ANOTHER old drabble
That's right. It's called Conviction and it takes palce in the 60's during the Vietnamese war--in the US. It's got a rather striking suicide in it. Un-Beta'd but I'm fairly sure its not too horrible, nor going to been seen by many.
CONVICTION
August 16, 1967
Each day the Technicolor screen flickers on at daybreak, bringing images of the wounded limping, crawling, and carted off of carrier planes, missing limbs. Others, not vacating the planes, had not fled over the Pacific, lost, only left to be named. His brother, Aiden, joined these fallen masses last spring.
The Rockwell family was renewed and collected now, by the time of the new buds and saplings. The youngest son, sixteen years of age, was still attempting to convalesce, secretly, weakest when the shadows graced the skies. Useless wrath flared inside, hidden, for Christopher had to fulfill his perfect image. His whole family was so goddamn perfect, after all.
And he continued to complete the image - until the buds broke open.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Hey you - Chris!” He turned, out on the pavement of a small side street, to face the speaker, apparently Marcus Plath. He’d just recently participated in a full-scale protest against new drafts. He’d been caught, but he came from a wealthy bit of town, so daddy cleared it all up. “Eh, Chris, you’re a real prince, ya know that. Aren’t ya?” A prince. Christopher snorted. He should take a good look at himself. “But we know,” he continued, gesturing to a boy to his right and hooking an arm around Christopher’s neck, “Georgie and I, that you’re not too happy, eh buddy boy? After last spring…” he trailed off. Silence cloaked over the alleyway.
“Will you just ask already?” The silence snapped with Georgie’s request, directed to Marcus.
Marcus glared.
Redirecting Marcus’ gaze to his own, Christopher asked with some suspicion, “Asked what?”
“We’re going to blow the recruitment office on 40th.” Christopher froze. He wished to make an impact in the proceedings involving the military in the last year, but had remained in a reserved state, to keep his family’s dignity. Even so, an opportunity had presented itself. Why not grasp it? Discovery would lead to complete admission, being disowned by his family, and suspicion. But he had a burning desire to breech this window, and take a chance.
“Time?” he supplied as an answer. Marcus replied with a predatory grin.
A shoulder brushing brick and glass, Christopher wended his way to the recruitment office, pressed into the darkness of the deserted storefronts. Nearing the office, he noticed the smoldering tips of cigarettes the other boys were indulging in. Only when he was a few paces away, did they register Christopher’s presence.
“You’re here, then,” Georgie stated coldly.
“’Course he is!” Marcus exclaimed jovially.
“Shut up, will ya?” Georgie snapped, anxiously sending beady eyes around to nearby apartments.
“Yeah, yeah,” he eased back. “Anyways, I figured maybe you’d wanna do the deed, eh, whada ya say?” he said, blowing a shroud of smoke over Christopher.
Christopher tensed. No. He was saved the dilemma of replying, however.
“No,” Georgie muttered. “No. We can’t screw this up.”
“Aw,” Marcus countered. “He won’t screw it up. Chris is real good. Ain’t you, prince?”
“Yeah, sure I am,” Christopher quipped.
“See?” Marcus said, cocking his head, turning to Georgie.
Georgie smirked. “Fine.”
“He’ll throw it -” Marcus continued, “the fire bomb, I mean,” turning back to Christopher. He ran his tongue along his upper teeth and quirked an eyebrow. “Wontcha?”
“‘Course,” Christopher replied without much conviction. He shrugged his shoulders in what he hoped was a noncommittal manner and queried, “So where’s the bomb?” The words felt awkward stumbling off his tongue.
Marcus tipped his head to the street curb. “Just resting there. Get it.”
Christopher complied, his legs numb. The glass of the bottle felt cold pressed to his fingers. He looked at the darkened office through the glass, swishing the flammable liquid within. Treading back to the others, he received an expectant look.
Wick lit with a cigarette, he hurled it. Breaking glass echoed in his ears. Only a flicker of flame became apparent at first, but within less than thirty seconds a blaze shone through the shattered windows. Smoke burning his sinuses and eyes, he distantly heard shouts calling for him, beckoning for him urgently. It didn’t matter, though. All that mattered was how the flames
danced, almost teasingly.
It seemed like an eternity that he stood entranced by the inferno. An eternity before he began to hear the sirens, drawing closer.
Although Christopher had not slept a moment since the fire, he only truly regained consciousness at daybreak. Light streamed in through a window, falling on stone beside him. The light was splintered, and upon closer inspection, looking at the source, he saw it was crossing thick metal bars. Observing his surroundings, he concluded that he was in a holding cell.
Almost four hours later, his first visitor arrived. Not a friend, not his family (did he ever believe they would come?), but a lawyer.
“Do you realize what you did?” the lawyer said with a somewhat insistent manner.
“I blew up that office,” Christopher replied, monotonously.
“You have no idea.”
“Really. Enlighten me.”
“There were four men in that office, son. Officers.”
Christopher held his silence.
“You’re looking at life as a possibility.”
Silence.
And it carried in his cell until midnight, when other cell occupants began to register a dull scraping sound emanating from Christopher’s cell. The tip of a hard plastic stir stick was being sharpened against the floor. In an hour, the plastic was sharpened to a needle-like point, and he brought it to his lips, licking the grinds away. He eyed the tool with curiosity, giving it a moment’s concern before pressing it gently against the pale, translucent skin on the underside of his wrist. Lightly tracing his skin, just making it blush, he scraped the initials AR into his wrist. He figured that the only one he had loved sincerely deserved recognition as he…
Kneeling in an almost fetal position, the tip of his cheap weapon slowly pierced his skin, drawing a bead of blood to the surface. It rolled slowly to the edge of his arm and dropped to the floor painting a red splatter left of his knee. He watched the blood, fascinated. The dagger was pushed within his arm further, and then, fisting the dagger, he dragged it through the tissue in his wrist, crimson essence escaping, lacing trails down his pallid skin, it becoming colder as moments passed, soon as cool as the night surrounding him. His eyes lingered upon the moon, a tear revealing itself through dark lashes, and the cries of men finally reached his ears.