Uncle John

• Charlotte Davies, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2013

‘No, I am…busy.’ My brother feverishly rocked on his armchair, his eyes darting across the room, everywhere but me. He was afraid, too ashamed to face me and confront his mentality. The war had taken its toll – dark bags fell under his eyes, his usually short blonde hair was shoulder-length and greasy.
I sighed.

A man of thirty-eight should not have to be burdened with the death of another man.
‘John, you haven’t come out since you got home – it’s not good for you.’ I paused, inhaling deeply, ‘It hurts me to see you like this.’
He didn’t look at me. Instead, he turned his head and gazed at a photograph of his pre-war self, pinned on the paisley wallpaper.
‘I shot a man out of fear. I don’t care if he was G-German; I am no better than a murderer. You do not understand. You’re feeble-minded, like all women. Leave me.’
I thought a glimmer of regret crossed his face. He had always supported my women’s rights protests before the Great War.

Lucilla wasn’t as angry as she used to be. I didn’t expect her to understand what he’d been through. She was only eleven. Lucilla used to be best friends with her Uncle John, and she demanded angrily to know why he was ignoring her. A while ago she subsided and started turning down my offers of picking berries or climbing trees like her and John used to.
I would’ve left him to recover by himself, but I feared for Lucilla – was this to be her childhood?
‘It’s the 11th tomorrow John. One year of peace.’
I smiled, hoping he would too. He slumped on his old armchair, frozen. I swallowed a painful cry and fled to my room.

The next day, it was the same. John had never been so cold, so distant. He flinched and murmured something as the clock showed one minute to 11.
I grasped Lucilla’s hand and gazed at her bright yellow hair, just like John’s used to be. I glanced at the wooden clock through misty eyes. Thirty seconds to go until a minute of silence. I felt my daughter’s hand leave mine but it was too late to stop her. She laid a white rose, smudged with red into John’s palm.
‘Uncle, we enjoy life because of the threat of death.’ I reached out a hand to stop her, ‘Lucy, it’s almost time, just come back here-’ She gazed at me, smiling, then continued, ‘Uncle, we delight in the sun rising because everyday it could be our last. People are forgiven. The war is over.’

She knew. I underestimated her. I bit my lip and prayed that John wouldn’t strike her. The clock turned eleven. A long minute of silence passed.
The rose lay in John’s hand as his pale fingers closed around it. My brother gazed at Lucilla, her blue eyes hopeful. The corners of his mouth curled into a grin. ‘The war is over. Let us enjoy the sun.’