My Defender

Ashes fell through aging fingers. The many folds of blotted skin on the woman's face failed to hide her anguish. Strangers pushed past her; voices mingled together into a nauseating symphony and the air stank of burnt wood and sweat. The elderly woman cursed her own helplessness, her inability to comfort the charred skeleton of a house she once knew well. Children dodged police tape and frustrated firemen while their mothers pulled out their phones, false nails clicking at the camera buttons. A hand rested on her shoulder, too rough to be a female's, and a voice spoke, ice coating his tone

"This be everythin' that survived the fire, ma'am. Good thinkin', keeping this stuff in a big trunk. A shame the rest got burned to crisp."

The man cackled and it sounded foreign, poison to her ears. The contents of a heavy box clattered as it was dropped into her lap. Her wheelchair let out a squeak of annoyance at the extra weight. With weak hands and strong resolve, she lifted the first item from the box. Her fingers traced the familiar bumps scattered across the pages in heart-sick recognition and the memory was pulled to the front of her mind.

The library closed early on Sundays and she had been the last to leave. She fumbled with her books and almost tumbled over her wooden cane, but the doors closed behind her soon after. Once more she tripped, but the wall she fell against gave a breathy 'Oof!' and she hastily grabbed words from her thesaurus of apologies. There was a moment of embarrassment between the two before the man composed himself and bent down to pick up the story she had been reading. A sharp intake of breath followed shortly after and the young woman held out her hand in discomfort. She waited as patiently as a woman with stolen sight was able to. But the only response she received was the weight of the braille being placed in her hand.

"It is good?"

It took her a while to realize he was asking about the book and she smiled. The man, who revealed himself to be Alexander Eve, offered her a coffee to make up for the minor incident, and after a few cups they were laughing like long lost friends. He never once mentioned her book, and for that, she was grateful.

The book was lovingly placed back inside the box and another item was pulled out. If she hadn't been sitting down she was sure she would have fallen to her knees. The small cross stared at her with a wooden gaze.

"I'm glad you came."

Alexander wound his arm around his lover's waist in affection. An amused giggle escaped the lips of an elderly woman; she had the same honey-coloured hair and button nose of the girl in Alexander's arms, her expression contradicting the scowl on the face of a man held the older woman's hand.

"I'm glad you asked."

The young girl smiled at Alexander's words, wooden cane tapping on the ground outside of the small church. The girl knew he did not believe, yet he still came to support her. They had been together for over a month now, exchanging kisses and sweet nothings. The girl's father disapproved of their relationship, although her mother found it extremely enchanting. Church went by smoothly, if not for the dubious glances the girl's father often sent Alexander or the school-girl smiles the mother threw at them. The girl was in the middle of a conversation about the war when Alexander pulled her towards the field behind the building. His boots rustled against the grass nervously when he spoke.

"I wanted to give you something that will protect you when I'm not near." There was a distinct sound of jingling and a chain was gently pushed into her hand with trembling fingers. She closed her hand around the metal crucifix and held it to her chest.

"Thank you."

It was impossible for her to notice the tears that dropped from her lover's eyes or the letter that stuck guiltily out of his pocket.

The steel cross dangled from her fingers until she cautiously slipped it around her neck. She was struggling to keep her breathing steady. But the effort fell in vain as she pulled out the next item. Her lower lip quivered and the event slid behind her eyes like a slideshow.

It has been one year since they became lovers. One glorious year and they decided to spend their anniversary night at a restaurant that smelt of wine, roses and amorous secrets. Alexander drew his beloved partner to the shore of the town's only beach. The scent of salt and sound of wild winds lured them closer until the piercing iciness of the water numbed their feet. They stood for a while until the wind howled dangerously. A thick jacket engulfed her and she laughed. She was happy. The love she held for her family couldn't be compared to the love she felt for Alexander. It was too different, too unique. And at that moment, she was able to feel it warming her from the inside even as the cold bit at her skin.Something velvety soft and square was settled into her shaky hands. Her heart rate picked up speed so that it sang along with the roar of the sea. Cold, calloused hands gripped her dainty ones and Alexander spoke, anxiety coating each word.

"Will you marry me, my love?"

The elderly woman's heart gave a painful wrench at the memory. She could almost feel the waves leaping excitedly at her feet. She still wore the ring but the tiny box she stored away was almost just as special to her. She remembered how exotic it felt to be given something as meaningful in the wilderness of a galloping storm. There was only one more item on her lap but she already knew what it was and it slashed at the rusted cage that held the emotions she'd locked away.

The tears did not stop. The married couple had said their farewells, wept their promises, wiped their tears, but it did nothing to prevent him from walking away from her, dressed in a uniform made for bloodshed, suitcase in hand. Alexander told her of his acceptance letter only weeks before he was meant to leave. She was enraged, refused to speak a word to him for weeks. It was only a few days before Alexander was going to be transferred somewhere else that his wife started speaking to him. The rage that once stood out on her face was replaced with an expression of remorse strong enough to put Mother Mary to shame. Although he did not regret choosing to fight for his country, he did cry the night before the transference while his wife was sound asleep. They had only moved into their new home a month ago; they made sure the house was complete with a white picket fence. When Alexander walked out the front door, the suitcase tightly gripped, the young wife noticed a crack in their white wood of the fence. They stood near the truck. A variety of men, short and tall, averted their eyes when they caught sight of their new recruit's hand wrapped around his wife's waist. They felt the guilt of separating a young couple like a stinging gun wound.

"Write to me." The wife's voice was quiet, failing to hide the tremble that accompanied each word. Alexander pulled her close. He placed a sweet kiss on each eyelid and leaned back to look into her glistening, milky-white pupils.

"Of course." Then he bent and placed his lips on his beloved's stomach and turned to face his wife once more.

"I'll see you two soon."

The old woman clutched the pack of tear-stained letters to her chest. He did write to her. Every week she would receive a single letter. The parchment always smelt different with each message. One would smell of sweat, another would smell of gunpowder, but a metallic scent would always slither underneath. The letters contained not a single word, but many dents deep enough to have created holes in the paper. A pen that had been pressed almost desperately against the parchment had been creating tiny openings that had been arranged into a particular pattern. Any hand, any finger that brushed across these patterns knew what they were. A single palm-sized heart had been pressed into the paper, and each envelope she received had nothing but that pattern. The very last letter she received from Alexander had a message pressed underneath the pattern. Fresh tears danced in the wrinkles that showed themselves on her cheeks.

What's our baby's name?

That was the very last letter. She could clearly remember the first time she read this message. The pills she had been holding slipped from her hand and her knees had bruises from when she fell to the floor with a cry of grief. He did not know. She never told him but it would have been no use. He would not have responded. The wooden, white cross that marked his body's resting place proved that. The letter arrived at her doorstep the day after she had finally been released from the hospital. The child her husband had died for, the child she had suffered for never left with her.