One for the History Books
27 Mar 2019Today’s prompt: “Write from the perspective of a historical figure like Franklin Roosevelt, Marilyn Monroe, or Jack the Ripper.”
The day hasn’t exactly had the most auspicious start to it. A young man threw a bomb at your car while you were visiting Sarajevo. It bounced off the convertible roof and exploded on the road below the car behind you. It left a crater, and a lot of wounded people.
As your driver hit the gas, out of the corner of your eye, you saw a young man run away, climb up on the bridge, and jump.
“Some hospitality, Fehim,” you tell Mayor Čurčić when you get to the town hall. “Does your country always welcome your guests with bombs?”
The mayor looks shocked, but you’re on a tirade now. “It’s an outrage!” you shout. “An absolute outrage!”
Sophie’s hands perch themselves on your shoulder, and her warm breath whispers into your ear. “Franz, my love,” she says. “You have every right to be upset. But it’s not his fault. The whole world’s on edge now, and Austria will never be the power you want it to be if we offend our allies. He only wants to welcome you here.”
She’s right, of course.
You take a second to calm yourself down, then look the mayor in the eye. “You can speak now,” you say.
The mayor gives his speech. It’s a fine speech as mayors welcoming archdukes go, but you can barely pay attention to it. You keep thinking about the explosion, the young man running away. Christ, what a day.
At least Sophie is looking particularly radiant today.
She’s worth it. She’s always been worth it, all of it. Father refused to let your children be heirs to the throne because her bloodline doesn’t run blue enough. She doesn’t even get to stand next to you when the family assembles. But she’s your wife, and she is as lovely as the day you met her.
You give your prepared remarks, and thank the crowd for their applause. “I can see you’re all glad the assassination failed,” you joke awkwardly.
With the speeches over, your retinue is trying to figure out what’s next on the agenda.
“His Highness won’t be going anywhere until there are troops lining the streets,” Baron Rumerskirch says. “One close call today is quite enough, thank you.”
“He’s right, you know. I’ve said all along we don’t have enough security in place,” says Chief of Police Gerde.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Governor Potiorek says. “Do you think Sarajevo is full of assassins?”
“Well, I know what my dear wife wants to do now,” you say. “We should go to the hospital and visit all those poor people who were hurt in the blast.”
She smiles, and you know that that was exactly the right thing to say. Sophie is a natural diplomat, but you’re learning.
“I suppose it’s settled, then,” Rumerskirch says. “Gerde, let the drivers know.”
Gerde rushes off, and immediately three of his men come up to him to debrief him on the would-be assassin they just pulled out of the river, apparently still alive. You hear snatches of their conversation. “Cyanide” and “riot” and “Serbian” and “The Black Hand.” The Black Hand. How morbid. These young men – do they think they’re cool naming their weird fucking secret societies that way?
You and Sophie and the governor get in the car, and you settle into an even darker mood than your usual moroseness. You still can’t believe it. That bomb was meant for you. Here you are, trying to make things better between Austria-Hungary and Serbia, and this young Serb with murder in his eyes….
“Where are you going?” the Governor says, jolting you out of your thoughts.
“I thought we were going to–” the driver says.
“The police chief didn’t tell you? The archduke and his wife wish to go to the hospital. Turn around!”
The driver brakes, and you see a young man in a black suit running toward the car, reaching into his jacket. The governor sees him too. “Go go go!” he shouts. But there’s nowhere to go. Your car is already halfway through the turn, and the car behind you is stopped and needs to back up.
The gun fires. The bullet tears through your neck. It fires again. Sophie! Sophie’s clutching her stomach, blood spreading across the front of her dress. No!
“Please live,” you say to Sophie. “Please. Stay alive. For our children. Please live.”
“Your highness! Are you all right?” You can’t even see who’s talking to you.
“It’s nothing,” you say. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”
Your eyes close, or was it darkness falling? Darkness falls, or was it the world collapsing into war?