Drabble and a Half - Hound of Hell
Some days, it was too much to bear. One would think the gut-wrenching pain would subside, and that time would heal, or that, at least, his vivid memories would be shrouded under new memories, buried under the sand of the hourglass which ran for everyone but him.
And yet, here he stood again, nearly one hundred years later, sorrow rending his heart asunder like it was only yesterday.
Jack Sparrow thrust his hands into his pockets, fingers in prickling fists, half frozen from the bitter wind blowing a steady, sharp cut off the Heath, and forced himself to read the inscription on the gravestone, the one he’d painstakingly written out; the final chapter in a life too short.
William G. Turner, A Good Man.
Turning his collar up against the wind, he turned to go. Immortality, his self-summoned curse, followed obediently, snapping at his heels like the Hound of Hell.
****
And yet, here he stood again, nearly one hundred years later, sorrow rending his heart asunder like it was only yesterday.
Jack Sparrow thrust his hands into his pockets, fingers in prickling fists, half frozen from the bitter wind blowing a steady, sharp cut off the Heath, and forced himself to read the inscription on the gravestone, the one he’d painstakingly written out; the final chapter in a life too short.
William G. Turner, A Good Man.
Turning his collar up against the wind, he turned to go. Immortality, his self-summoned curse, followed obediently, snapping at his heels like the Hound of Hell.
****