Broken

Frank, an elderly man with an obvious limp walked through the small town of Bown on his way home from his weekly shop. As per usual he didn’t look at anyone and he didn’t stop to talk. His head hung low, constantly battling with pained memories of a haunting past. To the people of Bown Frank was the unsolved mystery. Every little thing he did was observed and judged for something that it wasn’t. Children never walked by his house they ran. No one attempted to look beyond the lies that fed the fear to see the broken shell of who he was. Every young woman with auburn hair, every little girl’s laugh reminded him of his torturous past.

Most people in Bown were too young to understand, they didn’t feel the pain of what the war stole. They told tales of how he must have had an ex-wife who left him. Frank never bothered to correct these tales they were less painful than the truth. He didn’t share the old tale of a young toymaker who loved his wife and child. The young man enlisted in the war but while he was away his town was destroyed and along with it the two lives that he cherished most. To this day Frank lived with that guilt.

Frank opened his squeaky door and placed his shopping bags inside. He ran his hands through his silver hair. Frank made his toys from home now, he would send them to numerous places, some were sent overseas to underprivileged children and war orphans.

He put his toolbox away on the top shelf, he slipped and grabbed onto the first thing he could feel. An old box crashed on the hardwood floor. An old toy plan rolled out, Frank unrolled it and felt his heart shatter. It had been forty years since he had seen this plan. Tears filled his eyes and the flashback started.

A young Frank sat at the table with his wife Maryanne and his daughter Isabella. His hair was sandy blonde and his eyes filled with joy. The plans on the table showed a beautiful doll house.
“Do you want Daddy to build this doll house, Isabella?” Maryanne asked Isabella.
“Oh, please, please, please!” Isabella squealed. Blond ringlets bounced around her innocent face.
“Well, if your mother has taken all the time to draw this up for you I suppose I have to build it,” Frank promised with a kind smile. Isabella squealed and wrapped her arms around him. He remembered the feel of Maryanne’s lips as she kissed him. But the doll house was never made.

“I promise, Isabella,” Frank sobbed as he spoke to a photo of his daughter. He placed his head on the dresser and sobbed throughout the night. Night after night he worked, hammering nails, cutting wood. When the house was completed to perfection Frank carried the dollhouse out to the back yard and set it down in the middle of the lawn. He climbed the roof and held his flashlight to the starry heavens. “I promised, Isabella. I promised! I’m sorry it took me so long. Maryanne, forgive me,” He sobbed.

Something changed for the broken shell of a man known as Frank that night. Nothing could ever rid him of his pain but his guilt began to ease. He began to smile at his neighbours and look up when he walked. Green eyes and auburn hair reminded him of the fond times he had with his family and that dollhouse remained in the backyard, a fulfilled promise and a symbol of forgiveness.

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