New Story: Dear Regret,
Dear Regret,
By Aviya Zuri
I have never seen a man quite as lovely as Mr. Arthur Cunningham. He was perfectly ordinary and actually quite a boring man. He had to himself a small apartment and a bright, sunshiny future.
His eccentricities were quite endearing to many, and this allowed him to obtain many little friends. They have all since stopped writing in the past weeks, but that is neither here nor there for our precious Mr. Arthur.
He was the definition of a fuddy-duddy, and preferred a simple life. On this particular morning, he wore a starched pair of trousers, a button down, and a crisp waistcoat. He slid on his wire-rimmed glasses, admiring his graying, salt and pepper reflection in the mirror by the front door.
He tucked his chapped hands in his coat pockets as he locked the door behind him and dallied down the lane. On his walk to his usual spot for coffee, he counted seven pesky crows, their wings dark against the autumn color palette. How beautiful they were!
As he swung open the door to the shop, a little bell rang out, but only a broken, overused sound met Mr. Arthur's ears.
Walking up to the counter, he fumbled with a five-dollar bill before whacking it down and murmured, "The usual, please. Extra sugar. Keep the change."
He didn't look up at the barista's face save a small glance. It was not the most delightful second in Mr. Arthur's life. What he found there was… well, nothing really. Sometimes the faces of his neighbors eluded him, replaced by pretty little swirls of emptiness.
He didn't have to wait long before a steaming cup of dark roast was placed in front of him, along with several packets of sugar.
He picked up one of the packets and tore off the top so gently it wouldn't wake a fellow sleeping soldier. One by one, he dumped the packets of little granules into the burning liquid. He stirred it around and took a small sip. Then, he slid the cup away and stared out the window towards the dreary street.
He watched silently as blurs passed by, cars and people going faster and faster. Shouting. Bang bang. Then it dissipated. Oh, silly Mr. Arthur. He was seeing things again.
Pushing his chair away, he left the coffee behind. It was much too bitter. No bother, they must have just forgotten the sugar.
He bent his head low and avoided peeking at anything other than the cobblestone road and leaves cast away from the dying foliage.
Hurrying through his door, he slammed it behind him. It was all too much! Poor Mr. Arthur couldn't stand the sights outside much longer, and inside wasn't much better. But that's quite alright. There are more places to hide inside. This time, that would be underneath his covers.
Mr. Arthur awoke to darkness with his hair smooshed to the side and the shirt he didn't bother to remove all wrinkled. He stared into his reflection by moonlight so long the glass moved like a sea being puppeted by the moon.
He began seeing himself with a youthful glow and a golden, perfectly trimmed head of hair. What a prim and proper young man he was all in uniform! It made him stand straighter as he listened for his orders.
They were shouted at him from underneath the bed and from within the closet and from the kitchen cupboards. He listened closely to each, his hands covering his ears as he fell to the cold, hard floor and curled into himself. He didn't know when it stopped.
Arthur eventually opened his eyes when light finally streamed through the open curtains. His mind sobered, he found himself staring at a brown wooden box concealed underneath the edge of the duvet. It too, spoke to him, but it was not the violent voices from within his head. It was lonely whispers from so long ago.
Remaining in a pathetic position on the floor, he pulled the box towards himself and placed his hand on the lid.
Lifting upwards, dust cascaded off the top. He pulled forth item after item from the depths and tossed them away to watch them skid across the floor. A bottle cap here, a birth certificate over yonder, a death certificate there, a bill, letters from friends he had opened but never bothered to respond to, and a brass button — which he shoved into his pocket. But nothing held his attention quite as long as a coffee-stained photo.
They stood together. Smiling. Young and very much the best of friends. And then bang. Sad, silly Arthur. What made him think any of it would last? What made him think he could keep the only things he had ever loved all at the same time?
"Ready! Aim! Fire!" Bang bang. Bang bang.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Artie had counted the ones he had brought down. He watched him fall.
Snakes crawled from the glass on the bedside table and dirt filled his sinuses.
A crow had long since landed on the windowsill, and watched Arthur writhe in agony. It made no move to leave, nor to assist.
Arthur looked up at the bird through enraged tears, still feeling the pain from deep inside. His throat was so tight he could barely stand to breathe and his hands, oh those hateful things, were numb with no hope of working ever again.
The crow spread its wings and took flight. Artie, in all his useless passion, rose to chase his misery. What you do for things that keep you feeling alive.
He took hold of the bed post and hoisted himself upright. He stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hallway like a drunken little soldier, ignoring the monsters creeping out from the seams in the floorboards. Little creepers like that make life so exciting, don't they?
He exited the house looking like he didn't own one, which was unfortunate considering folks were out for their morning strolls. Though they stared, Artie was barely able to focus on them.
The morning sunrise blinded him as Artie dragged his feet across the cobblestone. He followed the silhouette of the crow down roads he wouldn't have dared to tread on in broad daylight without his rage-fueled bravery.
He found himself standing before a sea of the dead. Rows of tombstones stood before him in rigid silence, never moving since the day they were placed there.
His feet knew just where to go, just as his heart knew all that he had done. Underneath a maple tree was a group of headstones, but only one was waiting just for Artie.
Cunningham, it read. Really the only thing the two shared after they had turned fourteen.
"I haven't been to visit you in a while," Artie whispered as he looked past the headstone towards the vaporous illusion of young men fighting on the battlefield.
They took aim towards each other but only one was able to pull the trigger, and the other fell to breathe his last. Artie looked down at his hands, "I never knew it was you, I swear."
The man lying wounded on the battle field turned his head and scowled at Artie before his chest went still and he was slowly dragged away from the scene.
Artie had known he had to bring the news home, but arrived only to tell the biggest lie he ever had. "No, I don't know how he died, mama."
Mama never took the news of her youngest son dying with any ounce of grace. In the months that followed, she became a ghost in her own home, moving silently from room to room and refusing to speak his name. Neither did I. Artie. I mean Artie.
Artie kneeled before the stone and brushed away the dead leaves reverently with his hand.
He opened his mouth but no words came forth, only saddened squeaks that resembled somewhat of an apology.
Then they finally came, words he wished to say to someone living, rather than dead. "I am so terribly sorry."
The words came more easily after that. Silly little things, really. The sort of things one oughtn't burden the dead with.
"I kept your button, you know. The brass one. Found it in the washing bin after you left. Never could bring myself to throw it away." His breath caught.
"And I know I should have told her."
Dark little tendrils crept between the blades of grass, curling around his fingers and winding themselves up his arms.
"I should have told mama what I did."
A familiar fluttering of wings interrupted him. The crow had returned, settling upon the headstone with a flap. Its black eyes followed Artie's movements.
"You again," he whispered. It tilted its head. "I suppose you know what I've done. I suppose they all do." The bird remained still.
"We used to count them, you know," he said, talking again to the headstone. "The crows. Then give the number meaning. You always cheated, little devil. You'd count the same one twice if it meant you got the better fortune. I never minded much. I liked hearing you laugh. I haven't counted them with anyone since. Only in my head."
In that moment, I — of course I mean Artie — couldn't help but remember all the tiny memories he had left.
"I remember when we were young, back when we got along, and we'd play tricks on the old man next door. I feel bad for him now, but then we were only children. And we'd have a great time with it, too. You'd laugh so hard I thought you may have bruised your ribs once or twice." He swallowed the thick sadness in his throat.
"And mama would get terribly upset at us for being so cruel. To make it up to her we'd go and pick for her the yellow flowers that reminded her of smooth, rich butter. You would run ahead and demand I walk faster." He smiled at the thought. "Couldn't stand the thought of waiting for your older brother, could you? You'd turn around every few steps and stick your tongue out. I wish you would have done it just once more before we grew to old for silly games and went to war."
Artie couldn't remember the sound of his brother's voice. But he remembered his laugh. I will always remember his laugh.
I wonder whether he knew. In those final moments, I mean. Whether or not he recognized me beneath the helmet and grime, whether he saw his brother pointing a rifle at him. I wonder whether he was frightened. I wonder whether he called out for me to be there as he passed. Oh, I dearly hope he didn't call for me. I don't think I could bear that.
The crow spread its wings, and I watched the sunlight catch the edges of its feathers as it took flight.
I wanted to follow it. I wanted to follow anything that might take me somewhere where I couldn't remember the mistakes I had made.
But my knees were in the dirt, and my brother was beneath it, and there was nowhere left to go where I wouldn't remember.
We lie to ourselves through literature, believing that the monsters do not exist, but now my monsters are in writing and there is no hiding what tortures my poor, restless mind.
I wonder if you would have forgiven me. I wonder if I would have forgiven you, if our places had been switched and you had killed me in cold blood. I suppose it doesn't matter much now. The flowers have long since wilted, the pictures have yellowed, and the little boy who once followed me around has grown into nothing more than a name carved into stone.
I reached for the brass button in my pocket, rubbing its worn edges between my thumb and forefinger. It was still with me, and it always will be.
All these years, and I had managed to keep one little piece of you. What a selfish thing to do, keeping you all to myself when I was the one who had taken so much.
Dear regret, my name is Arthur Cunningham, and I think your monster has eaten me inside.
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