Nothing RP related this time. That was written out for my last college project, and for some reason I'm still fond of it - probably because it was inspired by the narration of Pushing Daisies (I guess that means it's best read in your head in the narrator's voice. That's certainly what I did when I was writing it out.) - and I just don't have anywhere else to post it. Hooray for resurrecting the dead blog!
_________________________________________________________
Griffith Grey had been making a pot of tea in his grandparent’s old kitchen when he became an orphan. Whilst on their way to retrieve their son from his weekend away with his elders, Garret Grey and his wife Eva’s path along the A1 suddenly overlapped with that which belonged to a loose and rightfully frightened Jack Russell Terrier that had escaped its leash. Instinct quickly took hold, and with a violent swerve the two narrowly dodged the fearful creature, but the following collision with a passing eight-wheel fire engine not only snapped both their necks, splintered their tibiae, and mangled their family car beyond all recognition, but it also shortened their sighs of relief considerably.
When the tragedy reached young Griffith and his elderly grandparents through the afternoon news broadcast, the shock was overwhelming, and rendered the grief-stricken boy unable to shed a single tear at the expense of his unfortunate loss. But fate was not yet finished with the Grey family, for moments after the terrible news filled the head of Grandfather Grey, a sudden shooting pain rose through his left arm to ambush and consequently arrest his unsuspecting heart until it could beat no more. He died in his favourite armchair, whilst Griffith’s grandmother attempted to comfort the deathly quiet boy in the kitchen - and although fate seemed to enjoy the deadly domino effect it had produced, it was only her stubborn attitude that helped Grandmother Grey to survive her own vicious heart attack at the sight of her late husband’s body.
After the mass funeral, the young and inconsolable Griffith was nowhere to be found, for he had slipped away so that he could gather his morose thoughts together and attempt to make sense of them in an environment of peace and quiet. The morning was peaceful - even in the heart of the colourful city, with so few people wandering the streets, but the boy could only sit by the monument outside the Church of the Martyr and watch as handfuls of men and women came and went, their faces filled with joy whilst he could only wish for such a thing to grace his heart. Happiness seemed to be something that he could not attain; for not a day went by where he was unable to think of the unfortunate string of deaths. Those he knew who encountered him in the street could only tell him how very sorry they were that such a tragedy had befallen him, and the words did nothing to help him forget. There was nobody who did not know - nobody who did not pity him, the boy who inwardly craved company.
And that was when he heard it - a voice asking him what was the matter. Thinking, the boy could not recall ever hearing a voice quite like it before. He thought a little harder, but still no name came to mind, until he finally relented, and turned to find the source of the voice. But there was no one sharing the seat beside him. Confused and slightly bewildered, the boy looked around in search of the voice’s owner – all to no avail. The boy was preparing to question his sanity for the first time, when the man’s voice returned for a second time. It told him to turn his head upwards, and with little reason to decline, Griffith obeyed.
As he looked up to see nothing but the worn figure of Saint George standing upon his solitary pedestal, the young boy could have sworn that he had not been looking upon him when he first sat down.
