The Road by Cormac McCarthy Epilogue (FanFiction)

flame's last dance

The boy walked down the shore, accompanied by his new group. The children were both quiet and seemed rather serious. The boy didn't ask questions. He didn't want to know what they'd seen. He said nothing until nightfall when they set up camp. They sat around a small fire, eating sliced apples and sharing a can of tuna. There was a long silence before the mother finally spoke.

So, where are you from?

I don't know, replied the boy.

Oh, she said, you don't know?

No, we never talked about home. 

What happened to your mother?

We didn't talk about her, either.

That was enough for the woman to have an idea of her fate. This poor boy, this now orphaned child who was so strong willed, yet seemed so hopeless. How she wanted to help, but she couldn't; the world had raised the stakes and all she could do was fold. They now played their hand carefully and mostly watched from a distance. 

He wandered for most of the night and came back to the camp near dawn. The girl was awake; she watched him return.

You shouldn't wander off like that, she said.

Okay, he replied.

It's dark. You can't see; you could easily get lost.

The boy sat silently. She turned back and went to sleep. "The darkest hour doesn't always come in the night" the boy replied, and then drifted off to sleep.

A week passed and they kept moving. The boy was starting to feel hopeless; with his papa he had a destination, but now they are just wandering, wasting time.

The family was slowly getting torn apart. He heard whispers in the night. He knew his time with these people was running out. He thought that was for the best, they had different journeys anyways.

That night he left. He took his supplies and his pistol and ran. He couldn't stay, he was carrying the fire and the fire was burning out. He couldn't stand to be with them anymore. He had his own path to follow and they weren't in it. He wasn't sure where he should go but he knew where to start. 

He found himself back on the shore line. His father’s body was still there, decaying yet peaceful. He worked all day and had him buried before night. That's what his dad deserved. It was getting dark and the boy sat by the beach. He looked out at what could've been the sun setting and what could've been a pink sky. He looked at the ocean, trying to picture blue water glistening for miles. He pictured himself and his father, walking along the beach. He carried the fire but his arm had grown tired. He pictured peace as he put the gun to the roof of his mouth; he pictured love, for the last time.