The Ghost of You
Two.
Two.
The human scarecrow of good fortune. Only months before, such news would have had a tornado effect on the perfect community that was my life. Better to receive it now, alone and numb, than when I still had her, alive and vibrant. Bittersweet.
In four weeks I would be inducted and then shipped overseas to fight alongside men and women who had devoted their lives to protecting their country. The twisted thing was, I didn’t care whether I lived or died. The thought of being welcomed off the plane with a hail of bullets didn’t alarm me in the slightest; to die without the implied cowardice of suicide was the ideal outcome. Reputation and public opinion had never really mattered to me, yet I wanted to honour my wife with the tale of the husband who died in battle, not the widow who wasn‘t strong enough to live in her memory. I never protested against my conscription, after all, I had a more just cause to be there than most others. No wife, no children, no trade, no potential, no hope. The possibility of death seemed less tragic when you’re going nowhere in life. Yet, my story is no tragedy, more a miserable tale of doomed fate. From my teenage years I had watched God and destiny and karma mock me in the reflection of my adversaries. Relentlessly I had grown up fighting against the advocates of my misfortune, but as the blows to my happiness transgressed the bounds of bad luck to become daggers to my soul, I forgot what I was actually fighting for. The loss of my soul mate was merely the heartbreak which struck the final chord in the composition of my anguished life.
Like a canary in a coal mine, my love’s death signified the unlikely continuation of mine. To me, my duration in the war would be the end of me. Although I knew I wasn’t scared, I couldn’t pinpoint the flurry of emotions that were plaguing my mind in the build up to my send off. Confusion, on how I was actually meant to be feeling. Indifference, to be fighting for a cause unknown and irrelevant to me. Satisfaction, to be finally putting an end to my torment. Doubt, on whether I would remain in the same frame of mind once I had actually stepped foot on the battlefield. Sadness, at the pathetic destination that my life had led to, all those wasted years for nothing. Anger, at having never stood a chance. Still, no fear, the past was bullet-proof, the future unlikely. Much can be said about the silent satisfaction of only living for the unforeseeable present, of existing in the rare knowledge that for once, the worst possible outcome is what you desire the most. I would find the closure of my depression in the midst of chaos, destruction, bullets, blood and war cries. The distressed anarchy was almost too appropriate for the internal battle I’d been undergoing for weeks.
My appearance had relinquished all sufficient aspects of my apparent wellbeing. Where before my mind had once been at one with my body, which in turn allowed the clarity of my soul, I had lost my grasp on the fundamental principles which held me together as a solid, living, loving individual. The once thriving, hectic workings of my mind oozed emptiness until my thoughts became encased in a dank, murky oubliette of desolation. My body was no longer a youthful pillar of promise and merit, but a silhouette of weakness, a hollow shell which floated day by day between atypical and unremarkable tasks. Needless to say, this left me with the soul of a wretch, the single last grains of sand inevitably floating downwards to conclude the hourglass time limit of my life. By the time my induction had announced itself, it took no fool to conclude that I was a broken man. No one asked questions, the assumption that I was merely terrified of the war I would soon be part of was abundant in the manner in which the other new recruits treated me. Solemn, sympathetic sensitivity, if only they knew real pain.
The induction burned out in a vapid smoulder of indifference. I was bored by the countless amount of skills and practices I had to learn, regardless of how good I was at them. I obeyed Protocol, digested orders, gained muscle, perfected my aim, picked up the pace, worked with the troops. Not because I had any desire to, but because I was instructed to. Disobedience and a failure to cooperate meant prison, and left alone in an empty cell with nothing but my tortured thoughts was a conclusion I was in no haste to meet. In what seemed like an instant, the induction was over. We had three days to pack, say our goodbyes and then be shipped off and out. This time when we fired bullets, they would be meeting the flesh of a living breathing person and not a stuffed immobile target. When we ran, this time it would be for our lives and for the lives of those around us. If we succeeded we lived on as heroes. Failure made us legends. Win-Win scenario. Every one of us would be leaving the lives we had made for ourselves to kill and attack and brutalise. Change of scene, why not?
The human scarecrow of good fortune. Only months before, such news would have had a tornado effect on the perfect community that was my life. Better to receive it now, alone and numb, than when I still had her, alive and vibrant. Bittersweet.
In four weeks I would be inducted and then shipped overseas to fight alongside men and women who had devoted their lives to protecting their country. The twisted thing was, I didn’t care whether I lived or died. The thought of being welcomed off the plane with a hail of bullets didn’t alarm me in the slightest; to die without the implied cowardice of suicide was the ideal outcome. Reputation and public opinion had never really mattered to me, yet I wanted to honour my wife with the tale of the husband who died in battle, not the widow who wasn‘t strong enough to live in her memory. I never protested against my conscription, after all, I had a more just cause to be there than most others. No wife, no children, no trade, no potential, no hope. The possibility of death seemed less tragic when you’re going nowhere in life. Yet, my story is no tragedy, more a miserable tale of doomed fate. From my teenage years I had watched God and destiny and karma mock me in the reflection of my adversaries. Relentlessly I had grown up fighting against the advocates of my misfortune, but as the blows to my happiness transgressed the bounds of bad luck to become daggers to my soul, I forgot what I was actually fighting for. The loss of my soul mate was merely the heartbreak which struck the final chord in the composition of my anguished life.
Like a canary in a coal mine, my love’s death signified the unlikely continuation of mine. To me, my duration in the war would be the end of me. Although I knew I wasn’t scared, I couldn’t pinpoint the flurry of emotions that were plaguing my mind in the build up to my send off. Confusion, on how I was actually meant to be feeling. Indifference, to be fighting for a cause unknown and irrelevant to me. Satisfaction, to be finally putting an end to my torment. Doubt, on whether I would remain in the same frame of mind once I had actually stepped foot on the battlefield. Sadness, at the pathetic destination that my life had led to, all those wasted years for nothing. Anger, at having never stood a chance. Still, no fear, the past was bullet-proof, the future unlikely. Much can be said about the silent satisfaction of only living for the unforeseeable present, of existing in the rare knowledge that for once, the worst possible outcome is what you desire the most. I would find the closure of my depression in the midst of chaos, destruction, bullets, blood and war cries. The distressed anarchy was almost too appropriate for the internal battle I’d been undergoing for weeks.
My appearance had relinquished all sufficient aspects of my apparent wellbeing. Where before my mind had once been at one with my body, which in turn allowed the clarity of my soul, I had lost my grasp on the fundamental principles which held me together as a solid, living, loving individual. The once thriving, hectic workings of my mind oozed emptiness until my thoughts became encased in a dank, murky oubliette of desolation. My body was no longer a youthful pillar of promise and merit, but a silhouette of weakness, a hollow shell which floated day by day between atypical and unremarkable tasks. Needless to say, this left me with the soul of a wretch, the single last grains of sand inevitably floating downwards to conclude the hourglass time limit of my life. By the time my induction had announced itself, it took no fool to conclude that I was a broken man. No one asked questions, the assumption that I was merely terrified of the war I would soon be part of was abundant in the manner in which the other new recruits treated me. Solemn, sympathetic sensitivity, if only they knew real pain.
The induction burned out in a vapid smoulder of indifference. I was bored by the countless amount of skills and practices I had to learn, regardless of how good I was at them. I obeyed Protocol, digested orders, gained muscle, perfected my aim, picked up the pace, worked with the troops. Not because I had any desire to, but because I was instructed to. Disobedience and a failure to cooperate meant prison, and left alone in an empty cell with nothing but my tortured thoughts was a conclusion I was in no haste to meet. In what seemed like an instant, the induction was over. We had three days to pack, say our goodbyes and then be shipped off and out. This time when we fired bullets, they would be meeting the flesh of a living breathing person and not a stuffed immobile target. When we ran, this time it would be for our lives and for the lives of those around us. If we succeeded we lived on as heroes. Failure made us legends. Win-Win scenario. Every one of us would be leaving the lives we had made for ourselves to kill and attack and brutalise. Change of scene, why not?
♠ ♠ ♠
Second chapter, also I am aware there are hints of lyrics in here. That was deliberate :)Big thanks to bridgeisfalling for being my first commenter and subscriber on this story, very much appreciated!
xo.