Stained Glass - Brelyn Giffin

Blood and ashes. All that was left of this world, all that would ever remain of the place

humanity called home.

And perhaps they still did call it home, although the scarred man did not know why. His

pale blue eyes ran over the wasteland that had once been a thriving city and tried to summon a

sense of attachment, of affection for this war-trodden, blood soiled landscape. The one and only

thing that stirred in him was a profound longing that nearly unmanned him. With gritted teeth, he

pushed the feeling away. The rest of humanity may still call this hellhole home, but he never

would. Not ever again, as long as he lived.

Which may not be too long, he thought quietly to himself, crouched like a cat on the ledge

of a broken building. The structure smelled like rust and old memories. He didn’t know why he

was here, searching for some warmth from a cold and unbearable landscape. He rubbed the

edges of the ripped letter in his pocket absently, repeating the words under his breath.

I am alive.

After three months, he was still searching, yes, but he knew in the back of his mind that

he wouldn’t find her here. She was out in this godforsaken wasteland somewhere, but she had no

reason to be in this place. This building had once been a beautiful cathedral, just like he had once

been an attractive and happy man. Now they were both broken and scarred, still standing against

the temper of war and destruction—just barely standing, yes, but you had to take what victories

you could get these days.

 He had been in this building the day they had dropped the nuclear bomb. If he closed his

eyes now, he could nearly see it in his mind’s eye: the sparkling of a wedding band, the press of

a kiss, the grip of two hands together. The happiness.

In the time it took him to open his eyes, the image was gone, leaving only a hollow hole.

If only dead memories were like dead men. He knew a thing or two about dead men.

Enough. With a shrug of his weight, the scarred man slid off the ledge of the cathedral,

falling a few feet before latching onto the nook of a massive stained glass window. Most of the

pretty, painted glass was gone now, blown out by the fire and the explosions—he turned when

he heard the sound, all the colors glistening and bursting in the afternoon light, so beautiful, and

his bride was screaming—so his grip was unhindered by any broken pieces. He hung there for a

moment, just to catch a glimpse of what it looked like now—and instantly regretted it. It was all

collapsed inside now, the walls and columns cracked and burned. It was too much. He turned

away and eased down the rest of the building face, ignoring the shards of glass he had seen still

gleaming on the cathedral floor, ignoring the memories resurfacing in his mind, ignoring the

squeeze in his already-aching chest.

It was time to move on.

“Deliverance,” the bartender spat out between tobacco-stained teeth. “It ain’t nothin’ but

a buncha bullshit, let me tell you, fella.”

The scarred man leaned over the bar surface, raising his eyes from his shot glass. He was

new to this rundown bar, and he could feel all the curious, suspicious stares from all around the
room. Then again, it was hard not to stare at a face covered in burn scars. “Who said I was

looking for it?”

The bartender shrugged, wiping a greasy rag inside a dirty glass. It was just smudging the

dirt around even more, but the bartender didn’t seem to notice. “Who isn’t, these days?” He

coughed once, a liquid-choked sound that rose from his throat, and spat brown saliva into a

nearby bucket. “Ever since the fallout—“

“I’m looking for somebody,” the scarred man interrupted. “A woman. Long red hair,

brown eyes.”

The bartender rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If it’s information you’re lookin’ for, you’ll

want to talk to Carla Greene. I should warn you though,” he added, eyebrows raised, “info is a

guaranteed commodity, so unless you’re willin’ to hand over a little somethin’ somethin’…”

The scarred man downed his shot and stood from the bar. “It won’t be a problem.” He

paused, and then looked up and leveled the bartender with a stare. “Where can I find her?”

“Weeell, like I said, info is a commodity...” The bartender smiled, fat lips stretching over

his stained teeth.

The other man’s hands twitched down to his side, fingers hovering over the hilt of his

revolver. A moment passed, then he pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and slapped it down

onto the bar surface. The bartender whistled and fingered the money, breathing in deeply like he

could smell it.

“Ain’t seen old pre-war money since God knows when. Mister, you’ll find Miss Greene

in the next city over, in what’s left of Mercy Hospital. Takin’ care of her sick and wounded is my

guess.”
 The scarred man left the bar without a word. He knew of Mercy Hospital all too well, and

an uneasy feeling was rising in his stomach. That was where he had woken up after his wedding

day, when he realized just how much he really lost--before he had found the letter that had given

him some hope.

Wait for me. I will find you.

The cart driver was listening to an old radio station on a beaten up boombox, pre-war

music that the scarred man could still remember. He would have appreciated hearing the sweet

old tunes again on his way to Mercy Hospital, if it weren’t for the bumpy ride or the view he was

getting. The war had sucked virtually all color from the landscape, leaving nothing but irradiated

water and cold, black ground. Rocks and brambles dotted the landscape now and again, joined by

the occasional ruined building. How humanity had survived despite everything was something he

still wondered, even after all these years. And they felt like so many, many years.

The scarred man squinted at the landscape, trying to judge how far he was from the next

city. Another five hours, at least, and with nobody in sight for miles. Leaning back, he pulled his

hood over his head and shut his eyes.

Cold sweat and white walls. He wakes alone, staring uncomprehendingly at the ceiling.

His vision is blurry, and his head spins whenever he tries to focus on his surroundings. I am a

stronger man than this, he thinks, and manages to push himself into an upright position on the

hospital bed. A tug on his arm makes him look over, where an IV needle is stuck on the inside of
his elbow. He pulls it out with trembling fingers, but there is a pain elsewhere that makes him

flinch—no, not just flinch.

It hurts like hell.

He reaches over to the source of the pain—right side of his shoulder, neck, and face—

and immediately pulls away. Raw, sensitive skin burned under his fingertips, but he cannot twist

his head at a good enough angle to examine the damage.

Which brings him to remember.

The bright flash of the bomb, the large stained glass window exploding in colors, and his

bride’s wide brown eyes: the last things he recalls before waking up in the hospital bed. Fear

suddenly grips him, and he staggers out of the small bed, beads of cold sweat still clinging to his

skin. He sees the bathroom door skewed open, but his head is spinning so violently now that he

has to lean against the wall to stay standing. Nausea boils in his gut like foul acid, and he makes

for the bathroom—just in time to vomit into the toilet.

He stands to wash his face in the porcelain sink, turning the knob labeled ‘C.’ This is

when he looks up into the mirror and sees himself for the first time; large, angry burn scars

running up from a pale shoulder to a shocked face, cutting across his nose. He staggers out of

the bathroom and out into the hallway, searching for an explanation, for reason and sanity, for

somebody—

The hospital is empty.

“Hey, are you awake back there? We’re almost there.”

 The scarred man opened his eyes to crumbling, looming gray buildings. The dream was a

recurring one, altering only slightly every time. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror he had

no face at all, or his skin was sloughing off his bones. But it was always the same in the end: the

hospital was abandoned. Dreaming of that day did nothing to help him come to grips with what

happened. After he had left the hospital, he had wandered around like a lost puppy, searching for

the remains of his life before the bomb. He eventually learned that he had been in the hospital for

about a week and a half, although who had brought him there and why he was alive was still a

mystery to him. Then he had begun the search for his bride, whom he hadn’t seen since the

bomb. After half a year of frantic searching, he faced it: she was dead. Nobody had heard of her

or even seen her, and if she was really alive, wouldn’t she be looking for him, too?

“Normally, I’d be worried about a guy going into Mercy alone, but you look like the type

of guy who knows how to handle himself.” The driver glanced over her shoulder once before

looking ahead again. “Not that it’s any of my business, uh, mister, but what do you do for a

living?”

It was a funny question, really. What did anybody really do for a living nowadays?

“Mercenary,” he replied gruffly, humoring her. After he believed his wife dead, he’d taken up

mercenary work—there was nothing else for him to live for, and the world was in such a state of

disrepair and hopelessness that he could make a “living” off it.

“No shit? What kind of stuff do you do?” she asked excitedly.

The scarred man sighed. “Protect people. At least, I used to.”

He caught a glimpse of the driver nodding. “Those slavers and raiders really benefited

from the war, those bastards. I hope you made them think twice about what they were doing.”
 He grunted in acknowledgment and brooded on his past job. He was familiar with killing

the guilty to save the innocent; he had been involved in the war from the time he was eighteen to

when he left at twenty-six, to marry and finally settle. He hadn’t even dared to think that any

country in the world would use nuclear warfare as a final act of desperation. How little he knew,

after all that time in service.

Of course, his life changed when he received the letter. His fingers instantly went to his

pocket at the thought of it, rubbing away at the already worn edges. Nine years finally thinking

he was over it, and now this.

The city itself was still dotted with inhabitants, who either eyed the horse-drawn cart he

was riding in warily, or ignored him entirely. If it wasn’t a threat or something worthwhile,

people ignored it. Sometimes he wondered if humanity would ever find a purpose besides either

self-destruction or self-preservation. Looking at the blank faces around him now, he doubted it.

The cart finally came to a stop in front of the all-too familiar hospital, and the scarred

man jumped out and came around to the driver, a young woman missing several teeth. Her

boombox was still straining pre-war tunes. He tossed her a packet of powder.

“Put some of this in your drinking water. It should purify it.” The woman’s eyes widened,

and she clutched the thing to her chest like it was precious. Water that was actually safe to drink

was hard to find these days.

“Thanks. And thanks for humoring me, mister.” He waved and left her there. Then he

pushed opened the doors to Mercy Hospital.

 “Oh dear, is that who I think it is?” Carla Greene grinned like a cat, her eyes feral slits.

Around her, her multitudes of “patients” were lazing on the ground, smiling stupidly up at him.

Drugs were common forms of entertainment after the war, and Carla was one of the more

renowned dealers. And now she was selling information too.

“Do you know me?” the scarred man asked.

The woman crossed her arms under her chest and chuckled. “Of course I know you. The

big, bad war hero turned infamous mercenary.” She leaned against one of the walls and studied

him for a moment before asking, “What can I do for you, hmm?”

“I’m looking for somebody,” he replied. “Brown eyes—“

“Long red hair, sweet smile, about 5’6”?” She took in his startled silence and laughed

again. “Of course I know who you’re looking for. But it’ll cost you…”

Impatience shot through him this time, and the scarred man pulled out his revolver,

closing the distance between them in half a second. He pressed the barrel underneath her chin.

“Tell me.”

Carla glared at him. “Or what? You’ll kill me?” She scowled. “If you do, you’ll lose any

leads you’ll ever have on your wife. I can guarantee that.”

Silence. Grudgingly, he pulled the gun back and slid it home. “How much?”

The smile was on her lips again. “Five hundred.”

He handed her the money, and she flipped the stack with a glimmer in her eyes. “You

want to know where your wife is?”

The scarred man narrowed his eyes. “What else do you know?”

The drug deal looked up from her cash to meet his eyes. “I know that you woke up in this

hospital alone after the nuke ended the war—one of the only ones carried out of the rubble of the
cathedral on your wedding day. After they treated your burns and fever, there were rumors that

another bomb was going to drop, and they didn’t have any time to transport the less injured

patients to the shelters.” Her smile widened. “I know about the letter in your pocket--all the

important stuff, like where she is, torn off.”

His pulse quickened. “How?”

The woman shrugged. “It passed through several hands before getting to you, so its

condition was never guaranteed. It’s the way secret messages work these days, didn’t you

know?”

He felt his mouth tightened. “And?”

Strangely enough, her eyes softened. “You can find your wife in Saint Anysia’s tonight--

the cathedral you were married in.”

After living for what seemed like an eternity, he had stopped believing in coincidences.

Standing in front of the cathedral once again, his heart was racing so fiercely he thought it was

going to fly out of his chest. He wasn’t even sure what to expect. Would she embrace him and

weep, or would she hate him for taking so long to find her? What if, after all these years, she

didn’t love him anymore? Nine years was a long time for anyone to be apart from their love.

Blinking, he looked up at the dark, open window where the stained glass had been. Then he took

a deep breath, and before any more doubts could worm their way into his mind, he shouldered

the barely-hinged double doors open and stepped inside.

At first, he thought it was pitch black. And then his eyes adjusted, and he could make out

the glow of the candles on the opposite end of the cathedral. As he walked closer, he saw them:
two dozen or more people, surrounded by these little lights. When he came in close enough

proximity for the light to touch him, he saw their heads were bowed, and a little girl was leading

some kind of prayer. The destroyed and crumbling area around them didn’t even seem to touch

the scene.

He cleared his throat, and several people looked up. His heart was still drumming in his

chest. “I’m looking for my wife, Jade. I was told…” He trailed off, looking at the little girl,

whose big brown eyes widened when he spoke. Her curly red hair gleamed in the candlelight. “I

was told she’d be here tonight.”

For a minute, nobody moved or said a word. They just looked at him with strange

expressions on. Then an old woman came forward and silently handed him a letter. His brow

furrowed, and he unfolded the creased paper and stepped nearer to the candles to read.

My dear Laurus,

I don’t know whether you got the first letter I sent you, but I’m glad you got this

one. After the bomb, I was rescued from the cathedral and taken to one of the shelters in D.C.,

where they treated me. I was lucky enough to avoid severe creeping dose, but the area around us

was deemed unsafe, and I wasn’t permitted to send any letters out—it was too dangerous for

anyone to go out. I was living in the shelter for so long before they allowed me to pass my first

letter to you, asking you to come to the D.C. shelter. Believe me, I really wished I could go out

and look for you myself, instead of holding out hope on the letter…but I couldn’t.
 We have a daughter, my love. I gave birth to her soon after the war ended, in the safety

of the shelter, and I couldn’t leave her there, nor could I take her into the dangerous place the

world outside has become.

This is where I explain the hardest part, but I know you’re a stronger man than you give

yourself credit for: even with the minimum exposure to the radiation, I developed a tumor, and I

only have a few months left. Since the day she was born, I’ve been telling our daughter that her

daddy and I were married in St. Anysia’s. This is the place where, in the past two years, on the

anniversary of the bombing, people in the shelter are allowed to go to remember all the lives

lost. This is the only place I know of where you might be, so I’ve given this letter to Mrs. Dean to

pass to you if you ever come back on our wedding anniversary.

Our daughter’s name is Mae. I know you’ll take care of her.

I’ve always known you were alive and searching for me.

Love,

Jade

Laurus looked up from the tear-splotched letter to see everyone watching him. He

swallowed the lump in his throat just in time for it to grow right back when the little redheaded

girl wrapped her small fingers around his. Her face was tracked with tears like his, but it was also

serious and determined.

“The prayer’s not over yet, Daddy.”

 The old woman cleared her throat and continued with the prayer, and Laurus bowed his

head like everyone else. His eyes rested first on the myriad of candles in front of him, then at the

brightly colored glimmer beside them. The shards of stained glass sparkled at him, and he

squeezed his daughter’s hand.