"Shells" - Original Drabble

[juxtapose]

Title: Shells
Author: juxtapose
Rating: PG-13, for mature theme and brief swearing
Summary: Based on writing prompt #124 on creativewritingprompts.com. A man searches for his son.


The bodies are scattered on the dirt floor, twisted and broken. They are shadows of the people, the souls that once belonged to them. Pale, bloody shells, and nothing more.

The sirens are piercing, and yet I can barely hear them. I am walking, but I haven't a clue where I'm going. My hesitance and confusion are equally apparent in my slow shuffle among all the broken shells. They told me I was allowed to step through the bright yellow 'Warning' tape when I told them who I was, and so here I go. So many bodies . . .

"Sir?"

I wonder if it hurt.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step off to the side, as the paramedics are trying to get these people to the hospital as soon as possible . . . "

I wonder where he is. He was---he is always a fighter.

"Are you here to identify one of the victims---"

Victims? Suddenly, I am furious. "My son," I spit, seething, "is not a victim. Jeremy isn't . . . "

My throat suddenly begins to ache terribly, so much that I can no longer speak to the small blonde woman standing in front of me.

She gives me a look of sympathy before replying, "I understand, sir. If you'll just tell me your son's full name, I'll take you to him."

Nice girl. Her green eyes glisten with compassion. My son has green eyes.

"His name is Jeremy Stevenson," I whisper, realizing that I don't have much of a voice anymore.

The young girl nods. "Please wait a moment, Mr. Stevenson," she says, "I'll be right back with information about your son."

I nod slightly before turning my attention to what lay beyond her caring gaze. I am staring straight into the eyes of the culprit. The murderer.
He stands there, big and ugly, his front smashed entirely so that his glassy eyes are shattered. His arms, that were once long, outstretched wings, are squished against either side of his center. Even in his destruction, he is menacing in his massive stance, as if he will take flight once again at any moment.

This monstrous thing hurt my son.

Two policemen are walking behind me, and my ears perk up to their conversation.

" . . . said that the pilot didn't make it, either. Fuckin' tragedy is what it is. Over a hundred passengers on that plane. Gone."

"No kiddin'. Wouldn't wanna be the one contacting the families that aren't already here."

I wonder, briefly, if they have children; if they have families to go home to. If that's the case, aren't they the luckiest men in the world?

My son is my family.

"Mr. Stevenson." It's the young girl's voice again, and I turn to her, "I'd like you to come with me, please."

I silently follow her through the crowds of people crying and yelling and hobbling around with stretchers. Where is my son? Where is my son?

We approach one of the many stretchers lying on the ground, and for a moment, time seems to stop entirely.

I'd been told that no one survived the crash. But here I'd been, anyway, hoping that by some small miracle, he was still breathing.

As I stare into the cold, unmoving eyes of my Jeremy, I realize with abrupt clarity that I'd put too much effort into hoping.

"Is this your son, Mr. Stevenson?" the woman asked.

I almost laugh. What kind of question is that? I remember she is required to ask these things, because she's from the hospital or wherever the hell it is they do the identifying.

"Yes," I say, "Is he . . . he's not . . . "

The woman clears her throat. I break my fixated gaze to look at her, and she begins to speak.

"The plane crashed head on, sir, into the ground, so I'm afraid those who were sitting toward the back had the best chance of survival, and even then with the turbul---"

I stare at the name tag on her shirt. Her name is Alyson. Pretty name. If my marriage with Gina had worked out, and we'd had a second child, I would have put in for the name 'Alyson' for a girl.

"---very sorry, Mr. Stevenson."

Looking into her eyes again, I realize that she is the only person I've talked to since Gina had called hours earlier, saying she'd sent Jeremy off safely on his flight back home.

Home to me.

This woman, this Alyson, is the only person I've connected with in any way for hours. She has eyes like my son's, and I can no longer look at them.

Long after she's walked way, I am broken like all the empty bodies, knelt in the dirt next to my son. The only difference between him and me is that my heart is beating. Otherwise, I am empty.

His limbs are construed into various unnatural positions, and his gaze is transfixed on something beyond my tear-stained face. The glow his eyes once had has disappeared.

I'd asked him a dozen times over if he'd wanted me to accompany him on his flight to Boston to see his mother. "Chill out, Dad, I'll be fine. I'm thirteen. My friend Alex has been on a plane by himself loads of times . . . "

I'd made him call me as soon as he arrived in Boston. He was fine. Safe . . .

I want to fix him, because he looks so broken. Very gently, I reach out to grab his arm, in order to place it in a more comfortable position---

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you not to tamper with the remains."

This voice is male, and sharp as a blade. I move my hand quickly away from Jeremy's arm, hot tears boiling behind my eyes.

. . . not to tamper with the remains.

My son---no, he's not my son anymore.

Nothing is left but a body. A shell.

They tell me I can follow along in my car to the hospital. Make some phone calls, sign some papers.

As I watch them carry away his limp frame, I can't help but think that I am more connected to Jeremy than ever. For now, what has made my very life has been taken from my grasp.

I feel nothing except the pain that wraps its arms around me like an old friend.

I am nothing.

A shell.