Little time thief CH. 1

Funerals these days are not what they used to be.

In the past when a loved one died you had a ceremony, you grieved, family and friends gathered to say good bye and then the body would be buried or cremated but in a way that they were not completely destroyed, mostly the dead was kept close and ever present. But in 3030 things were different, harsher, more real and more raw.

Presley Duke was a girl of just twenty, newly coming into her own as a young woman in a war torn world like The Republic of Earth. After the wars her families moved to what was remaining of the Eurasian continent, which now resembled the renaissance period of the old times, though there were large differences, the power the government held being one.

Presley stood in dank and dark dungeon like furnace room, her father’s coffin laid out on the concrete slab while a gnarly, large man stood by, supposedly oblivious to the on goings as she and her handmaiden Gloria said their goodbyes. Presley herself had not cried, not a single tear since her father’s passing while Gloria held tightly to the young girl and let her sorrow flow free, sobbing quietly. When the time come the two women stepped back from the maple colored coffin, it was nothing special, the wood sturdy rather than pretty as it was custom to only burn the dead now, never bury, there wasn’t enough land.

The man, in his black apron and gloves, much like a blacksmiths, hauled the coffin into the burning pit of fire that spanned out over a third of the room, taking up the far corner and spilling light and heat out onto the faces of the grieved. Presley felt bad, somewhere deep in the part of her brain that was still registering her surroundings she wondered if she should not be in a worse state than Gloria, should she not be in a state of devastation. But the tears would not come and as the flames licked and flared around her father’s coffin she felt a deep ache begin to grow within her body.

They stood for some time, watching the coffin burn, this was all that remained of Presley’s father bar his legacy and with that Presley had, by all intents and purposes by right of the new order, been consoled.

As the flames grow smaller, gently smoldering in the depths of the furnace Presley becomes slightly more aware of herself, as if being woken from a dream that started the day of her father’s passing, only now she stands alone. The black dress she wears covers her almost completely, material pinched in tight around the neck, waist and wrists, binding her body tightly like a cage as her arms curve around her waist, hugging herself in the fading heat as if she would start splitting at the seams if she didn’t.

Her fingers grip at her sides, suddenly feeling out of breath, cheeks burning in the lingering heat as she doubles over and slowly sinks to her knees, dress catching underneath her shoes, dirtying the hem but not caring. Still she does not cry, hugging herself tightly against the deep ache growing steadily wider in the pit of her being, like a wormhole was opening up inside and was trying to take her from this world, and for the first time her father’s death hits her.

When the ache within her seemingly subsides enough she stands, ascending the staircase that didn’t seem quite so steep earlier and meeting her handmaiden, Gloria, that waits with her coat and a loving embrace in which to help her home.

After the wars the world changed. There was far less hospitable land, one all powerful and ruling authority and power outside of it was limited. Limited meant the authorities controlled the electricity and the populace had to rely on steam power, coal and wood, it was the same world-wide with the Euro zone being the new leading settled territory. Presley had lived with her father in a small refurbished townhouse near what used to be France, most major cities had been wiped out and those that weren’t still weren’t livable. The houses in the main settlement were small and close together, larger houses could be found on the outskirts, some even with gardens but they were very exclusive and very expensive.

The house felt empty with just Presley and Gloria inside, the only noises coming from outside as life followed it’s usual habits with a strange air, for Presley that simple meant bathing, eating, sleeping, time moved but it didn’t flow. After picking and prodding at her dinner Presley found herself standing outside her father’s study late that night, it was a small cosy room with roof to floor bookshelves covering each wall, a bay window she used to sit at and read as a child and an antique wooden desk her father would have taken to the grave, figuratively. Pushing the door open with a small pale hand Presley immediately smelled old books and leather, the familiar scent relieving the ball of knots in her stomach just enough to remind her she could still feel things. Slipping into the room her hands grip the cold door knob behind her, easing the door shut and leaving her to stand in the cold, dark room, her white night dress illuminated in the streaks of moonlight that seep through the parted curtains, making her look like a young child.

Her hands seem to fidget as she moves behind the large desk nervously, fingers tracing from one corner to the next on the polished and contoured wood, her eyes playing across the bookshelves as she slowly relaxes, finding comfort in familiarity.