Dear Mr. Maltravers It is with great grief that I am to inform you that my father, Albert Blenkinsop, died on the 19 of May this year. He was buried the 24th. His daughter, Anne Woodham
George felt how hot tears fell down his cheek. He gasped for air, and felt the sudden rush of smashing something. He tried his best not to cry, to be a man. But he couldn't help himself and suddenly he heard himself screaming. He hadn't screamed, or cried, so freely, without any restrictions since... well never. It could not be true. His Blenkinsop could not be dead. He had always imagined that he would know when it happened. When Albert would die, he was sure that he would have felt, felt his heart break, his soul to split. He had always thought, that when the day came, they would die together. Or at least that he would go first. Had he not, a night in may, under a clear star-filled sky, told his spiffing mate, who had been just 15 (he just 14), that he would rather die than live a second without him. And had not the much longer brunette looked at him, and with a smile on his face kissed his nose and answered. ”I will never survive a second without you.” And suddenly he realised just how little time they had actually spent together, and how much time they had spent longing. Longing for something that never existed, something that couldn't exist, and now it never would. It took George three days to die. It took three days for his heart to stop beating. Three short, painful days, for his heart to realize that there was no meaning in beating anymore. He did not die of a broken heart, his heart had been broken so many years ago. He didn't die because he was reminded about how death was slowly closing in on him. He did not die of any disease, nor was he killed in a war, or by a common criminal. He did not die in the filthy trenches, nor did he die like he had wanted to. He didn't die because of missing, like he sometimes claimed that he would. No. George Maltravers died, because it was time. It was time, to finally die.
Re: Unprompted: Blenkinsop/Maltravers - They Owe Us A Life 20d/20
It is with great grief that I am to inform you that my father, Albert Blenkinsop, died on the 19 of May this year. He was buried the 24th.
His daughter,
Anne Woodham
George felt how hot tears fell down his cheek. He gasped for air, and felt the sudden rush of smashing something. He tried his best not to cry, to be a man. But he couldn't help himself and suddenly he heard himself screaming. He hadn't screamed, or cried, so freely, without any restrictions since... well never.
It could not be true. His Blenkinsop could not be dead. He had always imagined that he would know when it happened. When Albert would die, he was sure that he would have felt, felt his heart break, his soul to split. He had always thought, that when the day came, they would die together. Or at least that he would go first. Had he not, a night in may, under a clear star-filled sky, told his spiffing mate, who had been just 15 (he just 14), that he would rather die than live a second without him. And had not the much longer brunette looked at him, and with a smile on his face kissed his nose and answered. ”I will never survive a second without you.”
And suddenly he realised just how little time they had actually spent together, and how much time they had spent longing. Longing for something that never existed, something that couldn't exist, and now it never would.
It took George three days to die. It took three days for his heart to stop beating. Three short, painful days, for his heart to realize that there was no meaning in beating anymore.
He did not die of a broken heart, his heart had been broken so many years ago. He didn't die because he was reminded about how death was slowly closing in on him. He did not die of any disease, nor was he killed in a war, or by a common criminal. He did not die in the filthy trenches, nor did he die like he had wanted to. He didn't die because of missing, like he sometimes claimed that he would.
No.
George Maltravers died, because it was time. It was time, to finally die.
The End