt Louis’ damp cheeks, she can’t help but notice the same hot tears dripping down her face; with a parting look of love that her son cannot return, Anna kissed her son for the last time.
“Run.” Anna whispered in hushed urgency, pushing Louis forward. As he let the subtle push spur him into running, all he can remember was the echoing ‘run’ of Anna’s panic-stricken voice. Clueless of the direction he’s going, Louis’ foot caught an uneven footing, causing the boy to inadvertently tumble into the cellar. The force of such a blow incapacitated Louis, but as luck would have it, he had fallen into the hollowed back of an old wardrobe, effectively concealing him from view.
“That’s all I can remember.” Said Louis.
The medic-in-white replied in silence. Only after ten seconds have passed that he finally speaks.
“Thank you Louis, someone will escort you back to your quarters.”
“Wait,” Cried Louis, the bottom of his lips trembling. “What happened to my mother? Why isn’t she here with me?” Another few seconds passed by and feeling the motion of his wheelchair, Louis Beauvais was again, given no answers.
As soon as the boy was taken out of the room, Dr. Kirkland heaved a great sigh. He closed the documents packet in front of him, suddenly becoming very uncomfortable at the photographs inside them. One of them in particular was of a middle-aged woman, found lying on a pool of her own blood, her body riddled with bullets; under the photograph, a scribbled notation gave the American doctor the identity of the woman.
“Welcome to Wonderland kid.” Dr. Kirkland ruefully added, his gaze lingered unto the handwritten notation on the photograph.
It said: Anna Beauvais.
