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Dancing on Hatred's Grave |
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251 words
He hated Francesco without question- it was one of the many injuries the world had bestowed upon him. He hated him with the schoolboy’s petty anger, with a young man’s righteous fury, with the cunning wit of adulthood, and finally with an old man’s long standing grudge. The syllables of his name caused him to tremble, the sight of him to rage.
When tonight at six-o’clock passed, however, the hatred would be gone, faded into time. The hands of the clock continued their destined path until the chimes struck six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. At ten past eleven, he stood, trimming the lantern wick, quivering with anticipation.
The streets were silent as he crept past the creaky cast iron gate he had envisioned as the hours passed. Trees cast strange shadows on the burnished marble headstones lined in neat rows, as precise as any army ever was. All to soon, he came to the gravestone he was looking for. Breathless and almost unwilling to look, he whispered the words etched into the cold white marble again and again.
With a sudden shout, he spun around and around, turning up the soil that had been freshly dug only hours before. “I’m dancing on your grave, Francesco!” he shouted, hoarse with relief. “Dancing on it!” The words echoed throughout the empty cemetery. “Debasing it in the very worst way!”
With a sudden gasp, his legs buckled and he fell backwards, but all he could do was laugh. The hatred was finally gone.
 Attingere · Sat Jan 27, 2007 @ 04:09am · 0 Comments |
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