Status: New. Posting regularly.
Silent
One
I’ve never been there but when I close my eyes to fall asleep at night I can hear the shots radiating though my brain. I’ve never stepped foot on that ground but when I’m alone I can feel the tremors from the IEDs as they destroy people’s lives. I’m pathetic, I’ve got post traumatic stress disorder but I’ve never been to war.
I guess it’s in my blood. Which meant it was in his blood too. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he told me he was going, but it still shocked me to my core. Why would he go? Why would he do this to himself to me? After how we ended up? He was young. He felt invincible. But he wasn’t.
I remember screaming as he left. I couldn’t think of words anymore that would make him stay. So I screamed. And I cried. And I was mad. I was so fucking mad. Why did he have to go and get himself killed. Didn’t he think about what it would do to me?
I sit at the desk my grandmother bought me and take out my index card.
I look at the open door and wait. Wait for him to come into view, tapping on the door.
“Leia.” He would say and I would pout. “Thats not my name. My name is Aellea.”
“Well, you’re Leia to me. Come on. We’re going to-”
You could put in anything there. We’re going to get ice cream. We’re going to bowling. We’re going to a concert. He would take me anywhere and everywhere.
10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.
No. He wasn’t coming home.
I knew he wasn’t. People who die in Afghanistan don’t ever come home.
I put another tally next to the last. 346 days since.
“Goodmorning my Sweet Pea.” My Nana sang as she came into my room. I looked up at her. “You’re up early.” She smiled. I smiled smally back. She was saying that for my benefit. I was up before noon. It was early for me.”
“The painting room is in that beautiful light you like.” My grandmother told me and I got up from my desk. I walked into the guest room my paints had taken over. My grandmother was already painting away. A Dalia. Her favorite flower. Rich reds covered this one, the oil paint thick on canvas. I curl up on the old paint stained couch with my sketch book and sighed. It really was an awful couch. Red velvet. I curl up and start drawing just a pattern. Normally my patterns morphed into something. Nana put my hot tea next to me as I drew.
I guess it’s in my blood. Which meant it was in his blood too. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he told me he was going, but it still shocked me to my core. Why would he go? Why would he do this to himself to me? After how we ended up? He was young. He felt invincible. But he wasn’t.
I remember screaming as he left. I couldn’t think of words anymore that would make him stay. So I screamed. And I cried. And I was mad. I was so fucking mad. Why did he have to go and get himself killed. Didn’t he think about what it would do to me?
I sit at the desk my grandmother bought me and take out my index card.
I look at the open door and wait. Wait for him to come into view, tapping on the door.
“Leia.” He would say and I would pout. “Thats not my name. My name is Aellea.”
“Well, you’re Leia to me. Come on. We’re going to-”
You could put in anything there. We’re going to get ice cream. We’re going to bowling. We’re going to a concert. He would take me anywhere and everywhere.
10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.
No. He wasn’t coming home.
I knew he wasn’t. People who die in Afghanistan don’t ever come home.
I put another tally next to the last. 346 days since.
“Goodmorning my Sweet Pea.” My Nana sang as she came into my room. I looked up at her. “You’re up early.” She smiled. I smiled smally back. She was saying that for my benefit. I was up before noon. It was early for me.”
“The painting room is in that beautiful light you like.” My grandmother told me and I got up from my desk. I walked into the guest room my paints had taken over. My grandmother was already painting away. A Dalia. Her favorite flower. Rich reds covered this one, the oil paint thick on canvas. I curl up on the old paint stained couch with my sketch book and sighed. It really was an awful couch. Red velvet. I curl up and start drawing just a pattern. Normally my patterns morphed into something. Nana put my hot tea next to me as I drew.