“It’ll get better,” his mother says, patting his arm and trying to be supportive as he stares out at nothing, “soon he’ll be only a faintly dull ache, then a fond memory, then nothing at all.”
“It’ll be alright,” his sister soothes, leaving tea on his desk as he shuffles his papers and doesn’t see a single word, “you’ll get over him in the end. Marry, have kids, maybe name one after him but move on with your life.”
“It’ll be fine,” his father grunts, rubbing at an old war wound when he comes across him standing in the garden and listening to the dying rustle of the leaves, “I’ve lost friends before now, you know. You just have to keep living, keep moving, honour them when you can but forget them otherwise.”
It…
It-
It doesn’t get better.
And it’ll never be alright.
And it won’t be fine.
Because he’s lost the most important thing to him, the most important thing in the world, and how can anything be fine when the only thing you have left of the love of your life is a field of poppies as red as his blood as he sprawled in the mud and choked and thrashed and died?
FILL: Red as Blood, Maltravers/Blenkinsop, PG-13
“It’ll be alright,” his sister soothes, leaving tea on his desk as he shuffles his papers and doesn’t see a single word, “you’ll get over him in the end. Marry, have kids, maybe name one after him but move on with your life.”
“It’ll be fine,” his father grunts, rubbing at an old war wound when he comes across him standing in the garden and listening to the dying rustle of the leaves, “I’ve lost friends before now, you know. You just have to keep living, keep moving, honour them when you can but forget them otherwise.”
It…
It-
It doesn’t get better.
And it’ll never be alright.
And it won’t be fine.
Because he’s lost the most important thing to him, the most important thing in the world, and how can anything be fine when the only thing you have left of the love of your life is a field of poppies as red as his blood as he sprawled in the mud and choked and thrashed and died?
How?
…How?