The Nameless Generation - Prologue

Prologue

15 years ago.

Walking through the alleyways of a town in Ireland, a blonde haired man propped the handle of his backpack up his shoulder, picking up the pace of his brisk walk. Carrier bags in his hands rustled as they crashed into each other after every few steps. Usually, he had never been one to walk quickly in order to return home, but the chilled November air sent shivers running down his spine. His brother, Samuel, had to work that night, and had left his wife and son alone.

Stephen Williams wasn’t a paranoid man by nature – he had he personality of a realist – but whenever there wasn’t someone around to look out for his family, he always felt uneasy. His wife, Lenora had grown ill a year after having their son, with a genetic illness that had been proven hereditary as it had been passed on to their son. Stephen always felt his stomach churn on days like these, always felt as if in his (or his brother’s) absence something bad would happen.

Speeding through the darkening streets, the blonde took shortcut after shortcut in order to cut down the time before he reached his family. Work had been exhausting that day. Working as a security guard in the local supermarket was tiring and now, Stephen was just looking forward to seeing his family.

Snow crunched beneath his black boots, his shoes leaving footprints behind as he trekked down the road. Above him, a street lamp flickered, barely working due to the stones that the neighbourhood children aimed at the glass during the later hours after school. In fact, for a few moments, the only thing that guided Stephen to the next broken street lamp, was the half waning moon.

As he crossed the road into the next street, Stephen’s boot scuffed the curb, causing him to momentarily lose his balance. He wobbled on both feet, stretching his arms out wide in attempt to regain his footing. It wouldn’t be good if he fell – he’d probably break some of the eggs he’d bought.

He made it home easily after that. Pacing down ‘Bartholomew Avenue’, Stephen passed several snowmen made by the local children. Many of the snowmen weren’t anything interesting to look at, just three spheres on top of each other. However, he passed one snowman that looked as if someone had spent hours sculpting it. Taking his camera out of his pocket, Stephen took a snapshot of the snowman, intending to print the picture out for the scrapbook his son kept.

Reaching number thirteen, Stephen swapped the camera for the keys in his pocket. Turning the key in the lock, it took Stephen only twenty seconds to shift some of the carrier bags into his right hand, so that he could open the door. Most of the lights were off in the bungalow, but Stephen flicked the hallway light on.

Closing the door behind him, Stephen locked the door, before making his way into the front room. The front room was the only room in the bungalow that had all of the lamps and radiators on. The room was multi-coloured – two walls painted cream and two painted peach. There was a mattress on the floor of the room, where his wife Lenora was sleeping calmly. Her red hair had been brushed out of her face and into a ponytail, and she was covered with a duvet and a blanket.

On the grey couch near the other side of the room, Stephen could see his son curled up, with a small book on his lap. His son looked very similar to his mother – the two sharing the same colour eyes, and skinny form. Stephen had been told many times by his wife that he and his son looked very alike, but the only noticeable thing the two shared was their hair colour.

“Hey Tomé,” Stephen spoke when he realised that his son wasn’t asleep. The four-year-old turned his head to look at his father, offering a small smile, before turning the page on his picture book. Excusing himself for a moment, Stephen put away the groceries he had bought, before warming up two cups of milk in the microwave.

Tomé had moved to the window when Stephen re-entered the room. He was wrapped in a blanket and with one of his arms, Tomé had pulled back one of the curtains to look at the snow outside. The four year old had a small frown on his face, when Stephen sat next to him, but Tomé remained his usual quiet self as he stared out of the window.

“Next year we’ll find a way to go out and play in the snow.” Stephen promised, passing the child one of the cups of warm milk, who took it without a word. “Mummy and daddy will help you make a snowman – we can try and convince Uncle Sam to make one with us as well.”

Tomé looked up at with a faint smile on his lips. “Merci, Papa.”

Stephen smiled back at his son. Lenora had come over to live in Ireland when she was fifteen from Paris, and had insisted that their son learn French culture as well as Irish. Ever since Lenora had gotten ill, she’d developed the habit of often slipping into her French, and since Tomé was always with his mother, he seemed to prefer French over English.

“Papa,” Tomé continued, now switching to English for his father's sake, “When we play in the snow, I’d like to have friends to play with me too. In the books you gave me, all of the people have friends to play with.”

Stephen nodded, smiling sadly at his son. However, Tomé didn’t realise the sadness in his father’s eyes, having turned to look out of the window again. Stephen reached over to tousle his son's hair before hugging the infant's weak form.

“Are you cold?” Stephen asked, looking around the room when he saw Tomé shiver. His eyes rested on Lenora for a moment, watching as she burrowed her head into her pillow, before they shifted over to the fireplace. Making his way over to the fireplace, he turned it on, watching with amused eyes as the fire crackled with electric sparks.

Lenora’s sleeping form was tense – there was a crease in her forehead which made Stephen instantly worry. Taking Lenora’s temperature, he sighed after realising that it had increased since he’d last seen her.

Lenora’s health started to decline slowly as the night progressed. She let out pained whimpers in her sleep that caused Tomé to jump and Stephen to frown. When the hour hand settled on eight, Stephen managed to wake his wife long enough to coax her into drinking some water. He even managed to give her a few spoonsful of the chicken soup he’d cooked up before she let out a yawn.

Afterwards, Lenora closed her eyes with a murmur of ‘'Merci Stephen’' falling from her lips. Stephen lowered her body back down onto the mattress, resting her head on the pillow. Afterwards, he looked blankly around the room – Tomé had fallen asleep by the window shortly after their conversation.

Stephen didn’t even bother changing out of his clothes, he was too tired. Instead, he just settled down on the couch, closing his eyes and giving in to the soft lull of sleep.

“Papa...? Papa, wake up.” Tomé shook his father awake, his voice trembling slightly. Stephen opened a sleepy eye. Once Stephen had rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, he bolted up from the coach, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Tomé, what’s wrong?” Stephen asked, placing his hands on Tomé’s shoulders. The four year old muttered something under his breath, holding a bloodied tissue up to his nose, before pointing a finger over to his mother.

It took Stephen only a moment to notice that Lenora wasn’t breathing.

The ride in the ambulance seemed to drag on. The paramedics rushed to Lenora’s aid, and one of the paramedics asked Stephen questions about his wife’s illness as she cleaned up Tomé’s nosebleed. Stephen couldn’t think properly as he held on to Lenora’s hand despite the protests of the paramedics.

“Mama’s so pale,” Tomé muttered when the paramedic asked if he felt alright, “so I feel sad for Mama. Uncle Sam says that people go pale when they’re cold – so I’m sad that Mama’s not warm.”

Lenora William’s heart stopped at 3:45 am. Stephen kept his hold on her hand until the paramedic’s wheeled her into a room, trying to resuscitate her pulse.

The day after, he could only hold his son’s.