A Fight to the Death
The trees were turning green. The bushes were thick and berry-full. Winter had passed. The settlers had already celebrated the Spring Festival. The young settlers danced and frolicked in the fields. The elders shook their heads and went on with their work.
In one forgotten corner of the village stood a small cabin. Its yard was overgrown and untended. The roof was caving in. The inside of the cabin was not much better. A ragged carpet’s remnants lay by the door, the rest of the floor was mud. A table, two chairs and a stove were the only furnishings in the main room. The bedroom in the back consisted of a small trunk and one bed.
In the bed, an old weak man lay. The man was covered by a blanket as old as he was. Only his eyes showed any life. They were a pale blue like a clear sky. He wore a tunic that was once fancy and sleek. Now there were rips, mud, and even some dried blood scattered on the garment. Although the old man was still, he was not inactive; he was thinking.
“The festival has come and gone, like all the others before it. How many is it now? Ah I lose track. I wish I could remember the first festival. Could I really have been there? I guess I must have. I am as old as the village trees that stand tall and straight. If only I could stand straight again… If only I could do most things again…
“Why am I still holding on? I should just let go. Is it because of my family? No it cannot be, they think nothing of me. There isn’t any reason. Why should I fight it” The old man’s brain thought.
“Don’t give up! You have to see spring, you have to see your grandchildren grow.” Another voice said, but its voice seemed a mile away.
“I’m nothing anymore. I have done what I needed to do. Life is done with me.” With that thought the old man stopped breathing, a legacy ended.