prompt: surrender, title: the sacrifice play in misc. flash fiction

“The hardest thing in your life is rarely something you do once or a handful of times,” she said, “no matter how difficult. Childbirth, killing in war, those take seconds or hours.” She allowed herself a half-smile. “I’m not saying they aren’t hard, I’ve done a few myself, some are brutal,” the elderly woman continued, silver shimmering in solarium’s light at dusk, “but the hardest is something you need to do every day the rest of your life. Something nearly impossible is hard enough once. Doing it thousands of times before you finally get to die, that’s the hardest thing.”

“Sometimes,” she stretched out, adjusted her sweatshirt, she wouldn’t have been cold at sunset when she was young but she wasn’t young anymore, “it’s not even something you do that’s the problem. It’s something you don’t do. Something you want so badly but can’t. Maybe quitting smoking or drinking. Rarely smoke, never drank, I couldn’t speak for those, but sometimes the hardest thing is a lack, something to release, some desire that you must surrender.”

“What was your hardest thing, Grandma?” her grand-daughter finally asked her, dutifully if disturbed. “Not taking revenge,” as if it were the most obvious answer in the history of questions, “living my life and never getting that stupidest easiest thing of all, revenge.”

“My little brother, your great uncle,” she corrected herself, “he would’ve been, had he lived.” “He died in a car accident,” the grand-daughter responded, “Dad told me that.” The sun caught the green of her eyes, flashing like lighting in the distance. She coughed.

“My brother was killed by a drunk driver. His best friend, driving them home from some party, he wrecked. The driver survived with bruises, my brother was dead.” She breathed, deeper than you’d think her age would allow. “The driver got off light, his dad was on the legislature. Every day hence, I had to convince myself to not kill the bastard. Sometimes upon waking, sometimes lying awake at night, but every day, at least once.”

“Gramma…” “Not because it would’ve been wrong, mind you. Would’ve been my right. Was probably my duty. He deserved it. But our family didn’t deserve the scandal, the worry for my sake. For them, every day I swallowed my anger, turned it into sadness. When the newspapers smiled with articles about his wedding, his law degrees, his own elections, I swallowed hard. I labored with your father for thirty-eight hours, I swear to God, Liv, it was merely a prolonged distraction from that burning need.”

She smiled. “He died, a couple months back. In a comfy bed, surrounded by loved ones lying to him that he was a good man with a state funeral and everything. I let time take him, I didn’t give in. For our family’s sake, I surrendered instead.”

“Was it worth it all?” the grand-daughter asked, voice shaking. “Olivia Jane!” she scolded, “Of course it was! If I’d done what my blood had demanded, I wouldn’t have you.”