A Coward's Death, Part Ii

...The months that followed were not kind, a recall soon took his post from him, and the angry eyes of the grieving kin weighed so heavily upon his mind. And word had gone out ’cross the land, that Cyril Flint, he lacked real grit, and people had died because of it, nobody would hire such a man. The next year would not go by fast, Cyril spent most of his days dunk, got by doing odd jobs, fit for skunks, forever haunted by the echoing past. In his despair he found himself asking why he’d thought himself fit for the star when couldn’t boast of a single scar, was bravery such a hard-earned thing? It seemed so clear to him in retrospect, his ego hand hungered for the prestige, he’d never been much for humility… so much hubris on which to reflect. As he puzzled on this one half-drunk morn, a team of horses on a wagon stout, jolted and reeled at the sight of a mouse, and away with the wagon they tore. They sprinted straight for widow Allandale, Cyril threw himself hard into her side, struck by the force, the widow did fly, in wild circles did her arms flail. She struggled to stay on her feet, quit angry until a sickening crack, Caught her attention, turning her back, from her lips leapt a panicked shriek. On the group lay Cyril’s bent shape, trampled by hooves and iron rims, half the bones in his body broken, bloody from his shins to his pate. Folks rushed up quickly to surround, made no move to help, it was clear there was nothing a doctor could do here, his last moments in agony profound. As he wavered in that morning’s light, the very last words that he ever heard was,”At least he didn’t die a coward,” then on came that cold, endless night.