By Your Side :: A Countryhumans Anthology from the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance

PROLOGUE: What He Won't Tell You

This is a story about regret, grief, and the most miserable of misfortunes.

There will be no happy ending, nor any peace to be found, in any of the words you are about to read.

The most important point to learn, however, is that once the past has passed, there is no other story. Dead men don't rise from their graves, just as hearts don't mend once they are shattered.

This story, and the story of one of the two involved, is over.

Of course, oftentimes, reflections from the future can cast a different light on what transpired in the past. Perhaps there is new beauty to be found in old pain, for those brave enough to look.

But before all of that, let's start with the present, the state during which people find themselves haunted both by the past and the future.

In the cluttered study of a London flat, behind a large wooden desk older than any of you, sits a man.

If you were there, you'd see him bent over a messy array of parchments, the smell of smoke clinging from his clothes and wafting from an ashtray on the corner of his desk. A dim computer screen would cast a glow on his face, illuminating scars from centuries of battles. You might trip over a pen on the floor, or a crumpled draft of his letter, as his older brother had done many times before, and he might frown at you before returning to his work, eyes weary, a worn and faded lottery ticket clutched tight in his left hand, as you can't help but notice.

If you stayed long enough, you might be able to see that brother of his, pushing open the door without knocking to flip the lightswitch and usher him to sleep. You'd be unable to avoid overhearing the conversation they have each night, and you'd run into that brother again as he left the room, sighing and shaking his head, promising to his little brother that he'd be dreadfully tired come morning, he'll see.

If you dared stay even longer, you might run into that brother, called in by the man as a shoulder to cry into, and that would certainly be an awkward experience for you, indeed.

Frankly, if you were there, you'd see many things he won't dare tell you himself.

You'd see him in the morning as he enters the study, brushing past the mess he promises he'll clean up someday. You'd hear him rapidly click a button on his keyboard, impatiently drumming the desk with his fingers as the computer awakens.

Then, you'd have to wait a moment, as he breathes deeply, steeling himself before diving into his work with what could be described as manic fervour. 

But after that, you'd be able to lean over his should and peer at the screen, then at his papers, and piece together a story.

The man is far too old for his body, yet his body is a resilient thing, battered and abused as it has been throughout history. He's lived far longer than anyone--anyone normal, that is--and is unable to fall into blissful forgetfulness. You'll see he not only lives with his brother and the occasional in-law, but also heavy memories of centuries of war and calamity and the best and worst of human nature.

Entering the study brings to him the best and the worst of those memories, for his work in the study is to retell them. Not to anyone, mind you, but to the son of the very man whom he is forced to write about.

You'll find that he had a friend, a friend he believes he hasn't treated very well. Reading any sentence will reveal that this friend is long gone, although the memories of him still linger.

Tonight, you might see him--the living half, that is--as he struggles to recount what the ignorant might call 'the beginning'. He feels differently, but I'm sure he'll tell you all about that soon enough, just as he will surely tell you about his dear friend's bottomless, sparkling eyes.

What he won't tell you, though, is how hard it is for him to set his pen against the page, to force his mind back to the year he writes about, to the treaty and the meeting and all that sentimental rubbish.

He won't tell you about the countless ripped, crumpled, sheets heaped in the flat's wastebaskets, nor will he tell you about the stains on his parchments, and how they really came from his shaking hands, trembling so fiercely they couldn't even grasp a teacup.

He won't tell you about the times he'd felt the temptation, the urge to reach for a bottle when his brother wasn't home, and the only thing that had stopped him was the memory of his friend, turning to drink to numb the pain.

He won't tell you about the guilty satisfaction he feels whenever the smoke enters his lungs and his mind is pulled away from the memories, and he won't tell you about how much he loathes himself afterward.

He certainly won't tell you about the thoughts that surface after he puts out a cigarette, how he wonders how it'd feel if the pain he'd felt in his throat and chest never stopped, how he asks himself how anyone could ever survive it.

He also won't tell you about the heavy, somber thought that sinks to the bottom of his mind with a thud of finality: no one could survive that, of course, not even his friend. And his friend was the most determined martyr he ever knew.

He won't tell you about the spinning thoughts he hears at night, unable to escape from.

He won't tell you about his fear to shut his eyes, for his dreams bring him back through the centuries, but now all he can think of is how everything he sees will be destroyed in years to come.

He won't tell you about his even greater fear of waking up, for once he is awake, his friend's smile is reduced to a memory, fading in and out of reach.

He won't tell you that missing is easy, but grieving is hard.

Yet he persists onward, grieving and living best he can, since his friend never got a chance to.

And there's a lot he will tell you, so listen up.