Status: Just a short story(:
War
There's nothing left to say...
It’s been 2 years and I’m still here, waiting for the day they’ll give me my freedom. If they ever do.
I haven’t been in contact with anyone since January of ’06 and here I am 2 years later; in the same clothes, same room, same country, same everything.
I haven’t spoken to Clarice ever since I left for the mission. I feel guilty now that I think about it; I left her alone in our cozy home with our daughter; the daughter whose eyes I haven’t seen, and whose birth I haven’t even witnessed. I left her alone so I can serve my country like every true man’s dream.
I guess must have done something wrong in a past life of some sort to have deserved something as horrific as this...
They send doctors upstairs to my “living quarters”—as they like to call it—everyday to check up on me. Just to see if I’m able to move an inch of my body, or eat a plate of food. But I can’t, their restraints hold me back. I think they do this every day just to see if I’m still alive or not, to see if I’ve finally cracked and will give them everything they’ll need, or maybe just to mock my failing limbs. But I’m weak and defenceless, unable to do almost anything on my own and on top of that, I refuse to talk. So I let them move around as they please,
“Just until I get better,” I keep telling myself.
I have no roommates in this confined room of mine, no one to talk to but myself. I doubt they realise I can even talk. Ever since I’ve been here I chose to keep my mouth shut and have let them think I was mute. I’m surprised they’ve even kept me for so long.
I don’t even remember what my voice sounds like anymore... but when no one’s around and it’s only me in my pathetic excuse for a room I try to recover the memories of my deep, commanding voice. I try to revive the last word I have spoken in the last 2 years. The last word—at this rate—I will ever speak again,
“War.”
I haven’t been in contact with anyone since January of ’06 and here I am 2 years later; in the same clothes, same room, same country, same everything.
I haven’t spoken to Clarice ever since I left for the mission. I feel guilty now that I think about it; I left her alone in our cozy home with our daughter; the daughter whose eyes I haven’t seen, and whose birth I haven’t even witnessed. I left her alone so I can serve my country like every true man’s dream.
I guess must have done something wrong in a past life of some sort to have deserved something as horrific as this...
They send doctors upstairs to my “living quarters”—as they like to call it—everyday to check up on me. Just to see if I’m able to move an inch of my body, or eat a plate of food. But I can’t, their restraints hold me back. I think they do this every day just to see if I’m still alive or not, to see if I’ve finally cracked and will give them everything they’ll need, or maybe just to mock my failing limbs. But I’m weak and defenceless, unable to do almost anything on my own and on top of that, I refuse to talk. So I let them move around as they please,
“Just until I get better,” I keep telling myself.
I have no roommates in this confined room of mine, no one to talk to but myself. I doubt they realise I can even talk. Ever since I’ve been here I chose to keep my mouth shut and have let them think I was mute. I’m surprised they’ve even kept me for so long.
I don’t even remember what my voice sounds like anymore... but when no one’s around and it’s only me in my pathetic excuse for a room I try to recover the memories of my deep, commanding voice. I try to revive the last word I have spoken in the last 2 years. The last word—at this rate—I will ever speak again,
“War.”
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comments please!