The Weepers

Never had words been so meticulously chosen by anyone. Spoken with little emotion, but hinting at a much deeper assertion, unspoken, and hidden by a quick diversion of the eyes. Such was the way it had always been between Jason and his father, Gregory Hutts.

As far back as Jay could remember, through the thirteen years of his life, his father had never looked him in the eyes any longer then was needed to let Jay know he was there. Now, as they sat in the living room, Jason on the floor and his father in the armchair behind him, watching the television, watching the emergency broadcast, the bond which had spent so long severed, suddenly snapped back together.

It had been a cool afternoon and an even cooler evening. A soft breeze blew the curtains inward, seeking shelter from the night. Behind the worn white sheets of fabric bright stars could be seen shinning down on the simple town, crying out to the town, trying to warn them of what they though only they could see. But Man saw.

At school, it had been a scene of utter despair. From the moment the Principal’s voice had come in over the loudspeaker, a dark gloom had settled on the children. Rumors had flown quickly that day, from the first period to lunch all anyone had talked about was what they had heard from their parents. Fragments of sentences eavesdropped from bedroom doorways turned to a theses of life. First the girls had begun to cry. Soon the boys followed in turn, grieving for lives unlost.

Jay hadn’t cried. He hadn’t felt much emotion at all to be precise. All he knew was that if this was how it was, then that was how it was to be. As he walked home early, sent to be with his parents, Jay avoided the groups of kids crying in the street. He clutched his books beneath his arm as he walked swiftly down the sidewalk, passing house after house of the weeping. Soon he found the books a bother and dropped them in the street. No car drove this day, no bus trucked from town to city, and no taxi traveled to the mart. Today was a day for all to weep, and yet Jay shed no tear. He had arrived home, his father waiting, his mother always watching down from her place. There in the living room they had sat, boy before the man, son before the father, watching the television. The room was dark, no need for lights except for the eerie glow coming from the screen, as they sat and watched the empty desk.

With much anticipation a man finally appeared. Jay didn’t need to be told that the man was President of the United State. He was a weathered looking man, torn down by the people and aged by the years of mindless aggression he’d grown leader of. He spoke as a man giving the eulogy at his own funeral, speaking not of himself, or his own concerns, but the words that might comfort the grieves. The weepers.

As he spoke of times long gone and times that could have been, his eyes began to show of tears. Jay felt none. As he spoke of the children and the elderly and of the time of peace that once had been, he looked to be a man not close to death, but a man already dead. Armies and bombs were spoken of, and the voice gave way to pure grief, to the constant shadow of failure that had caught up with him.