#narrative exercise

[oliveh-cs]

Valkirias

Era como una pesadilla recurrente.

Le vendaban los ojos con firmeza. Sus manos eran esposadas tras su espalda, esperando que su sentencia se ejecutara. De pie, a espaldas de la pared, de frente al fusilero.

El sentimiento de fracaso le sabía agrio en la boca. El sudor le corría por las sienes, pero él se mantenía firme, con la cabeza en alto. Había vuelto a fallar. Otra vez sería atravesado entre ceja y ceja por un perdigón certero. Mantener la cabeza en alto era la única opción que le quedaba.

Después, caería. Volvería a despertar en un cuarto blanco. La luz lo saludaría. Le explicaría el suceso de 1944. Le diría cuál fue su error y cómo remediarlo.

Cada iteración requiere un cambio para un bien mayor, Claus von Stauffenberg, pero algunos hechos son inevitables. Serás sentenciado y fusilado por alta traición el 21 de julio de 1944. Un día después del asesinato de Adolf Hitler. Un día antes de que el mundo sea condenado a la esvástica nazi.

Volvamos a empezar.

Un perdigón certero.

Un cuarto blanco.

Una luz parlante.

Tus acciones, Claus von Stauffenberg, crearon una paradoja en el espacio-tiempo. Al matar a Adolf Hitler en tu línea temporal, alteraste el desarrollo de cada iteración posible. Adolf Hitler no puede, en efecto, morir en ninguna iteración o la singularidad no podrá ser revertida, y te quedarás atrapado dentro de este… bucle temporal, indefinidamente.

La operación fue exitosa. Hitler fue derrotado. Alemania es libre otra vez.

Incorrecto. El 20 de julio de 1944 Adolf Hitler se transforma en mártir y símbolo de la resistencia nazista. De ahí en adelante, los hechos del mundo que lo suceden se ven alterados irremediablemente y el nacionalsocialismo se extiende hasta conquistar cada planicie del planeta Tierra.

Tu tarea, Claus von Stauffenberg, es interrumpir el asesinato de Adolf Hitler y permitir que la guerra siga su curso natural. El statu quo se debe mantener para que el mundo de esta y otras líneas temporales puedan reparar la singularidad. Para hacerlo, cada Claus von Stauffenberg debe interrumpir el asesinato de cada Adolf Hitler en cada iteración del espacio-tiempo.

¿Entonces debo salvarlo?

Salvar a Adolf Hitler y no matar a Adolf Hitler son dos paradigmas diferentes. El curso de la historia depende del fracaso de la Operación Valkiria.

Pero jamás podrá haber paz si dejamos que la guerra continúe.

Un mundo de paz, Claus von Stauffenberg, no significa un mundo sin guerras.

Abrió los ojos de nuevo y estaba frente al mapa con las localizaciones marcadas de donde estaría el Führer en los meses futuros. Una gran equis roja cubría parte de Gierłoż y al lado estaba escrito «Op. Valkiria» en la misma tinta. Los hombres que los acompañaban eran los generales Friedrich Olbricht y Henning von Tresckow, el coronel general Ludwig Beck, el mariscal de campo Erwin von Witzleben, y Friedrich Fromm. Todos lo miraban expectante. Con una respiración profunda, comenzó a explicar en qué consistiría la operación.

[oliveh-cs]

No solo de pan vivirá el hombre

—Perdóneme, Padre, porque he pecado.

Sus ojos ausentes se perdían en la ventanilla del confesionario, por donde se podía vislumbrar la silueta del sacerdote. Sus manos le temblaban ligeramente, pero evitó mirarlas. Las sentía pegajosas. El olor metálico estaba impregnado en su piel. En su memoria. Todavía podía sentir la humedad cubriendo sus dedos.

Ella no era una mujer de fe. No era una persona creyente. Pero había entrado en la capilla buscando redención. Por una vez, quería confiar en las palabras sagradas y entregarse a la voluntad de Dios. Dejar que la fe la consumiera, como consumía todo.

—¿En qué has pecado, Hija mía? —habló el sacerdote—. Permite que Dios Todopoderoso sea quien juzgue tu falta. Anda, habla.”

—Maté a un hombre, Padre.

Matamos a un hombre santo, susurró la voz en su mente, pero ella no se atrevió a articularlo. La boca le sabía a tierra. Sus ojos se humedecieron, pero no se dejó amedrentar por sus pensamientos. La voz reía y con voz de terciopelo, repitió, matamos a un hombre santo. Díselo. El hombre santo no verá a Dios.

—Hija mía, ¿qué te orilló a tal abominación?­ —preguntó él, alarmado.

—La traición, Padre. ¿Y sabe qué es lo peor?

Una traición nunca viene de un enemigo, la voz se burló. Ella se mordió los labios. Apretó los puños y sintió las uñas clavarse en sus palmas. Estamos condenadas al último círculo, Teresa.

—¿Hija? ¿Te encuentras bien?

—Maté a un hombre, Padre. Amigo íntimo de mi familia. Mi madre…

Tu madre, la harpía.

—Mi madre iba todos los domingos a misa. Fue su amigo a quien maté.

—¡Por Dios Misericordioso! —exclamó el sacerdote—. ¿Te arrepientes, Hija? ¿Sientes remordimiento por tu fechoría?

No.

—Sí, Padre.

El sacerdote murmuró el Ave María, persignándose repetidamente con la cabeza baja. Ella se levantó en silencio y se acomodó el cinturón con tranquilidad, extrayendo el arma de su bolsillo. Se acercó a la entrada opuesta del confesionario a paso lento, con la navaja en la mano.

Hazlo ahora. Encuentra la redención ante los ojos de Dios.

Ella abrió la puerta y el sacerdote la miró exaltado. Él sostenía un rosario con fuerza mientras se sujetaba el pecho.

—¿Teresa?

Con un movimiento ágil, le abrió el cuello de lado a lado. La sangre saltó, pero ella cubrió la herida con su mano. Se arrodilló ante él y lo miró con ojos compasivos. Él intentó tragar. Trató de alejarse, pero iba perdiendo sus fuerzas.

—Perdóneme, Padre —susurró casi con ternura—, pero he pecado. Maté a un hombre.

Maté a un hombre santo.

[dailyrandomwriter]

Day 89

8:00 AM

The alarm goes off, a soft techno song rang out from a phone sitting on a desk. The song is years old by now, I’ve never gotten around to changing it. I think I should, perhaps to A New Day Has Come, or something equally as peppy to introduce the day. Or maybe I’m thinking this because today is gloomy. For once the weather forecast was spot on.

8:05 AM

I roll myself out of bed to turn off the alarm. The downside of not having a roommate for years is that I’m no longer inclined to turn off my alarm right away. In an open concept home it used to be a rush to turn it off before it completely woke up the person I shared my home with. Instead now, I just take my time. Glance at the messages left in the middle of the night when I was dead to the world.

My morning routine is one done without real thought, allowing my brain to think of other things. Like today’s tasks, there are invites to virtual meetings to send out today. It has to be today, the meetings are tomorrow. There are more appointments to book. My brain wonders as I brush my teeth and let the cat into the bathroom to wander if I’ll get all my self assigned tasks done before the day ends. Not likely, but it’s good to dream.

8:15 AM

Once out of my room and in the kitchen I start on the second routine of the day. Feeding the cat, turning on the electric kettle and deciding what was for breakfast. For some reason I think I’ll be eating breakfast later than usual that day, so I shove in a crumpet into the toaster oven. My brain absently thinks how lucky it is when I’m at home, because I’ll get tea today. I never have time to make tea if I have to go to work on site, and tea at work is kind of gross. The water is hard, and the electric kettle isn’t cleaned enough to take that into account.

I seriously consider this might be one of the reasons why I’m tired when I have to go out, I don’t get tea in the morning when I have to go out.

8:30 AM

I pop into the extra office, which doubles as a guest bedroom. Whoever owned this place last built a drawer system, bed and desk with drawers and cupboards into the walls. So they couldn’t take it with them when they moved, and it’s too high quality to justify removing it when I moved in. Now it’s my work office, a perk not many people have but one I use to ensure I don’t overwork. It’s probably the other reason why I don't like going on site, I have a workplace to call my own here.

9:00 AM

I work through emails for 30 minutes before getting up to make a proper breakfast (apparently I wasn’t going to have that late breakfast like I thought I was). It’s another perk of working at home. There are less distractions here. No one to talk to unless they go out of their way to call me. The time used to socialize I instead use it to cook quick meals, like breakfast.

With breakfast done I get back to work, and I’m truly ready to start the day.

[dailyrandomwriter]

Day 32

The pop-y first beats and preppy beeps of Drop Pop Candy ring out into the pre-dawn morning. A body literally rolls out of bed, feet barely hitting the floor instead of the knees. The receiver of the wake up call is vexed as to why she chose this annoyingly perky song to announce her morning medicine time. The desk chair creaks as she drops into it and reaches over to the food left the night before. Food first, and then medicine. Teeth and tongue are brushed vigorously to remove the medicine tainted taste. Then back to bed for more sleep.

[westsketch]

Mysteriously, Character One (Dia) dies. Character Three (Niall) and Character Five (Tsume) are the only ones around. How do they react?

It was all over.

“You graduated,” her hoarse voice croaked, whilst once-strong fingers pawed at his shirt, trying to grab a hold, “With flying colors.”

The hand fell; Niall could only stare at her beautiful face as her eyes fluttered and then moved no more - a slim mite of the inky black, that had been so expressive in life, was blank as seen through half-closed lids.

Tsume was a silent ghost -no, not ghost for that word now hurt him to think because Dia, even with the power to, would never return as a ghost; he knew she would want him to not dwell, to not be haunted by her memory-  a silent bystander to this private moment of pain, only able to give superficial comfort. 

And Niall was in pain - he didn’t hear the pirate’s clichéd words of reassurance over the crashing in his ears, as if his brain had ceased to function and was instead liquidising itself; he could almost understand its suicide, as he felt the pain.

With flying colors, Dia had said, but she was too kind. She always was - or rather, she was too good; too good a person, caring for the world as she did; too patient as she tried to teach him about her ways; too forgiving when she let him apologise for his mistakes every time;  and now, too lifeless to stop his pain as she once did with a single smile.

He was being sentimental. If she were here, Dia would have told him to stop being a wimp - if she were here,  of course, he would have no reason to be. He didn’t really know why he thought that useless bit of errant ramble - but then, he didn’t really know why he wasn’t dead at her side.

No, she wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be - she was magic itself, with abilities he’d never even fully discovered, surely she was powerful enough to heal her wounds? He shouldn't have to be clutching at straws.

Tsume was the only person to see him cry; to see him bend over the lifeless girl in his lap and sob openly. She watched with sad, knowing eyes as the toughest human elf- and vampire-kind had ever met, the only one to ever fight by their side, cried over a lost love.  She even wondered briefly if he would ever heal from that, but she doubted it; even if his life continued, nothing could take away the wisdom his whole experience with Dia had given him.

Wasn’t that what Dia aimed for, after all? Tsume, ever calculating and always pushing feelings down and suppressing them, mused as her friend lay dead before her; Dia gave her all into changing Niall for the better, to teach him to respect other beings and their worlds, and his own too. She had unknowingly changed him more than she’d planned, and Tsume knew (a single tear falling down her face at the thought) that the elf woman had changed the human man for the better.

[westsketch]

Character Three(Niall) is depressed and decides to get drunk.

He was unresponsive when they found him; Esta waved a small hand in front of his eyes, but the only response was the separate wink of a blank orb.

"Like a fish." Esta said, only half-amused. Dia frowned, glaring at the bottles surrounding the slumped Niall. He had at least had them wrapped in biodegradable paper bags, but she was still too annoyed for the fact to paint him favourably.

Casually, the slim elf bent over and slapped the human leaning against the tree. If the pain had not woken him, the resounding SMACK would have - even Esta winced, her mauve eyes still dancing humorously despite Dia's solemn aura.

"Whuuuuuuuuu." The man groaned, blinking several times, and after a pregnant pause, lifted his hand to his face, "Ow?" 

Esta held back a laugh at the surprised tone.

"Whuzzat forrr, bloody whorrrre." He rolled his r's, whether consciously or not, Dia didn't know, but she did not appreciate the words.

"Shut up, and sober up, before I kick you right in the gonads." Even through his drunken stupor, the low, evil tone in her voice went right through Niall, and he struggled to get to his feet, leaning his face towards Dia's as he grabbed onto the tree for support.

"S'aaall your faul',woman. Oooor, your'n Elf. Mrr, fuckin' bitch, I don' know." he leered at her slightly, and she wrinkled her nose at the whisky-tang on his breath.

"Snap out of it, human. What's my fault? You got yourself drunk, idiot." Dia raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms expectantly, and he just frowned at her chest, causing Dia to grit her teeth. Esta nudged Niall - if he continued like this, Esta would not be expected to keep the angry elf from disembowelling the sloshed man, and much as the thought amused her, she really felt that she had to give him a fighting chance.

"Riiigh', yeah. Well, s'your faul'!"

"Yeah, we've established this, ass."

"We ain' etbanished anythin'! You did, you nice piece o' ass yourself." 

Dia's eyebrow twitched. As if sensing his impending doom, Niall quickly continued.

"I mean, I was fiiiiine, before you came along. Jus' fiiiine. Then boom, you appear and I'm caring about the trees and the flowers and a part’cular haughty elf, for Christ's sakes! Bah!" he growled at the tree, seeming to mistake it for Dia for the moment. Facing his back, Dia's eyebrows rise once more. Esta held her breath. Dia bit her lip. Niall muttered something about feelings being like crackers.

"Say what now about a certain elf, Niall?" Dia asked, her voice strangely high.

"You, you fucker, you crafty fuckin' temptress, you an' that bitch su'ubus. Swinging your hips and making me chest go funny.." Niall had his forehead against the tree, and seemed to be falling asleep again; Dia brought him back with sharp words.

"Your chest? What about it?"

"The damn ba-dump thumpin, innit! You squeezin' on me chest, I bet. Ha, that's rich, remember that time I saw you guys disembowel that other guy and you pulled on his heart too!.. Only literereral-like. He was right pasty afterwards.." Niall rambled on for a second, whilst Dia looked at Esta.

"No!" The blonde said quietly to her best friend, "I don't believe it!"

"I.. I didn't.. what?"

"You broke him! You broke the womaniser, the chatter-upper - you broke sleep-around Niall!" At this point, Esta burst into giggles.

"Esta," Dia growled angrily, trying to block out Niall's ramblings to the tree about it's 'pretty li'l leaves' and forcing herself to look intimidating again, "Esta, he is not in his right mind. Personally, I put no faith in what he's saying. Now, shut your cackling and knock this fool out. He'll be easier to carry that way."

The thump as Niall hit the floor was followed by one single, triumphant giggle.

"And he won't remember a thing about his confession!" Esta crowed, unable to control her mirth. Dia only gritted her teeth, which shone starkly against her flushed face.