With the New Year coming and all, I have made a very short story. I post it here because this forum seems to be the best for it, and it already has various stories in it. It's an orginal story, based on WW2.
Any comments would be nice, both positive and negative - I'm working on my writing style, to be honest, and want see how good it is. Keep in mind though that English is not my first language, so some grammar-related errors are possible. [as shown in my sig, though I have improved]
The Impact[/i][/u]
The impact. One moment, frozen in time for eternity… the impact.
He tried to remember who he once was. He failed. Memory… personality… everything disappeared in the mist. He remembered only that last moment… the impact. Bullet, tearing through his brain, destroying his memory.
He felt the pain… the pain of death. When he woke up, he thought that he was rescued, that he would be able to return to his home, to his family. Unfortunately, he never got this chance. For his horrible sin he was sentenced to eternal suffering… was it still Earth, or already Hell?
He remembered his family, too. He had a photography in his pocket. His parents, his brother… he didn’t have a wife. He didn’t remember why. Perhaps because he died in his young age, in a horrific war that he didn’t remember.
He remembered his killer, too. He was looking through the window then, and they were advancing. Sniper hit him. Straight in the eye.
He looked at his hands, covered in blood. He didn’t remember who he was. Why were his hands bloody? Was he a butcher? He looked over his body, covered in black uniform. It wasn’t one of a butcher… or was it? He didn’t remember.
He also remembered Gabriel and the words that he said to him so many years ago. He was denied Heaven for his sins, sins that he didn’t remember, and cast down on Earth, to the place of his death, to suffer until his crimes are forgotten, until his victims forgive him. He didn’t remember them either.
People came here, but never talked to him. He tried to speak to them, beg them to help him, to save his soul. But they ran, crying, covering, yelling… like they ran from a monster. He wasn’t a monster. Or was he? He didn’t remember.
He heard the sounds of moving machines, so far so silent, barely noticeable. It has started again, just as it did thousands of times, day after day. What was that supposed to represent? He didn’t remember.
He walked next to the window and looked out of it. He was standing inside a tower of a great castle. He didn’t remember what fortress it was.
He was observing the plains through the binoculars that he was carrying. He didn’t remember why, but it seemed… right. Then he saw them.
The tanks were rolling across the plains, their huge, metal bodies crushing trees and grass, the stars painted on their sides red like blood in the illuminating light of the sun. The massive cannons, the harbingers of death, pointing at the castle, preparing to fire. Artillery shells fallen and fallen, turning the castle into rumble, once great, ancient walls crumbling under the strength of the bombardment.
Why were they attacking it? He didn’t remember.
The tanks fired, high-explosive rounds ripping into the towers and walls, crushing them with huge detonations, letting the stones fall down the hill, rolling on the ground.
In this barrage, he saw a lone person, aiming at him. A sniper; reflection of sunlight off his scope revealed him. Both looked at each other, one through the glass of the binoculars, another through his rifle’s scope.
And then he fired.
For a small fraction of a second, he regained his memory… he remembered why it was happening time and time again. He remembered what his sin was. He remembered who he was.
A single tear dropped on the ground.
A split second later, the bullet hit, ripping straight through the left glass of his binoculars and into his brain, taking his memories with it. He tried to remember what he knew a moment ago, but he failed.
He looked out of the window again. Everything disappeared, the castle once again was like it has been for tens of years – shattered, burn-out wreck. He remembered that it was so since his death. Why did they came for him? He didn’t remember.
He was once again left alone in the tower… alone until tomorrow, until the scene repeats itself again, and again, and again… and he would once again feel the impact, a punishment for the horrible crimes that he didn't remember.
A group of tourists was walking by the only remaining tower, the guide showing them the old, ruined castle. They stopped next to it – it was the first place that they were supposed to see, still on the outside.
The guide looked at them and started speaking in soft, calm voice.
“This tower is one of the most important places in this castle – as you probably know, during the Second Great War, Nazis created a concentration camp a few kilometers away from the castle. Thousands of prisoners were executed there during the war. When the Red Army came and prepared to liberate the camp, five hundred remaining prisoners were all shot in one, bloody night. The infamous SS officer in charge of this camp proven once again that his nickname, Butcher, was very fitting. After committing that atrocity, he retreated to this castle and attempted to defend it against Red Army. However, during the battle, the castle was ruined, and Butcher killed by a sniper when looking out of the window, observing the approaching Soviet forces. Unfortunately, the sniper’s name was lost during the post-war era.”
Suddenly, one of the tourists raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Is it true that Butcher’s ghost haunts this tower, attacking anyone trying to come inside?”
The guide looked at the tower’s window and paused for a few seconds.
“I work in this castle for many years and was in this tower multiple times. However, I have never meet any ghost. It’s a made-up story, a bad one, at that. The topic of mass murderer is not a proper subject for such tales. Don’t worry about it. Many places have their legends, but there is rarely even a nugget of truth in them.”
Saying that, the guide started to walk towards the entrance, the tourists following him. One of them – the one who asked the question – could swear that for a moment he saw wings coming out of guide’s back. He shook his head and continued walking, dismissing it as his mind playing tricks with him. After all, ghosts and angels don’t exist, do they?
