Short Stories

Moonlight Sonata

The stench of malevolence and thoughtless apathetic firing disturbs me. I lay flat against the trench walls shaking in endless fear. The pungent taste of smoke, mud, and gun powder burns my mouth. The deafening cacophony of gun shots and explosions crushes my skull and my thoughts trail into meaningless wonder. I close my eyes, desperate to escape the horrors of this iniquitous massacre.

The smooth surface of the black and white keys is familiar against my fingertips. The guilt of touching my mother's elegant piano subsides as each note strings together perfectly. I wanted nothing but to make my father proud. The stunning musical masterpiece of Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven is melancholic yet calming. I can feel the beat of my heart and the movement of my fingers in time with the rhythm. I am at peace.

My ten-year old self turns around; deep blue eyes glowing with warmth and innocence.

I was oblivious to the cruelty of my father's hands as they crushed my wrists. I was oblivious to the coldness of my father's heart, rotted by the loss of my mother.

Pride pulls my mouth into a blinding smile. I watch as a glint of sorrow ignites in my father's eyes, before quickly engulfed again by a frigid, apathetic disdain. I watch as my already pale complexion turns ashen.

"I told you not to touch it!"

"I just wanted to make you proud!"

The back of his hand collides with my face, destroying all illusions of love my father had for me.

I think of my own son.

I am not like my father.

Rage and insanity devours me and I am firing rapidly; murderously. I feel the rhythm of Moonlight Sonata flow through me. Its melody fills the battlefield as though the Devil is playing the piano, laughing hysterically at the atrocity he has created. My mouth twists into a malicious grin and I almost laugh along, oblivious to the tears cascading down my cheeks.

Then I see him.

My blood runs cold. My baby boy stands in the middle of the field a few metres in front. His favourite superman pyjamas hug his gaunt figure tightly as he clutches his battered old teddy bear by the arm.

"Move! Run!" I shriek, my words crumbling into the roars of gunfire. Fear consumes me.

"I just wanted to make you proud!"

His words puncture my chest, shattering my heart and leaving nothing but a gaping hole.

I run.

Though my limbs ache with exhaustion, I run. Though my lips crack with an almost unquenchable thirst, I run. Even as bullets spray the battlefield and the bodies of my comrades litter the ground, still I run.

Deadly drops of rain pour from a sky of grey, forming puddles of thick red blood. But my eyes never leave his.

His figure clears. I watch as the smile melts off his tender features. As fear takes hold of those beautiful eyes. It wraps its ghastly fingers around his neck; robbing his skin of colour and lungs of breath.

A blue and black cloud forms on my boy's left cheek. Colourful handprints bloom on his wrists. A river of rich red blood flows down his arm and drips off his fingertips where nails have penetrated his skin.

But this pain in nothing compared to the ache in his heart.

Too young to understand; confusion and betrayal carves lines in between his brows. His lips contort with agony. His eyes, an ocean blue, leak as waves of tears pour down his plump cheeks. For a fleeting moment, I see my 10-year old self.

I cry to no one, "I didn't hurt him!"

As I wrap my arms around him, my hands sink into his superman shirt soaked with liquid. Blood gushes from the wound; the pressure of my hands doing nothing to slow its flow.

"I love you," I whisper over and over. Like it could make up for those years I did not.

"I am so proud of you," I whisper. Like it could change something, anything.

His eyes widen and his limbs shake; he is terrified. I touch his cheeks affectionately, but he jolts back.

My heart plummets to the floor as I realise, he is terrified of me.

Then he is gone.

My hands are pressed firmly against my stomach; warm liquid pouring down my legs and painting my hands a deep crimson; the colour of a dying rose struggling to hold its self-up just a little longer to say goodbye. To say sorry. My knees buckle from beneath me, and I stare blindly at the pillows of black smoke as it devours the sky. Bullets pound the earth, slicing through flesh, tearing families apart.

Guilt has sunk it's claws into my skull. Remorse has ripped my heart to shreds. I repulse myself. Is this punishment not enough? To know that I am indeed, just like my father?

The melancholic notes of Moonlight Sonata are faint but prominent. Yet as its melody fails to calm me, I know that no abomination, not even the horrors of war, can punish me for what I have done.