Born of Rage: Memories of a Father
Memories of a Father, Reflections of a Son
The dim glow of faded halogen and the scent of bleach gave an aura of sickness to the hallway in which Hauptmann Spitzer now trekked. The dull din of pattering rain as it poured against the windows only added to the depressive atmosphere that seemed to grow with every passing moment. The name of this place was called ‘Fallow Fields Retirement Home’, but to the mind of the Destrier Pony, this place was more akin to a morgue for the sick and dying. His eyes momentarily wandered back to the figure of the nurse who lead him through the white-washed halls – she was a young and lithe little thing, and while he understood that fact that she was a nominally attractive member of his species, he could only feel a growing sense of contempt for her; her jaunting, almost happy walk as she lead him along told him of how truly disconnected she was with her profession.
Finally coming to a stop, the nurse turned to look at him as she cheerfully announced, “Here we are – room 223; he should be awake right now, but please understand that his advanced state means that he might not be fully aware at all times of what’s going on.” The chipper lilt of her voice and the way in which she smiled only managed to increase the loathing he felt for her. With a nod and a quiet ‘thank you’, he waited for her to leave before turning to look at the mahogany door which separated him from so many memories. A distant row of thunder followed by the brief flash of tempest lightning was all but ignored as he silently debated with himself. If he did in fact choose to walk through this door, he would be subjecting himself to nothing but misery.
However, if what he’d come to learn was true, this would undoubtedly be the last chance he’d ever have to do what needed to be done. He briefly thought of what Hermann might do, and he quickly realized that he had no other option. Taking hold of the polished brass nob of the door, he gave a gentle turn before pushing the portal open and walking through. The interior of the room was small and sparse. A simple bed lined the wall on the left, and across from that was a small covey which housed a bathroom. Next to the entrance was a simple stove and kitchenette; a row of dirtied dishes and silverware was piled high within a metal sink.
The walls were covered in hundreds of pictures and photographs, and even a few hand written letters. A vibrant green fern housed in a cerulean blue planter stood at the far corner, and upon the right wall there hung a shelf filled with all manner of knick-knacks. All of this was noted in passing as his eyes instantly focused upon the center of the room, at a round wooden table covered in dominoes, where there sat an old, faded brown stallion. Thirty years had not been kind to the old man, but as the memories began to flood within Spitzer’s head, he could still see the kindly face of his father, Golden Finance.
For his part, the older stallion simply sat and smiled at his visitor – his countenance was visibly brightened by the Hauptmann’s presence. As Spitzer took a few slow steps forward, the older male exclaimed, “Hello, young man – are you the one the nurses said wanted to talk to me?”
Finally taking a seat across from his father, Spitzer respectfully replied, “I am.”
With a widening smile, Golden Finance abjectly remarked, “Wonderful; it’s so nice to receive visitors… I haven’t received one in ages!” Looking once more around the room, the Hauptmann had to wonder at just how lonely the older man was, surrounded by walls full of memories he could barely recall.
With a small frown, Spitzer leaned forward before asking, “Do you recognize me?”
Squinting his eyes as if seeing his guest for the first time, Golden Finance suddenly erupted into a pleasantly surprised grin as he remarked, “I think so – you’re one of Granny Smith’s boy’s aren’t you?" Before Spitzer could correct him, the older pony went on in asking, "How is your mother doing, by the way? I haven’t seen her in well on eight years!”
With a neutral expression on his face, Spitzer decided that it would be easier to play along and so replied, “She’s doing well.”
With a happy smile the older pony exclaimed, “Well that’s good to hear; I remember her being present for Petunia’s funeral, but I never really got a chance to talk with her for very long…” The conversation died away as the two stared at one another.
While Spitzer silently observed his senile sire, he couldn’t help but notice the plethora of photos that hung upon the eastern wall. Most of them were of Golden Finance in his younger years – many of them were of him and his aforementioned wife, Petunia. But the one that drew his attention the most was that of a picture where in the two of them stood on either side of a small, lengthy legged foal with a despondent frown upon his face. It was, of course, himself in the picture, but Spitzer didn’t feel the slightest bit of anything as he stared at it. No, there was still only apathy.
The Hauptmann's attention was brought back to the present as Golden Finance asked, “How is your son, by the way – Braeburn was it?”
Deciding to further play along, Spitzer replied with a straight face, “He’s doing good.”
With a nod, Golden Finance remarked, "That's good to here," before he switched tracks and said, “You know, I have a son.” This caught the Hauptmann’s attention as the older stallion continued, “His name is Silver Spurs…” A sudden look of distant confusion crossed his weathered face as he hesitantly said, “At least, I think I have a son named Silver Spurs – you know, I haven’t seen him in ages… He ran away a long time ago… I think…” His sudden cheerful mood all but disappeared as he silently stared at a random domino on the table.
With a dispassionate rise of his brow, Spitzer asked, “You say he ran away? Do you have any ideas as to why?”
Rapidly blinking his eyes, Golden Finance absentmindedly answered, “I-I’m not sure, really; I always did the best I could to raise him – I know that he and his mother didn’t always get along, but I never could quite figure out why he left.” Still staring at his father, Spitzer’s mind wandered back to his childhood – a childhood in which he’d always stood out as different from the other children. His father had indeed done his best for the boy, but he was never there when Spitzer had truly needed him to be.
As for his mother, well, he wouldn’t lie to himself when he thought of how much he truly despised her. She had been an ambitious mare, one who’d always tried to get Spitzer to look and act a certain way, all the while bemoaning the fact that she was tied down to a nowhere town by a lackluster husband and a child she’d never wanted. Spitzer at the very least respected her for being honest. He could not say the same for his father, who he knew to be a spineless, shiftless nobody, possessing neither drive nor ambition. How many times had the young colt needed his father, only for the man to be called away to work the late shift just so one of his ‘buddies’ could go out and party?
It had been disgusting to see the man bend to the whims of his harridan of a wife around the household. She so often verbally abused him and treated him as beneath her, and all he would ever do was smile and carry on as if all was right in the world. When Spitzer had dropped out of school, his mother had literally browbeaten his father into agreeing to send him to an all-boys school hundreds of kilometers away, where he couldn’t ‘embarrass the family name any more than it already was’. That had been the day that Spitzer finally decided to leave, to set out into the world and find a place where others might finally understand him.
In a way, he was thankful; thankful for the fact that his father’s failings had given him the will to do what needed to be done – to be self-sufficient and ultimately in control of his own life. With a slightly less intense frown, Spitzer finally spoke, saying, “I don’t think it was your fault.” This caught the older pony’s attention as he asked, “Oh?” With a nod, Spitzer continued, “I would go a step further and say that your son doesn't blame you, or even resent you… The reason your son left was because he needed to find himself…”
A sudden look of hope entered the old man’s eyes as he earnestly asked, “M-my son… you've seen my son?” Forcing a smile upon his lips, Spitzer slowly nodded his head.
The effects were immediate as Golden Finance asked, “You have? How is he? Where is he? Did he mention anything important? Do you know what he’s doing now?”
Closing his eyes to contain the look of pity he undoubtedly held, the Destrier Pony answered, “Your son is doing fine – he’s taken to living in a faraway country on the other side of the continent; he’s a soldier.”
With a look of wonder, Golden Finance distantly remarked, “A soldier…” before he asked, “Is he happy?” For once, a genuine smile cross the Hauptmann’s face as he reflected back on a few cherished memories: getting accepted into the Wursthaven military academy, in spite of what he was; meeting Hermann Kuhn for the first time; being surrounded by so many of his fellow soldiers, talking and laughing and feeling truly whole for the first time in his life.
“Yes,” Spitzer finally answered, “He’s happy – happier than he’s ever been.”
As if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Golden Finance brushed a tear away from his eye as he truthfully exclaimed, “Good – so long as he’s happy than I can rest easy…” A sudden wave of tiredness washed across the old stallion’s face as he absentmindedly remarked, “You know… no matter how many times I stare at that picture, I can never remember what he looks like…” Turning to look Spitzer in the eyes, he confessed, “I’ve been slowly forgetting things as time goes on, and I’m certain that one day soon I’m going to wake up and forget everything.” Taking a gnarled hoof and nudging at a domino, he went on saying, “It’s gotten to where I need to look at the pictures to remember anything these days.”
Spitzer remained silent as he listened to his father. He’d known beforehand that his father was suffering from a rare and degenerative disease that was slowly killing both his body and his mind. He wondered if the fact that he did not mourn over it made him a bad person, or if what he was doing now was some sort of penance for a guilty conscience - a form of catharsis, perhaps? All he knew was that, despite everything, he found that he still loved his father. He came here to offer the old man closure before it was too late, and in a way, perhaps to give closure to himself. His introspection was cut short as Golden Finance suddenly exclaimed, “I have a request.”
Turning his focus back upon his father, Spitzer asked, “What is it?”
Looking up at the ceiling, the older stallion whistfully requested, “My son – Silver Spurs – if you ever manage to see him again, please tell him that I still love him – that I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for him when he really needed me, and that I’m happy that he’s found a life worth living… would you please tell him that?”
With a small, soft frown, Spitzer lightly answered, “You have my word.” As the two rose from their seats, Golden Finance smiled and openly thanked the son he failed to recognize.
Together, the two stallions made their way to the door, and as Golden Finance opened it for Spitzer, he spoke, saying, “I want to thank you so very much for coming – you’ve lifted a great burden from my soul, and I think I’ll rest easy now.”
Staring his father in the face, Spitzer did something that neither of them expected. Reaching out, the Destrier wrapped the older stallion in a fierce hug as he all but whispered, “Were your son here right now, I’m sure that he would say the same thing.” Slightly confused by what was happening yet oddly feeling that he needed to return the gesture, Golden Finance hugged the younger stallion to himself as he unknowingly wept.
They remained that way for a few minute, until finally the two separated. With a misty film across his eyes, the older stallion placed a hoof on the Hauptmann’s shoulder before saying, “Take care of yourself.” While he didn’t know why he said what he said, in his heart he knew that he was right to say it.
With a genuine smile, Spitzer replied, “I will.” And with that, he left, never looking back as he walked the empty white hallway that lead once more to the outside world. Deep down, he understood that this was the last time he’d ever see his father, and while he didn’t truly know how he felt about that, he ultimately understood that he was better off for having come when he did. Casually opening the door to the outside, Hauptmann Spitzer – or Silver Spurs as he had at one time gone by – stepped out into the pouring rain. With a sigh, he at once made towards the direction of the trench where his unit was stationed – the growling boom of thunder once again ignored in favor his own silent reflections…
The muddy sloshing of hooves approaching the trench was met with raised rifles as one of the men (a black and grey striped Siamese) exclaimed, “Give a password or I shoot.” Ironically, had the intruder not been able to understand a word of Voroshian, they’d have been shot regardless. Fortunately, the exasperated response of “Feurvogel” came from none other than Hauptmann Spitzer, who slogged his way past the guard and into the trench…
Author's Note
This is a supplemental piece for my story, "Born of Rage", which takes place during the chapter "Roaring Storm Clouds".
The final paragraph is meant to show at what point this piece finally ties in to the story.
This story is not important to the overarching plot of "Born of Rage", and is instead meant as a standalone piece designed to shed a small sliver of light upon the early life of Hauptmann Spitzer.
Be sure to check out "Born of Rage" if you haven't already - you just might like it...
Sorry for the strange formatting; I was told by a moderator that I needed to start a new paragraph/line every time someone spoke. Aber was kann man tun, Ja?
(10/31/15 - 00:18 hours)
Edit: I've fixed the few errors to be had in this story. I'm also in a very melancholy mood after reading this. It's very depressing, especially for the fact that I used real life experiences as the template for this particular piece.
Thank you for reading.
