Prompt:

London. September 1940.

You're in your bed when you hear the drone of plane engines above as you sleep. Suddenly, bright flashes erupt throughout the room. You hear a whistling nearby.

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SCARS NEVER FADE
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The brightness consumes my vision and my eyes snap open to reality and away from the ephemeral trip to dreamland. Each ragged breath of air is a stone scraping my lungs, each fraction of a second an agonizing hour in hell. My throat yearns for an elixir - water, my eyes plead for rest, and my right leg screams for the pain to subside. Something slaps my cheeks, making me flinch. My vision returns slowly, like a photograph fading into a memory.

Gregor's sharp-cut face hovers over me, his ash-blond hair making him seem like a Greek God. His mouth moves and the sound is slow to crawl into my ears. Knowing Gregor, he would be shouting insults at my carelessness.

My lips curve into a supposed smile that might look like a grimace right now. "After my funeral, everything mine will be passed down to you, Gregor."

"You bloody idiot! You only have a bloody broken leg, you will live. Unfortunately." He mutters the last part, obviously fighting off a smile, but I grin as it reaches my ears.

I try to haul myself up on my feet but my knee groans in pain, and the most I can do is sit up. "Goddammit, when have I become this weak?"

"War does that do the best of us, Victor. And no, you're not weak." He speaks softly, a sympathetic glimmer in her blue eyes. The very same blue eyes widen to the size of my housekeeper's teacup saucers not a second later. "Hell, Victor. Barnaby is down, I have to go."

With a pat on my shoulder and a mutter of an apology, he disappears behind me. A rifle in hand, determination in his eyes, that's the last vivid memory of my friend I relive today. We were close, very close. Thick as thieves back then, brothers, but separated by blood.

My eyes wander to the calendar hanging above his photograph. September 23, 1994. Decades since his death. Since his murder. I correct. Since I killed him.

Had I not forgotten to load the bullets back in before they shot me, I would've had the strength to cover for Gregor. I could've reversed roles and let him return alive to his wife and unborn babe. And let me, a worthless orphan without a family or title go where he belonged. Out of this earth. Unfortunately, I was blessed with a longer lifespan. A monochromatic life.

I lean on my walking stick as I trudge across the silent hall, and call for a ride to a secluded place. Where my haven lies today and twice every year. My legs, heavy with guilt, take me down to his... place.

I have never forgiven myself ever since. Why should I? I wouldn't forgive anyone if they killed my best friend. I can't forgive myself either, for I am the cause of his death. I am a sinner for life. Perhaps the greatest one on this earth for letting his friend die. And his wife. I am responsible for not one, but two lives dear to me.

Nearly a week after his death, Gregor's wife killed herself. She let arsenic flow down her throat and consume her and their babe to reunite with her husband. I am their murderer and I get their property? What kind of justice is this, God? I let out a bitter laugh as a salty tear trickles down my wrinkled face.

I stare at the dull, gray, aged stone with the words that haunt me every day, reminding me of my crimes every second: "My life is the heart of one woman alone, she who is my equal in all ways." And the rose carving upon those words.

A pang of hurt passes through my withered heart, for I am the heartless one responsible for erasing their existence from this world. I scoff aloud to no one but the lifeless tombstones and coffins beneath the ground.

I was never a pessimist, never one who encouraged self-criticism. But death could do that to one. It can completely turn pockets inside out, twist lives upside down. A heavy sigh escapes my lips.

I have not spent a second of my life after the war not loathing myself, not blaming myself. But, I have done one thing well after his departure though. I have established a school to honor their unborn: Rose and Gregor's School.

And this traitorous brain of mine hopes for God to notice that and reduce my punishment in hell. But even if he does not, I am fine with it, for I will unite with my friend again in the realms above whom I hope bears forgiveness for me. And that is all that this old man's soul needs to be at peace.

My knees touch the ground and I feel my chin touching my chest. My throat swells with emotion and my vision gets blurry as my eyes grow moist. My words are a constant routine, every day as they come out in broken wisps of grief, "Forgive me, Gregor."

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