Young Writers Society

James wasn't sure what he expected as a reply. As a matter of fact, he'd had no expectations at all. So when the man began to weep, he found himself crying as well, but now the tears came out differently. More controlled.

He mirrored the gesture, putting his hand on the man's shoulder opposite his own. He found himself sniffing back the tears and holding them back again out of habit.

"Wh-what is your nnname?" he asked.

I coughed heavily, trying to muster up some semblance of coherency.

''Boris.'' I was able to say, before another onslaught of sorrow forced its way into my throat again. It took a moment to swallow it down.

''Yoursh?''

"James," he replied, swallowing another sob. "Please... forgive me that, in my sorrow I have caused you to remember your own."

I coughed, and laughed hoarsely.

"No, no. Don't, don't feel responshible for me. All I do to forget them... I deserve everything that happensh to me. Especially, especially thish."

Although tears still ran down my face, my voice wasn't just laced with sadness.

It was filled with disgust.

Whatever James had been sad about seconds ago began to fade, and his attention zeroed in on this one man, Boris.

"Whhhy and what is it you think you deserve? To be sssseparated from family... deserve is... a stupid word. There are natural consequences for our actions that we must face regardless. But when it hurts, it hurts, and even the most wicked man's pain is not invalidated. And you are hhhhardly a wicked man, Boris."

''That's very sweet of you." I said quietly, before looking away.

"I chose.... to leave them. No-one forced me to deprive my parents of the only son they had left. Everything that happened since then...I got myshelf into. Everything since then, that'sh not what hurtsh. I can live with it.

The crimesh I commit to meet my ends, they don't hurt. I know they should, but they don't. I don't think about who I'm doing them to, or what it meansh for them. But I think of my brother... watching me... God, he musht, he musht hate me. I know it. It'sh the only thing that hurtsh me, anymore.

But I don't stop, because there'sh nothing elshe I can do. No. Becaush... becaush I jusht don't want to.''

I stopped for a moment, and drank heavily from the bottle of gin.

I forced myself to look at James, and make proper eye contact. I smiled lightly.

''Pleashe...don't try to save me. Ish'alright. I can live with thish. But...thank you, Jamesh. It meansh a lot.''

“Nnno, no,” James replied with a slow sort of insistence. He pointed at Boris’s bottle. “Any man who drinks like you do, needs saving. And I know thhhat even though I’m drunk.”

He took one last sniff of his nose, his own tears all but forgotten in lieu of Boris’s. “I can hardly save myshelf, and I don’t think myself capable of saving someone else - at least -“ he laughed, a bitter, wry laugh. “-not from themselves. Other people? Sure. It’s a whole ‘nnnother thing to save a man’s soul than just his...” he paused for a moment, staring blankly out past Boris. “Body?”

He blinked, returning his attention to Boris. “You are not beyond saving, my friend. The fact that you are able to recognize your wrongs as wrongs means that your conscience has yet to be seared entirely. There is hope for you yet. And yyyeah, some of that’s on you. Choosing and choices and choose... but you can choose.” He gave Boris a pat on the shoulder. “Your brother may hate you, but if you have the means to without great consequence to his wellbeing, it may be worth considering seeking out reconciliation. It is just as painful to seek the mending of a broken relationship as it is to maintain it’s brokenness. Perhaps moreso, but at least, you will be able to say you tried, in the end, hard as it may have been. There will be hurt either way, dear Boris. But you have not lost complete control,” he said with sincerity, with his grip becoming a little more firm, only to release and then pat Boris’s back.

“Unless I hear you wrong... which very well may be, I believe you have the power to change. Otherwise, you would not mourn your past so, as you do now. It shows that surely, there is a part of you that does desire a change. So I urge you-“ he tilted his head, looking into Boris’s face, attempting eye contact. “Listen to it. You are more capable than you allow yourself to believe.”

''Why...why do you have to be so right?" I whispered croakily.

Had I been sober, I would have been moderately pissed at James for making such a compelling argument for the goodness in my soul. I would have been slightly annoyed at him for suggesting that I listen to something so foolhardy and dangerous. I would have been especially annoyed because I didn't like to know that he was right.

But in my current state, in my honest state, it only cut right to the heart of me.
I had never allowed myself to believe in, or even consider, the possibility of reconciliation. For the first time, I allowed myself to imagine a life in which it could happen. I could confess to everything, and that would be enough. I would mean what I said when I told him I was sorry, and that would be enough. Despite all I'd done, despite the years and years that I'd ignored him, tried to forget him, betrayed everything he had ever tried to teach me... he'd just be happy to see his little brother again.

The immutable, undeniable weight of his absence came upon me all at once, in one final, shaking sob. Then I coughed heavily, blew my nose into a handkerchief, and straightened up.


''I can never see my brother, ever again.'' I said calmly.
''And thish road, it owns me. I can't leave it, not before it'sh done. But... maybe I can walk it better. Be the man he wanted me to be. Maybe...''

I let the thought trail off, and allowed myself to fantasize. It felt childish, to imagine a world in which I could find the end of this mystery without having to hurt anyone else. When I was sober again, I would probably look back on this as foolishness.
But I believed in James. I believed what he said. Just once, I allowed myself to hold onto the once frightening idea that real goodness was within me, and that listening to it was worth any risk.

I crossed my arms, and looked at James accusatorily.

''I wash supposed to be helping, helping you, you know, and now you've gone and helped me, inshtead. I hope ye're pleased with yesself, you sneaky bastard.''

Edward, keeping his eyes on the man who he had been talking to only minutes before, grabbed his drink and took a large swig of it. Consuming anything while dead was slightly different than consuming it while living - there was always a weird jolt at the beginning as his body remembered that it wasn't really there anymore, following by a short bit of a memory from when he was alive.

Schadel said that it was his soul trying to understand the sensation; that's what ghosts really were, after all. They were manifestations of their souls. Souls of regret, souls of passion - or, in his case, a soul that was just lost among countless others as the grim reapers struggled to make do with the influx of souls during World War II.


Upon hearing the woman's response, Schadel decided to check her soul.

It was different, all right. Different than a grim reaper's, and different than a humans. It had different structures built off of it; it was how she could tell them apart. And the color - well, this one was a particularly nice shade of red.

She let the soul fade out of her vision and returned to looking at the woman instead. No one knew what happened to the soul after it was given to the administration. They all assumed that it was somehow sent to the afterlife, but no one was quite sure how, or even what the afterlife in question looked like. It was very possible she was looking at someone from the mysterious afterlife she had always wondered about.

"Well," she said, seeing no harm in telling her the truth, "I'm a grim reaper."

James nodded as Boris declared something of a resolution to be a better person - and in his heart, he knew that he couldn't ask anything else of Boris. He couldn't insist or suggest further that Boris seek out his brother when he wouldn't do the same for his family. Regardless of the extenuating circumstances making his situation potentially more complicated, it would make him a hypocrite. So he kept his mouth shut, and gave Boris something of a congratulatory pat on the back before Boris fell back into silence.

It was a moment before he spoke up again, and suddenly looked... mildly upset.

And then a smile somehow formed on his lips, even after all that crying. It was as if, even for a brief second, he forgot why he had been crying in the first place.

"Yes. Very pleased," he said, still holding the smile for a second longer, before it quickly faded, replaced by a wistful expression. He looked away. "If there's anything that still... gives mmme joy... it's helping people."

Astrid stared at the girl for a moment before solemnly nodding.

"Ah, that makes sense." they took a swig of their drink and attempted a friendly smile. "My name is.. uh, Astrid. What's yours?"

I pointed at my new best friend as of a whole thirty minutes or so.

''See? Right there!'' I yelled triumphantly.

''That'sh more than selflesh, it'sh downright heroic. How can't, why can't you see it in yourshelf? If you can't be proud of that, by god, I'll be proud of it for you, you beautiful, beautiful bastard, you.'' I told him fiercely.

She waited a moment before smiling, noting the hesitation before Astrid gave her name. She couldn't help it; she was a detective, and she was supposed to notice things like that. "My name's Schadel," she said, "but I go by Schadel H. Kueper among the humans. You, uh, probably wouldn't need this, but I actually run a detective agency that doubles as a group that deals with ghost problems. It's called Schadel's Necromancy Agency."

As soon as he was pointed at, he was like a turtle receding into its shell. He cringed with a look of disgust on his face aimed at himself. His shoulders came up and he slouched forward on the table.

"Gods that sounded... horrenderoursly cliché, didn't it," he said, as it dawned on him that his words might've sounded some kind of self-righteous. As Boris piled on the compliments he only seemed to recoil.

"F***," he muttered. "I - I don't..." he couldn't come up with a reply. Suddenly his thoughts were turning into sludge, and his words were a jumble of confusion. "I can't - I don't..." he stuttered, face turning a deep shade of red in embarrassment. He didn't know what to say that Boris wouldn't likely immediately refute, so he found himself sitting in shame filled silence.

Kratzer didn't bother pouring the new bottle into a cup first, instead leaning back and taking a swig of the clear liquid straight out of the bottle. The vision of Gunther's face set in a determined grimaced was still fixed in his mind - as was the feel of the cold metal against his chest.

Where had he gone wrong? All he'd wanted was to protect him. Him and Genette, who was, undoubtedly, dead. Dead because of what she believed and because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He should've gone with her. He should've stayed with them and tried to fight. But would that have even worked, or ultimately would he have failed and watched her die and his son enslaved in front of his own eyes? Boomslang was a formidable opponent and one that he'd never be able to defeat.

No, what he really needed to have done was leave Germany and seek refuge elsewhere instead of leaving Genette and Gunther to find their way alone while he fought in a war he was doomed to lose. He thought he was stronger than he was. He hadn't lost a fight in too long, and, in his false security and hubris, he'd flown too high, only to fall. That was what destroyed him: the knowledge that had he been smarter and seen the truth, his son would still be human, his wife would still be alive, and he never would've done the countless things that would forever haunt him in that accursed war.