The Kettle on the Stove
A man worn away by time, retired and weak, he can barely stand. His closest friends marched with memories of fear but now only few can march at all. One trip out to a foreign land for many, one trip home to the warmth for so few. His cane, a bold, stark wooden bulk, the kind that knocked the ground with rigor, became his dearest companion. He walked to the kitchen, the kettle on the stove, a bird sits in waiting on the rusted fire escape. He picks out a mug, not a hard choice to make for there were only three remaining. The kettle’s whistle scared the man from behind. Watch it boil over… over the top it goes… over the top we go, he thought, chuckling to himself. A man shouting next to him screamed in his ear, another man’s arm thrown over his shoulder. He heard thuds all around as he ran into a parapet. “Get yourself off the ground and get a move on!” He reached for his cane. Its grip felt different, more rigid than he remembered. Its body had a stock and a barrel and a cold hard trigger. It smelt of burnt wood and a horrid whiff of death. “George! Get up here!” He looked to the source of the voice. A man stood above him, arm outstretched, a smile on his face. As he reached, the sound of a shattering cup made him turn around. The echo of wings flattered away. Stepping away from the cupboard, a stifling pain snaked up his leg. The mug had dispersed. The kettle was overflowing. Tea spilled onto the floor. A sea of hot water and porcelain shards crept towards him. He felt the handle of his cane in his right hand and an unexplainable emptiness in his left. It held no feeling, no sensation. Traversing the counter, he reached the broom closet. There he found a mop. Its dull, aged body was no less worn than the man’s own. He began to sweep, settling in the dining chair when he got tired. He had reached the stove on his way to the cupboard, setting the kettle free. With a new mug in hand, he poured himself a drink. A sense of relief washed over him. His energy drained down his body and out his toes, covering the floor, mixing with the tea. He closed his eyes, tasting the scent of cinnamon and apple graciously wafting in the air. Three rows in front of him stood a photo of himself. The walls of the chapel loomed over his tired head, casting a heavy shadow on the empty rows of seats. A vicar stood at the altar, skimming through the eulogy in preparation. Sliding along the pew, the man stood in the center aisle, gliding to the altar where a large wooden box lay open. His cold hands gripped its crafted walls. Inside lay his own flesh and blood. His eyes, his face, his mind, empty. He stumbled backwards, hitting the pillow of his armchair. An explosion erupted outside. He sipped his tea, his heart racing once again.
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