WarA Story by BrynnaW.He One narrow escape. Two
shaky sighs. Three kneel before snapping whips. There, a man kneels still as a
grave, a new battle not yet won. Beside him are two young men, still seeming to
grow by the minute. He bows his head as another lashing whip splits scars on
his bare bleeding back. A scream, a howl, a call so loud the heavens could part
the clouds. But, they didn’t. Sand coats their lungs as steel-toed boots kick it
at their bruised faces with malice. The young men sputter and cry but he, no, he, reaches to shield their faces and
pushes them away to take their lashes. As the dust settles and the laughter
recedes, a man decorated by frivolous badges stands before them, nudging their
knees with his boots and the men with whips pull them to their feet by the
metal collar fixed around their necks. "One," the man
says, striding to the first young man who looks around like a lion trapped in a
cage. "Step forward!" He takes two steps forward, encouraged by the
gun pointing at his chest, each step causing a hazy plume around them. The
perfect cover. "Two." The second
young man steps forward without hesitation. They wanted this. Their hearts sang
for relief, not fear. He is next, he who cannot
give up. "Three." The Condemning Paper I remember how it happened.
How it all seemed to begin. There I
was, father, giver, lover, provider. At least, this is from what I can
remember. Everything tends to blend together; I forget where I am and where
I've begun or if I've ended. Maybe I already have. But there, there I was: father
of two and provider of three. "Daddy?" A little
girl ran to me, her golden hair no longer than her shoulders and her skin far
more pale than porcelain. She touched the leg of my pants, gently tugging to
get my attention as she peers at me with those skeptical blue eyes of hers.
"Daddy, what are you doing out here? What's that?" She pointed at the
paper in my hand and I scooped her off the grass and into my arms, though she
climbed up onto my shoulders. I held the paper away from her, it wasn’t her
fault it was for her, for her mother, for her brother, for their lives. I
marched into the house, ducking to make sure the little girl... My little girl didn't bump her head. She
announced our arrival while my son looked up from his work to nod at me. Even
then I could feel my blood draining to my toes. My wife called sweetly from the
kitchen, her hair tied with a little red ribbon that trailed down the back of
her head like blood from a gunshot wound and her floral yellow dressed covered
by a dirty apron. I stood before her, a vulnerable man to the woman I loved,
and kneeled so she could take our daughter from my shoulders. She must have
noticed my unusual manner, the empty eyes that hallowed my skull, or my pursed
lips that hadn't yet greeted her kindly with a kiss nor words. As I stood she let her hand
slide from my shoulders to my chest and I met her eyes, no different from my
daughter's. I took the paper from my pocket, about to hand it to her but
my son came into the room and I spun at him angrily, "Give me time alone
with your mother!" He stood there, stunned and obviously hurt by my
outburst. I immediately felt remorse and reached out with my hand in effort to
call him back but my son hurried away to go I know not where. When I turned
around again, my wife had her hand over her lips, covering them as tears
streamed down her perfect, rosy cheeks. At first I thought I had frightened her
with my unusually stern tone but I soon understood the real cause when she slid
down the cabinets and onto the floor. Her fingers were clutching the paper, the
paper decorated with words of horror. She shook her head and reread the words
that were attempting to burn her mind. I brushed her arm with my rough fingers
but she would not respond to my increasingly urgent touch. I sighed, putting an
arm behind her back and one under her legs despite her questions and lifted her
to my chest. I carried her to our room and carefully set her on the edge of our
bed as though she might break like a glass doll. "Drafted?" My
wife managed the single word that determined my fate, just like many before me,
and she reached for my shirt again with her shaking hands. I took them in mine
and nodded while avoiding her eyes. She kept shaking her head in defiance as if
the spring in her neck was forever damaged like a broken toy. I did nothing but
stand there, looking down at the woman I had devoted my life to and swore to
protect. She let go of my hands to pull me down so she could set those soft, little hands upon my cheeks and direct my eyes
to hers. I tried to look away but she put her forehead to mine and cried no
matter how hard I tried to stop her. My thumbs brushed away those death-expecting
tears but they seemed to have already scarred her beauty. There, we sat for
several minutes, my draft notice on the floor already seeming to soak in my
blood. War Gun shots motivated for
murder, explosions loud enough to rattle teeth, dust pluming to act as a cover
for the dying, flames scaling walls and consuming bodies. Death. "Go! Go, go, get out
of here!" Curses, screams. Praises. No one wins. Goodbyes "Daddy, do you have to
go?" My little girl messed with the collar of my shirt while I held her on
my hip. At the end of the street was a bus waiting to take me away from my
life. There was nothing I could do to prevent this, though I wish I could say
there was. Then, however, I would have no need of a tale. "I'm sorry, darling.
Daddy will be back soon though, I promise and you know I never break a
promise," I should regret what I said but I don’t. My daughter looked at
the old rag doll she had clutched in her fist and handed it to me. "Honey, I can’t","
Her inquiring gaze stopped me short and I nodded, offering her a gentle smile
as I tucked the doll into my shirt pocket. Suddenly, a chill crept through my
spine and I felt as though I were carrying my own voodoo doll. My wife took our
daughter from me, setting her down on the grass before she hugging me tightly,
a grip I thought she would never loosen. My arms wrapped around her waist and I
breathed in her heavenly perfume that announced her arrival into every room along
with her bouncy, blonde curls. These thoughts have become distant and precious
memories to me but they compromise me. There is no such thing as love and war. My son watched us, still
wavering on whether I would scold him but I beckoned him closer with my hand
until he spread his arms for a group hug; my daughter as well grabbed onto my
legs. Time was ticking though, the jeep... The tank... No, the bus was waiting
for me but it was also waiting for other drafted souls. I let go of my family
and it was as if I were letting go of my own life, offering it to the next man
in line. I kissed each cheek, each forehead, squeezed every hand like a
trigger, and my heart bled like a dead man. Torture Help me! Get me out of
here! Straps, metal clasped around my wrists, my legs, my head. Lights, oh harsh
brightness peering straight into my very being as if Heaven itself had consumed
me. Sweat spilled down my temples and onto my tattered shirt, my uniform
crumpled in a bunch across the room. Sweat? Blood? My heart pounded in its
cage, not thinking of me, not of my safety. Pounding for my family. Wires,
scalpels, syringes, guns, bullets, and knives, the rulers of lives. My body’s
positioned in such a way that I can't look down to see how badly I might be
hurt. I can't tell if the pain is physical or psychological. Questions. One
after the other, followed by pulses of jolting fire though out my veins. They
won’t let me die. The Train Chaser "Dad!" Thump. Thump, thump, thump. It was
beginning to get hard to tell whether the thump was my own heart or the train
shaking and pounding along the tracks. My body jerked around in that God
forsaken train, each man clutching pictures of their wives, kids, mothers,
fathers, their lives. "Dad!" Was that
real? Am I the only one hearing that? It sounds like the cry of a soldier
calling for help, or a child calling for his father amongst a crowd. I can no
longer tell the difference. "Daaaddd!" I
jumped from the green leather seat as well as the other young men but they were
all looking out the window, cursing bitterly. I checked my own window, there,
over there, chasing the tracks, chasing
the bullet. I pushed each man down into their seats as I made my way down
the aisle to reach the end of the train. My son. He waved like a mad man
lunging forward for the bullet meant for another. "What are you doing
here?! Go, go get out of here!" I screamed but my son was unfazed by my tone
as he quickly sped up to touch my soon-to-be murderous fingers. "No, Dad! Please,
don't go!" That's when my emotions
breached the surface. I shook my head and he insisted to come with me and again,
I shook my head. His feet were beginning to falter. The hand holding mine was
nearly causing him to drag his face in the metal railings. I had to let go
before the train went full speed. He had to slow down. "You're going to get
hurt!" "Then take me with
you!" My son was pleading; almost a man but luckily not. Our fingers were slipping.
Life was escaping. "I love you!" Thump. Thump, thump, thump. Once again
separate, miles already gaining from my son lying on the side of the tracks
nursing a broken leg and bruised face. But, alive. The First All I can hear is my own
heart pounding, my feet shifting in the sand, my chin resting on my arm while I
squint into the scope of my gun. There was static coming from my radio and
jumbled voices until I could clearly hear my Commander yelling for me to take
the shot. I couldn’t. I knew that this bullet was meant for the man I had spent
time stalking like Death but could I take his life? Widow his wife? Leave his
children fatherless? The yelling ensued along with many other unkind words and
I closed my eyes, allowing my finger to tighten over the trigger. I was Death.
I came with my scythe and stabbed him in the heart, extinguishing what he had
already misused. My first kill and definitely not my last. My team then went
in, weapons at the ready as they fought their way inside to take control. I
waited outside, frost nipping my lips and leaking down my throat. There was a
hardness in my chest, a bitter feeling that I felt spread faster than the frost
surrounding me. Movement eliminated. No more hesitation. Capture Night, again. My daughter’s
doll tucked inside my cot was watching me like a guardian angel and yet the
stitches up its sides still seemed to reflect my own. I attempted to sleep but also
keep all dreams at bay, I need not dream what I live. Unfortunately, I chose
the wrong time to sleep and found rudely woken in my own blood. Two young men,
also from my tent, were signaling for me to play dead but my senses were
heightened and I felt the need to protect my fellow soldiers, like family. It
was a struggle to get my feet under me, more so to heave my battered body
above, the world swimming as if I were under water. After stumbling many steps
I pulled a knife from my boot and crept again like Death to create a graveyard.
However, unlike Death, I am mortal. Bodies were scattered along the camp and
others were being beaten, those who managed to escape most likely would not be
returning. “Don’t,” one of the young
men pleaded but I moved on, unable to hold myself back. I stepped beyond view of my guardian
doll and leaped onto the back of the closest man, holding the blade to his
neck. Beyond that, my memory fades, all that exists is pain. Salvation “Three.” I stepped forward
and peered into the cold eyes that had tortured me and made me forever doubt I would
see my family. I smiled broadly enough that the cracks in my lips began to
bleed again and the scars on my cheeks framed my mouth. He pressed the gun to
my chest while the men behind me extended their arms behind them, ready to
strike me again with their whips. I took a step forward with my weakening legs,
testing the man; there was nothing more he could do to me. Death began to be
the only thing I craved. The whips brought me to my knees and the continuous
blows forced me to push my face into the dirt. The two young men beside me
tried to protect me like I had shielded them but the blows were turned on them
and their faces were pushed into the ground as well, their fists clenched while
they grit their teeth. This was supposed to be an execution, this was supposed
to be frightening, this was supposed to be our end. I felt another blow along
my back, the whip dragging between my hands tied behind my back as the man
recoiled but I gripped it, cringing as the shard of glass ripped my palms. The
man yanked and I looked up at their Commander before me, grinning like I had
before. Then, I rolled with the whip still in my hands, causing it wrap around
the man’s legs and pull him down. At that moment, I let go, only to suddenly
see bullets raining down all around. Our salvation. MIA Three heavy knocks on the
wooden door. A woman appeared, ghostly pale as she wiped her hands on her
apron, realizing who he men were that stood on the steps with their hats in
their hands. She shook her head, tears once again to maul her beauty. One of
the men touched her elbow in attempt to steady her from collapsing to her knees,
the shock already beginning to sink in without a single word uttered. Apologies
were muttered under their breath as they tucked the paper into her folded hands. “Mommy? Is it Daddy?” The
daughter skipped to the door but began to step back, seeing three tall men
decorated with military arms standing before her mother. “No Daddy?” One, Two, Three One creaky wheelchair. Two
red roses. Three weeping souls. I rolled with the two young men at my side,
joking about what we had seen as to cope with what we had gone through. I
peeked through the window at the front of my old house, now appearing less
joyful than it used to. My wife was hunched over the kitchen table, stacks of
paper in front of her. My son and daughter were nowhere to be seen. I rolled
back to the front door and found myself hesitating. How could I, a man with no
more fear, find the inside of my own home so daunting? I knocked four times but
no one came to the door. No sounds, not even my wife’s melodic voice calling
that it was okay to come in. After patiently waiting for one long moment, I
opened the door and announced that I was home like any other day while my
fellow soldiers helped me inside with the wheelchair. “Daddy?” I heard my
daughter call and her running steps but no matter how fast those little legs
could run, she couldn’t beat her mother. With her hand covering her lips, she
found the courage to smile and the strength to not cry for what had happened to
me but out of happiness that I was home. I rolled in a bit farther, using the
last of my energy, and put my hand behind her neck to bring her closer to me.
Tears rolled down my own scarred cheeks as I smiled and kissed her cheek as I
whispered, “I’m home.” © 2015 BrynnaW.Author's Note
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Added on April 21, 2015 Last Updated on April 21, 2015 AuthorBrynnaW.My New Home, ORAboutMy name is Brynna Wynne Wiley. Aka: BrynnaW. I'm supposed to tell all about myself right here but... I've done that before. Now, it's just about the writing. more..Writing
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