Twenty-Seven Across, Thirteen Up

It came to him on random nights, when he least expected it, the journey into hell.

It began, in the dream, with an obsession. A clue she’d left him when they were children, something she’d whispered to him back in the days when he could wind his arms around her waist and hold her and call it “tag”. Somehow he knew how to find her, and the looks on the faces of the black-suited agents when he asked for Carolyn Pierce were priceless.

Their poleaxed expressions were usually the last moment worth laughing at as the dream sequence spiraled on downward. From there it was...paperwork. For some reason his subconscious decided paperwork and requests, poking through outdated paper archives and microfiche deserved their own montage, like a bad eighties movie, set to Massive Attack’s Safe From Harm.

He wondered why, when he was in the dank basement of the nameless agency, he was safe from harm.

The first half of the sequence was lit in sepia and gold, all warm colors, like faded sunlight on an autumn afternoon, but as soon as he found the answer, the world would turn blue, all cerulean shadows and turquoise lights. He could feel the slip of paper in his hands. Name, rank, serial number...and address.

The world shifted from blues to greys, then to blacks and whites, because the drive was agonizing. He was only asleep for a few hours before he woke sobbing, but trapped in his own slumbering mind, the drive lasted for days and days, and the entire time his palms tingled with desperation and anticipation against the steering wheel, and his free foot tapped a nervous rhythm, which would ruin his hi-hat work later.

By the time he reached the address (marked with strange coordinates) he knew what was coming, but his lead feet dragged him up to the gate anyway. When he pushed it open, it creaked, and then he marched across the grass, head held high, determined not to let anyone see him break.

And then he stared out across the rows and rows of uniform headstones, and he counted. Twenty-seven across, thirteen up.

Carolyn Pierce lived to see eighteen, and then she died serving her country.

He sank to his knees, head bowed, and slid a hand across the grass, across the cold granite, and thought, She’s gone.

(397 words)