Crimson Hope - A Short Story

Just a little something I put together and wanted to share:

I opened my eyes, but saw only soot, rubble and darkness. Just moments ago I was sitting happily on a polished wooden bench in the waiting room of the infirmary, losing a game of rock-paper-scissors to my little sister, Tara.

BOOM.

The screams of everyone around me were short. Steel beams fell from the ceiling, bricks blasted across the room and gas lamps shattered, plunging me into blackness. As I rolled across the floor, a slab of concrete slammed across my legs, pinning me down and making me cry out in pain. My ears rang as I peered through the smoke. Only small flickering flames illuminated what was left of the room. Decimated furniture, shattered glass and chunks of cement were everywhere.

I called through the smoke. “Tara!” Tears of fear welled up in my eyes as I waited for an answer, but there was no sound short of the settling debris.

The air tasted like ash and fire, and a nurse lay on the ground, motionless. Clenching my teeth, I wriggled out of the rubble. My six-year-old brain wanted nothing more than to curl up and hide, but I knew I had to be brave. I had to find my sister.

“Someone help us!” I shouted, choking on thick dust.

No reply.

Finally, I spotted her in the corner. “Tara!” She was lying on the ground, perfectly still. My stomach heaved as I crawled closer, dirt sticking to my wet face. I reached out to touch her, to wake her up, but she didn’t stir. It was then I noticed the growing pool of red around her. What was I supposed to do? I was just a stupid little girl. I’d never seen a dead body before. I barely even knew what death was.

Blood. That I had seen before. In fact, a doctor had wheeled metal kegs of it through the hallway not five minutes earlier. I didn’t have a clue how it worked, but I knew Tara was losing hers and needed more, and now the only hope of getting some fell on me.

I dragged myself through the rubble and smoke, trying to find where the kegs had been stashed. My brain screamed at me to stop and wait for an adult to come help, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of doing nothing.

At last, I found a crumbling room with two metal kegs of blood beside a lifeless man crushed under a steel beam, his glasses cracked and his white coat now red. I knew I should stop to help him, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Tara needed me first. “I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

I grabbed the closest keg, pushed and pulled, grunted and screamed. Why was it so heavy? Why did I have to be so small? Why was I so weak? But on I went, rolling and dragging the keg through the hallway, sometimes even sitting on the floor and pushing it with my bruised legs to get it around the heaps of concrete.

“I’m coming, Tara!” I shouted. “You’ll be okay! I found something that can help!” I had to go faster. Over the rubble I went, dragging the keg behind me, ignoring the pain in my leg.

What had even happened? Was it an accident? Was it a bomb? Was the danger even over? I was just some kid. How was I supposed to know?

CRACK.

The keg rolled over a sharp scrap of steel, busting open the side. My face went numb as the foul liquid washed over my shoes.

I sat frozen in despair as hope literally gushed away. I had ruined everything. With desperation at its limit, I got on my knees and frantically tried pushing the blood back into the keg with my bare hands. I sloshed wave after wave into the crack, a new torrent of tears running down my face.

It was futile. Covered in grime and soaked in the blood of strangers, I eyed Tara, just across the room. I couldn’t let her down. “Don’t worry! There’s more in the other room! I’ll be right back, I promise!”

Another grueling trip. I crawled through the rubble, gashing my hands as I scurried along. My head was pounding from the smoke, and the pain in my legs wasn’t going away, but such was so far from the front of my mind, I barely even noticed it.

Crawling into the room, I grabbed another keg of blood and pushed it onto its side. I paused. My haste and carelessness didn’t do Tara any favors last time. I had to be patient. I had to get the keg to her in one piece. Painstakingly I pushed cement chunks, splintered wood and whatever else my tiny hands could out of the way.

“Scoot, scoot and scoot.” I whispered to myself as I moved along inch by inch. “Just keep scooting, that’s all you need to do.” My words were hardly inspiring, but what else did I have?

With the last bit of strength I could muster, I dragged the keg across the final stretch of shattered tile floor, the screech of metal on ceramic stabbing my ears, then collapsed on the ground beside Tara, exhausted and convinced my arms would fall off.

But I actually did it! A stupid tiny little girl! “See? I told you not to worry!” My hands trembled as I unscrewed the lid. “I told you!” The blood spilled out, soaking her already-drenched dress and spreading across the floor.

Why wasn’t it working? As the seconds ticked by, my mind could no longer shield me from the obvious truth I’d known all along.

“Wake up, Tara! Wake up!” The crimson waterfall continued to flow, but Tara lay stiff. Merciless tendrils of reality wrapped around my throat, constricting ever tighter. “Please,” I begged, sobbing as the final drops trickled out. “Just wake up.”

Is it Tare-ah or Tah-ra?

Also please be a stealth vampire story. Please.

Tare-ah


Sorry, no vampires, no superhero origin story, no twists, no miracles, just cruel reality. Sometimes heroism achieves nothing.

The world seen through the eyes of a child, haunting and sad too.

Sometimes, or should I say often, as adults we forget that how we perceive the world around us is not the same as the perception of a small, young person.

10/10 for an interesting story.

Damn it, I was all like thatd be a cool vampire twist.

So now that we are being all serious and shit, i have a more serious query/critique/comment/nitpick/fiddle.

How did our six year old protag know there was blood in the kegs if they are made of metal?

That little gap is why I jumped at vampire. A vampire would know. Even a six year old one.

Perhaps the kegs were labelled and our wee lass could read the labels? I know I was reading well at 6 years of age.

Then she'd probably know what death is. It was just an odd juxtaposition for me, the death/blood thing.

I dunno. It's perfectly well written. I engaged with it. Effortlessly. But this isnt writ101 so I will disengage my prickly interest and leave the praise to others.

Kinda reminded me of The Waves though. One of Woolf's lesser known works about children but written in extremely verbose first person. Trippy shit. Much recommended.

Reminds me of the old "Take me to the blood bank, guvna" line from comedy shows. The idea is the cabby takes the fare to the pub or the liquor store, so the tout can get his "transfusion".