98215

His only possessions are the clothes on his back, the bag across his shoulders, and the numbers 98215 crudely etched onto his forearm. His jacket-which hangs loosely off his form just like all other parts of his ensemble-conceals the tattoo. Whether it's hidden from the general public or himself is debatable-there's a deep burn of shame whenever his gaze wanders to those five digits that he hadn't felt before. Before, they'd been his whole life.

Now, he doesn't know how to be anything else besides a number.

Shoulders hunched, he conceals his face from view, boots crunching in the snow. The snow angels remind him of those his sister used to make. She'd been the only one in the family who actually liked the seemingly endless snow that fell over the little village of Vilna-or she had a transfixation with it, at the very least. Every time it snowed, she ran outside, laid down, and made the angels. A small smile tugs at his lips at the memories and he imagines her then, with her blonde curls and aubergine eyes and chubby legs that carried her anywhere she wanted to go.

His last memory of her comes to mind: dragged away, out into the snow, her screams silenced with the sound of a single shot. Her last word had been his own name and he remembers the echo of it as her little body dropped into the pit-spread in the shape of the same angels she loved to make.

Disgust makes his stomach churn and he can't look at the snow angel anymore. Careful not to meet the eyes of those who pass by, he wonders if they notice the hollowness of his cheeks the same way he does-wonders if they even care.

The dirt road is just the same as it had been before. There are still cars, still people. It's as if life had just went on while they suffered, as if they simply never existed in the first place.

When he finds the house in the darkness, he makes the trek up the stairs, footsteps quiet and light. I used to live here once. Bile creeps up his throat at the thought.

The long staircase to the front door is no longer a friendly pain in the a*s but a hassle, and he finds himself winded by the first landing. The house is big, big enough to amass its various prior inhabitants-the biggest in the neighborhood, in fact. Perhaps that'd been why they'd been the first to go.

The thorn is always jealous of the rose, after all.

When he finally reaches the door, he stares at it, into it. His family's name's been scratched out, replaced with another. His mother's favorite chair, where she used to sit and rock and smoke a cigarette after work, still sits in its old spot. It rocks in the brisk winter wind.

Before he can walk away without looking back, he knocks on the door a few times, suddenly aware of how late it must be. Time had been a sort of far-away concept at the camp--they existed in some sort of realm outside of it, away from it.

After a moment, the distinct click of the deadlock sounds, and the door opens slightly.

The tired, rugged face that greets him had been among those who'd watched in silence as the bodies fell-his neighbor his whole life, his favorite playmate as a child. Suddenly, hatred replaces fear, and for the first time he can remember, he looks the stranger he'd once known in the eyes.

But the stranger looks into nothing, nothing at all-only the darkness of the dirt road and the forest. The moment they meet eyes, the door shuts in his face, leaving him feeling even more sick than he had before.

Author's Note

Something quick written for my creative writing class. Let me know what you think.

Reviews

[Roland Corvus]

The thorn is always jealous of the rose, what an awesome line. Really enjoyed this, great work. The comparisons of the sister's snow angels with the death pit was poignant.