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| ♗ the s t e a d f a s t tin soldier; Active | Closed | Mature | |
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| Topic Started: Sep 28 2012, 12:36 AM (526 Views) | |
| Vidia | Sep 28 2012, 12:36 AM Post #1 |
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[dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br><br>I'm the sort of girl you would find in the epilogue of a fairytale story. <br><br>You know, Cinderella and the Glass Kaleidoscope, The Emperor's New Solarship, Snow White and the Seven Dragons (or sometimes chimeras)… <br><br>…what? You haven't heard of them? <br><br>Those are the ones I was told as a child! Curled up in my thick quilt Mother sewed with pictures of my favorite things as Father sat between Stellan and I and read us stories. Though I suppose Father's never really been the type to keep to the original tales. He'd probably say that following the original script was far too constricting. Something to which I would have to agree, for I doubt anything could top Astrid's Adventures in Wonderland, even the original. Father could be a fantastic novelist if he only had the concentration, but then I suppose he wouldn't really be himself and then there would be no point in that, would there? <br><br>The thing is, my father isn't like most men. Years ago, when he was only fourteen, he was drafted into the war, and the battlefield left its mark on it. Or several marks, actually. There are scars all over his body. I remember the first time I saw them as a child and didn't really understand the meaning of them--I painted on my own skin, trying to imitate them. But those injuries are nothing in comparison to what it did to his mind. His incredible, sensitive mind. It stained it with nightmares and memories (one and the same, really) that would never, ever go away, even after he married and had Stellan and I. There are times I can remember when he would have these outbursts triggered by something, the smallest thing, and only after hours (days, on his worst times) of quiet and solitude mixed with Mother's coaxing would heal these ruptures in his peace. War and brutality…they were unutterable in our house, though sometimes we would forget, and Stellan would run off to play soldiers with his friends and come back with a wooden gun. <br><br>But for all those moments of watching in horror as my father tore at his hair and rocked back and forth and screamed…there were tens, thousands of moments much, much better. He is the only father in the village who would actually look over a silly little four year old's messy designs for a bed that would look as if it grew from the ceiling (I'm a rather ardent adorer of heights) that was drawn with charcoal on the back of the paper the meat for dinner was wrapped in. August R. Proctor wasn't only a father who would listen to a child and take her seriously, however--he was also one that helped her visions come true. My childhood was just filled with so much adventure. There was never a dull moment in the house…our home itself seems like the fifth member of our family sometime, always so full of life. Things don't stay the same for too long. Meaning that, the essence of the house remains…that general warmth and spectacle staying at the heart, but sooner or later, someone will get bored and things just start to evolve. Suddenly a clock won't just be a clock anymore, but have special abilities that no clock other clock has ever had. Or a chair with have new engravings. Search as you might, but you would never find a more enchanted house than my own. Or even one with more love. <br><br>Perhaps my mother isn't a real princess and my father isn't a real white knight, but if you knew their story, I know you'd find it magical, too. And the children born during the "happily ever after's" are truly lucky ones. Perhaps my parents' happily ever after isn't the most perfect of them all, and I've never read a book with characters like them, but I just think that's another part of me being lucky. I wouldn't have them any other way. <br><br>…I haven't really said anything about my mother now, have I? That wasn't intentional! I'm just a bit closer to my father, but my mother is, without a doubt, the glue of our lives. Nothing would be possible without her. You know how people always say things like, "oh my darling, you're my cup of tea"? Mother is very much like a cup of tea, in the sense that she makes you feel comforted, warm, sane…just all together, better. And my brother Stellan…he's the exact sort that the girls in town should marry. Oh, they always run after the wrong types at first, the ones who puff out their chest and coif their locks in the morning, but Stellan is the boy who will never let you down or disappoint you, not in the end. He's a good brother. He always tries. <br><br>It's for all these reasons that I find tonight to be the hardest night of my life…because I know I'm going to break their hearts. <br><br>Four months ago, I was in the market, running my usual errands. While I was waiting for the baker, Arthur, to take out the new bread (I always like to buy it at its freshest), I noticed that he wasn't his usual self, but when I asked, he gave me a small smile and just shook his head, telling me to run along home. But old gossiping Lettice Stafford pulled me aside as we left the bakery and told me that he had recently received a telegram, and that his son had died in the war. He was all Arthur had left in the world, his wife having died in childbirth, and now he was gone. That's when I realized that the war had been going on for too long. We never talk about it at home. I don't even ask my mother about it when my father's working. It's almost as if it doesn't exist, not in our little home by the rivers where I used to imagine the fish could talk. <br><br>But the war is real, it's entirely real, and I decided then and there that I wasn't going to run from it forever, not when other people were suffering. And we deserve to win. We've suffered for too long under the oppression of the mother country. If I could lend a hand, I should. I could help the war end sooner…help others finally go home, so no other families would be left like Arthur. I'm well aware that it sounds quite contradictory, and that if I told my father and mother any of that, they would have just thrown it back in my face and say that I would be inflicting the same sort of pain on them, but my argument is that they just have to believe in me, the same way they believed in me whenever I had a grand idea about climbing a tree that was a little too high or even fantasizing about becoming a queen someday. They never turned down my dreams, no matter how outrageous they were. They couldn't turn down this one, not when I could finally be helping others. <br><br>I know I'll come back. I've always had this ability, this sort of…power, if you will, where my intuition can be rather pinpoint about certain things and I can be reassured down to my bones. I just can't imagine not coming back. It seems like an impossibility. I can't use that in my future quarrel with my parents, but it's enough for me to stand by my currently figurative, though soon to be factual, guns and let them know that I am going. I thought it over for those four months. In the beginning, I was skeptical. I was never afraid of what would happen to me, only afraid for my father. With his relationship to the war…I knew my decision would hurt him more than anything else. It wasn't just the possibility of injury or death, but the threat of madness and mania, of his daughter being inflicted with the same night terrors that he has. He wouldn't wish that on anyone, much less his child. It won't happen to me, though, there's no way I would allow it. I'm not a fourteen year old being pried away from my father's arms and sent to war. I'm a seventeen year old, choosing this. I'm ready. Mentally, at least. Physically, well…that's what the training is for. <br><br>I signed up two weeks ago…and walked away from the town hall a little bit taller, I think. It's all official now, no backing out. I decided I wouldn't tell my family until tonight, the day before we soldiers have to leave. There would be no point in telling them beforehand, when they could possibly stop me from enlisting and spend our last few days together fighting me. That would be a horrible way to leave, and I didn't fancy the idea of having to face them for all that time, in all truth. I just hope my family will be at least a little consoled with the fact that most women are made into pilots. I won't be scrabbling for a knife in the trenches. The government figures we can do more damage this way, more than anything else on the field, but I can't complain. It's the sector I would have chosen for myself. <br><br>I spent the whole evening preparing for the talk, running over all the rationalizing I practiced in my head all those nights as I chopped scallions and sweet potatoes for my best dish. No matter how many lessons my mother gave me, I've never really been a wonder in the kitchen. It's more like a wonder that I'm even able to make curried lentils and sweet potatoes so well and that it happens to be my father's favorite meal. It's not like I'm horrible at cooking, but I just wish I was better. I think my mind's simply too busy with undomestic thoughts for me to ever excel at anything a woman is expected to be good at, but that's all right with me. I've found my own path. <br><br>We sit at the table, and I watch everyone eating and laughing as we talk about our day. I watch their faces, etching their smiles into my mind. At one point I grin at Father, wanting one last pleasant moment with him before he'll turn on me. "How is it, Father?" I ask as I nod sprightly towards his plate. "I made sure all the produce was newly-picked. Even did some nibbling here and there in the market…I thought one seller was going to beat me over the head with his giant wooden spoon." I laugh. bought it though, so it wasn't like he could complain. <br><br>Halfway through the meal, I decide that, well, now is as good a time as any! So I stand up, hands spread over the table. "All right, well, everyone, I have an announcement to make!" I say with a bright smile, and take a deep breath. I can't delay for too long, or I might stumble on the words. You can rehearse the scene so many times in your mind, but it'll never be the same as reality. "Tomorrow morning at ten, the train will be taking all the new aviation recruits to Fort Nightingale, and I'll be joining them." I manage to say it without looking down, at least. I try to remain as cheerful and upbeat about it as I can, wanting them to see the positive…but also see that I'm firm about it at the same time. <br><br>"For the past few months, I've thought long and hard about this. I've lived so many happy years under this roof," I say, my lips tilting to the side as I glance up for a moment, a nostalgic glimmer in my eye. "So, so many." I look back at them..unable to believe I'll be leaving them soon, but forcing myself to continue, keeping that smile on my face. "But now, I finally know what I'm supposed to do with my life. I'm going to help the troops. I'm going to help us take the freedom that's rightfully ours…take it by the skies. In my heart and in my soul, I feel like this is what I'm meant to do…what everything in my life has led up to until now. This moment. This is what really, properly feels right inside. And I know you're upset with me, but this is my choice, and there's no going back now." I chuckle then, cock my head once towards the stairs. "Already packed my bags before dinner." <br><br>The suitcase was sitting on my bed. A small, dinky little thing, since they give you most of the things you need, but I'm afraid I just can't leave without a couple pounds of keepsakes. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Sep 28 2012, 07:55 PM Post #2 |
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[dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I've been a selfish man since coming back from the war. <br><br>Though, I suppose, I did try to stay away from Vinnie, so that I was a danger only to myself, and not to her or anyone else. She wouldn't have any of that though. She wouldn't let us part. She wouldn't let me go. She allowed me to indulge in what I wanted most. I was nothing without her, and while she insists on it, I don't believe it to be true, she says she'd have nothing without me. It wasn't fair. She deserved a better man than me. A stable man. She deserved someone who didn't snap over the smallest thing that switched on the terrors that resided only in his mind, someone who didn't physically hurt her because he didn't realize what he was doing or who he was harming, and most of all someone who didn't consume her life with madness. <br><br>She's such a stubborn girl. <br><br>I proposed to her a few years after my return, asking her if she'd partake in the most precarious adventure she'd ever be offered. To my amazement, she said yes, and we married each other. I made my best friend, my captain, my light in the darkness, the epoxy that keeps together my jagged fragments, my wife. <br><br>I broke down not long after she told me she was pregnant. I was ecstatic, naturally, at first. I adored children. I always felt as if I could connect with them so much easier than adults. They had such grand ideas. They believed in the possibilities that everyone else pushed to the side. They thought out of the lines, like me. I wanted to be a father. I wanted to hold and cherish our child in my arms. I wanted to teach it all that I knew. I wanted to play pretend with him or her. I wanted to build a music box with a lullaby that played only for them. <br><br>Yet, how could I be a father when I was like this? <br><br>I didn't want them to see me when I was at my worst. I didn't want to hurt them. I didn't want them to see me hurt Vinnie, even if I had gotten better enough so that the worst I did was put awful bruises along her arms from my fierce grip. I didn't want them to know the shattered part of me that the people in our town whispered about, the First Lieutenant (It wasn't 'til those whispers that Vinnie even knew I had become such a privileged soldier) who entirely lost it on the battlefield, harming his own regimen and causing them to lose the battle, the monster who violently beat a man for hassling my Vinnie, nearly killing him. They deserved a better father than that. <br><br>Vinnie convinced me that all would be fine, that we would get through it, that I would be a wonderful father. She wanted no one else to be the father of our children, naturally, and wouldn't hear of it being any other way. She calmed me, she assured me, and she made me feel like I could do it, like she always does. I accepted it, only breaking down again when we were informed we were having twins, but she quickly rectified that. After that, I allowed myself to be excited for my precious children. <br><br>From the moment they were born, I spoiled them. No, we were never the wealthiest of families, but I spoiled them with love. I spoiled them with stories and trinkets and toys made from my own hand. I played with them, fed them, changed them, bathed them, and cared for them like the absolutely best father could. They helped me by distracting me, because they hardly reminded me of my time in the war. They could do no harm. <br><br>That's not to say that it stopped entirely. Actually, not even close. My episodes, my nightmares, and outbursts were frequent, and sometimes so awful it would take days to get me out of them, a burden I always loathed giving to Vinnie when I escaped from it. It would only wake the children when they were younger, but soon they realized what was going on. They would find me shrieking and pulling at my hair while Vinnie attempted to sedate me with assurance and her gentle touch, a risk that I hate she takes. They continued getting older, and sometimes my outbursts were directed towards them, the worst of all being the time I took Stellan's wooden toy gun and broke it as I shouted at him, as I lost it, and he told me he hated me. He stayed away from me for days, and I could never blame him. <br><br>I fought to keep the war away from our house, one which we moved to after we found out Vinnie was pregnant. Our home is a little outside of town. It's close enough to walk but if you went outside all you see are trees and the river. I didn't want them exposed to talk about the war, to talk about me, though it had become more and more unavoidable as they grew older and could go off doing their own thing. There was only so much I could do. Now, all I ask is that there be no talk of it in the house, or towards me. I can't handle it. <br><br>To my relief (And embarrassment), when they committed another draft when Stellan was fifteen, my home was ignored, the rumors saying that they were in fear that my son would break as I did, so they let the Proctor household be. I didn't have to worry. My children wouldn't have to be touched by the war. They didn't draft girls, so my sweet darling little Astrid would be entirely safe as well. We could live in peace, or as much peace as there could be in my household. <br><br>Now, my children are seventeen, and we're happy, as always, but part of it is even better, for I haven't had an episode in a few months now. Everything else has been there, including the nightmares (Though not as severe as they could be), and the little quirks such as my inability to concentrate for long, my lack of direction, and a handful of other things that have become apart of who I am, but no outbursts. Everything is grand, and on top of that, tonight Astrid offered to make dinner. The poor girl has never had grand skill in the kitchen. Me and her mother, even Stellan, have the upper hand on that. However, there is one dish she can make swell, and it happens to my favorite. I remember how I had woken up in the middle of the night, as per usual, due to my intense nightmares, and I had found she had been awake as well, so I took her to the kitchen and just the two of us put together the meal of curried lentils and sweet potatoes, with me guiding her step by step. She's been a natural at it ever since. <br><br>It's a wonderful night. We are all laughing and talking, while my leg jitters up and down beneath the table and my utensil-less hand goes this way and that as I talk, almost knocking over the center carnation filled vase a couple times, but Stellan manages to catch it each time. I could not be a happier man, with my incredible life partner beside me and my beautiful children across from me, smiling, giggling, all together. It makes me feel complete. "It's your best batch yet, dearest Astrid." I compliment my daughter when she asks me how it is, my hand reaching over to grasp hers before it falls to my side, where it stays until I speak again, responding to her tale of the surly market seller. "You have always been so brazen, you know." I chuckle, shaking my head only slightly. She hardly got it from me. When I pick from the market, the sellers get angry at me for testing the fruit by touching it, smelling it, listening to it, and rolling it, but I never taste. I have become sort of an expert at fruits and vegetables since refusing to eat meat after the war. It became too disgusting for me after that. <br><br>I have a big grin on my face when Astrid abruptly stands from the table, saying that she has an announcement. I sit up a little straighter, my smile in my eyes as I look up at her expectantly, sure she is going to give us terrific news. It must be, with that smile on her face. <br><br>It turns out that I am entirely wrong. <br><br>She tells us that she is going to join the aviation recruits tomorrow morning. She is going to join the war. She has already signed up and there is no stopping her. She is going to join the war that twisted me into a convoluted version of myself, that ruined me. She is going to join the war. War. My baby girl. Mine. Death. Cries. Violence. Her. Screaming. Blood. Guns. Pain. Battle. Crashing airships. My own child suddenly in my shoes. This all flashes through my mind as my face drops, as the color drains away, my eyes growing wide as I stare up at her, my heart beginning to accelerate as sweat and chill run across my body simultaneously like rabid insects. I watch in disbelief as she goes on about it being what she was meant for, that smile never leaving her lips. She even laughs, and that is the fine edge of the jagged knife that splits me open. It was bound to happen after she announced joining, but that laugh is suddenly a screech in my ears, and just as she finishes her last word, my fork is thrown down to my bowl and my palms slam down onto the table. <br><br>"No." It comes out as a growl, glaring up at her as my dark brows furrow, my lips tensing. "No." My jaw clenches as I stand straight up, knocking my chair back, towering over my tiny tiny daughter. "This isn't one of our stories, Astrid. This isn't a game. You don't play a piece and if you lose, you go back home and all is as it was. It doesn't work that way!" I scowl, tearing my arm away, sensing Vinnie reaching for me, though I'm not sure if she actually did or not. I get constant images in my head, of all the death and darkness of my trauma, but it's not me anymore. It's her. It sickens me. I can't stand it. "This...." My body shudders and turn my head sharply to the side for a moment before I leer back at her, ready to say something, but I have nothing. I go blank. I step back from the table and my hands wrap around the locks of my thick hair, a rough whine escaping my throat as I bend over, a sickening pain running through me. "YOU'RE NOT SOME HEROINE IN A STORY, ASTRID!" I suddenly scream as I turn to her, saliva lining my bottom lip. "You're not." My voice pales as tears build in my eyes, which are quickly growing bloodshot. <br><br>Does she think she'll be safe as a pilot? No. It doesn't work that way. Those airships go into battle. I know. I watched them. They collide. They crash. The enemy ambushes your ship. You have to fight. You always have to fight. This war is brutal. You can't escape. You can't believe you'll be okay. No. A low whimper rolls out as I turn away, my nails finding the back of my neck and digging into it, enough to draw blood. I remember how cheery she was, and it's as if I'm in the middle of town square, where they laugh at me and whisper, where I'm mocked. I clamp my teeth down so hard it hurts as I rotate back towards them, taking the few steps back to the table, not realizing how the tears are slipping down my cheeks, my voice littered with emotion as I speak, "Am I a joke to you?" I ask as my lips tremble, my chest heaving up and down, my eyes narrowing in skepticism, causing tears to seep out from both eyes. "Do you think there's no chance you'll go in there and come out like me, if you come out at all? DO YOU WANT TO BE LIKE THIS?!" With no real sense of my actions, my hand finds the teacup that held my Earl Grey, crushing the old frail thing with my bare hand before I throw it at the wall beside Astrid, and in a sudden burst of clouded rage, I shove my knee into the table before I claw at the middle of the table, the blood from my hand staining the tablecloth as it all smashes to the floor. I feel Stellan stand up and attempt to grab at me, saying something about calming down, but I shove him away as if it was a stranger. <br><br>I breathe harshly through my teeth before a brutal scream comes out, and my bloody covered hands find my hair again, before they rake over my face. "Why?" I ask in a dead serious tone before my fingers tighten and slowly curl into fists, "WHY?!" I turn again, pulling at my clothes, able to smell the burnt flesh and smoke. The images never stop in my mind, all of my little baby girl, stuck in combat, seeing what I saw, getting wounded as I did, breaking as I did, but worst of all, dying and never coming back home to me. Shot, stabbed, burnt to death. It all crosses over my mind, poisoning it, and they are so saturated and real that I feel as if I'm going to faint. "It doesn't stop. It never stops. She can't. She can't. Why?" I'm sobbing now as I mumble, collapsing back against the wall, kicking out my legs once in my frustration as my hands cover my ears, trying to block out her screams. "Take me over her. Please." I whisper to no one in particular as my eyes close, suddenly back at the beginning, on the battlefield in the middle of my own home, except this time it's so much worse. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Sep 29 2012, 11:12 PM Post #3 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br><br> I see my mother and Stellan tense up afterwards, but Father…he seems as if he's frozen in place for a moment. But his eyes are wide, and I can almost feel his skin trembling from across the table. "Father, it's goi--" I start, my smile fading on my face as my expression turns more gentle, as I try to become like my mother, the one who is always able to get through…but the whole time my stomach's like a lump of lead. Yet before I can finish and assure that it's all going to be all right, he throws his fork to the bowl, dashing it right before he lurches up onto his feet. He says how it's not just some game, and for a second, the comparison almost stuns me into silence. Because it shows me that for the first time in seventeen years, Father's looking at me as if I'm a child. My heart slides off the shelf. He always treated Stellan and I like adults, giving a three year old more respect than most people in town give each other. But here, with all my seventeen years, he's acting as if I don't know what I have give my life to for the next weeks, months, years, and for a second, that makes me want to scream. But no, shouting will do no good, I remind myself. It never does, it never does. When you shout, you only make it a battle of the sounds, not of the words. Mother would constantly remind Stellan and I when our bickering got out of hand, but her advice always seems to sit better with my brother. <br><br>Mother reaches out to him, that pain on her face already gone for now she has to focus on Father's instead. But he only pulls away, and I feel my exasperation melting into guilt. Staring back at his face, I see his fury and fright all stitched together on his skin, and I feel like the worst daughter in the world for doing this to him. I would never, ever want to cause this sort of pain on my family in the first place and…it's just been so long since he's last had an outburst like this. I didn't want to be the cause! But I knew this was all coming before I told them. I knew I would have to face one of his tempers, burning hot and cold and blasting wails and silence all at the same time. I remember the first time he yelled at me when I was young…Father caught me playing with fire, and it triggered not only horrible memories, but the sheer terror that something would happen to me, like something he had seen happen to a fellow soldier. And I'm not playing anymore. <br><br>I feel the apology rising in my throat, thick and sticky as honey, wanting to absorb my words. I almost break, telling him that I won't go. But that girl who was so proud when she left the town hall with her signing fingers still tingling shoves me, urging a blindfold to the pain on his face. I step towards him, just a little. <br><br>"I know it's not a game, Father," I start slowly, keeping my voice level, trying to keep my sentences from wadding up like tangled yarn. I take a deep breath. "But it is a story. All life is a story, and I don't intend for my book to be filled with identical pages of sweet summers spent here forever, like the same recipe of lemon cake over and over. I want more. There's so much out there--" I continue, lips quirking up as I picture the days to come, my wondrous, unpredictable days, but Father begins winding his hair and snaps that I can't be the heroine of a story. <br><br>My lower lip tucks under my top teeth as I shake my head. My hand reaches upwards, touching his shoulder just barely. "Not here, I can't," I say quietly, without any disdain. It's not as if I'm bored with this life. I love my family, and the time I spend here. I wouldn't trade them for anything. I'm only putting this life aside for now, to make room for other adventures where I could be worth something. <br><br>Father stomps towards the table once more and I move back, his emotions splashing over like a pail being kicked over as he demands to know if I think of him as a joke. "YOU'RE NOT!" I shout, brows knitting together, the sudden, mad accusation causing me to raise my voice as my father glared down at me, challenging me. "You never were!" How could his history be considered anything close to a joke?! What is there to laugh about when a boy is dragged to war and comes back as splinters of a person? He demands to know if I want to follow in his footsteps. "I WON'T--" <br><br>"--August, please--" <br><br>Before Mother or I can finish what we began to say, Father grabs his cup and crumbles it in his hand, as if it was just a piece of parchment or a dry leaf plucked from the ground, and hurls it at the wall next to me. "STOP!" I scream while Mother says his name more strongly, but he doesn't hear us, scrabbling at the table with his bloody hands as dishes dance on the rumbling table and there's things falling everywhere, the battlegrounds finally finding its way to our house after all those years of isolation. He pushes away from Stellan and screeches like a person being ripped apart by lions, his nails scrambling over his face and hair, as if he was digging for a solution there. <br><br>"Father…" I whisper as his legs give out and he mumbles to himself, sobbing, and I feel my own tears starting to sear over my cheeks, burning like a slap. He tells "them" to take him instead of me and I feel sick with shame, the very word embedded in the pit of my stomach like a sliver of iron. But I just…I have to make him understand. I have to, because I am leaving tomorrow, one way or another, and I don't want to abandon him when he's like this. I can't just shake him off my shoulders the way you would a spray of snow. Mother hangs back, knowing that I have to be the one to calm him, so I move a broken plate aside with my foot and slowly sit beside him, one shoulder pressed to the wall as I take his hand, lightly tugging it away from his ears, the back of my hand shining with the streaks of my tears I wiped away. "Look," I say, carefully cupping his injured hand between my steady ones as my eyes flicker over to his. <br><br>"You're angry, and sad, and so, so scared…because you want to protect me," I profess, the trembling absent from my hands and lips coming alive in my voice instead as I struggle to keep it composed. Let him see me as strong, as tough as nails, nails of steel that could hold anything together in a storm. "But that's what I want to do--protect. Protect people's futures, Father." I manage to smile with this one, my resolve giving me mettle again. "Help so that they'll have one, for one thing," I dip my head to the side. "But also help make sure that they'll have one worthwhile. I want to protect our freedom and our rights… I dare to let the a flake of a chuckle through before I turn serious again. "…although, I s'pose if I'm speaking it right then it would be "seizing" rather than protecting, because we've never truly had it to begin with." I glance back at Father, venturing to see how I'm doing so far, though there is no definite answer. Only the reminder that I am not my mother. I press on. <br><br>"Either way, the fact remains that I don't want twenty more years to go by with me idly sitting by, twiddling my thumbs and just swallowing whatever the greater countries choose to throw at us. It isn't fair, and you know it. You all know it," I turn to look up at my mother and brother, eyes urging them to see my cause and what we've turned our back on for years. I don't blame them for any of it, of course. It's how we had to live. It was what was best for my father, but I don't think it's what's best for me, not anymore. <br><br>"If I can lend a hand, I should." It's what I've always been taught. This isn't any different. "And I will," I utter without that bratty edge of defiance that bubbles up now and then, but there's a ring of finality that can't be denied. My teeth bite down on my lower lip as I give everyone my unreasonable smile. I'm the impossible child, I'm well aware. "I'm quite pigheaded, you know." They know it very well, though I know it won't be enough. Nothing will be enough to convince my father, but that doesn't mean I won't do whatever it takes to help ease his mind a little more. I move onto my knees, giving his cheek a kiss. <br><br>"Father, I want this. It's my choice," I murmur, wanting him to see that I'm ready for this. Every training bruise will be a lesson, a lesson I'll take in stride. I can handle it. Right now, there is only one thing I want to know, and the fear of rejection hangs over my head like an ax. <br><br>"…so am I going to have to walk to the station alone tomorrow, or will my family take me there?" </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Sep 30 2012, 06:16 PM Post #4 |
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[dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I flinch as my daughter touches my hand, my usual reaction to being touched when I have my episodes like this. I feel such intense emotions right now, pulling at me this way and that way. I am furious at her, for the way she talks about the situation. I am livid in a way I had never imagined I could ever be, especially at my own daughter. The way she is treating this, the way she talks about it... It worries me more than anything. It's as if she told me she's going off to explore the countryside of a peaceful land, where she can see the sights and have her adventures for awhile. I can't stand how she treats this place like the best prison she could be at, and how she has to have change and quest in her life. She's so entirely happy about it. How? How could she be happy about going to the exact place that tore me apart? How could she want to volunteer for a country that stole me away from my family, that forced me to become some monster so that I could survive, a monster I don't want her to be? Did I not tell her enough about the war? I shielded her too much. She doesn't know. She doesn't understand. She sees my scars right in front of her, but she's blind to it. On top of that anger, I am sick with my concern for my precious baby girl. She is going to have to face the horrors I did. She will have to see death face to face. She will have to challenge it. She will have to run for her life. She will sacrifice herself to save lives. She is going to shoot, stab, and turn things and people into ash. She is doing what no one should have to do. <br><br>We were safe. She was safe. I had felt it. It's why I had been so good. There was no more worrying. There would be no war inflicted upon my family. My children would be able to live their own happily ever afters without worry. They could do what they wanted to do. Their lives, their minds, wouldn't be stolen from them, and here my daughter is giving it all up. <br><br>I listen to her through the painful flashes that plague my mind, but her words don't make me feel better. It only puts a stronger picture of what she is going to get into into my head, and it causes the tears to pour out of my eyes like a broken faucet that can't be shut off, the nails on my free hand digging into my scalp, needing the physical pain, the real physical pain, to keep me focused on her, to not delve deeper into my afflictions. I huff out a breath, my chest aching, my heart going so fast I can nearly swear it's going to kill me. A sob escapes, the corners of my lips gravitating downward, quivering, as my hand turns to a fist. It's so completely horrifying. I would rather go through the war a thousand times again than have her go once. <br><br>"All I have ever wanted was to protect you, and your brother, and your mother. All of you. I heal from that." I never healed from protecting my country. I suddenly jerk, my eyes closing tightly as flashbacks of men screaming at me to go and go and shoot and kill, and then flashbacks of when I had to become that man, yelling until my throat burned at boys who had no idea what they were truly getting into, boys who I tried to protect but most of them ended up dying. I promised myself I wouldn't let anyone I loved die under my watch when I got back. I wouldn't lose anyone. It's one of the reasons I get so sickeningly violent whenever Vinnie is in danger, why I scream when the kids play in a way that risks themselves. I can't do it. I've lost so much already. "And here." My voice comes out rough, my breathing continuing on heavily. "And here you choose to risk your life, your entire self, every second of every day for who knows how long, while I have to sit here and wait. I have to sit here." I grasp her hand tightly as I speak exasperatedly, using the pain in my hand to give me something to focus on. "I have to sit here and wait for them to pull up to my door and tell me you're dead, something your mother has already had to do once." I shudder at that, flashes of Astrid dying a hundred different ways coming at me all over again, and I squeeze her palm harder. "Only able to hope you are one of the few who comes out alive, one of the even fewer who comes out alive with the same amount of pieces you had to begin with." I always thought of myself as having far too many pieces, too many parts of me coming at me at once, overwhelming me. So many who came out like me attempted to get fixed, but those doctors take too much out, underwhelming you until you feel nothing, and you are just a shell of who you used to be. <br><br>Abruptly, I laugh, as Astrid calls herself pigheaded, and it's a strained laugh, one that's humorless, because nothing is funny right now. I open my eyes, barely white anymore, too irritated from my constant tears. I sniff, staring over at the wall, and a wave of nausea crosses me, but I push it back to speak. "You know, I've never been strong, Astrid. I've always been sensitive and fragile, you see, a tap away from shattering." There is shame in my voice, because I wish I was better. I wish I had been able to handle the war so much better. I wish I had been able to take care of Vinnie more than she had taken care of me. Still, even if the war hadn't been apart of my life, I'm not even sure if my reaction to this would have been incredibly different. This would have broken me, the way losing my mother broke my father, the way I'm sure me being dragged off to war only made it worse, though my father always had his undying optimism keeping him together enough to function. Maybe that's how I have to be now, if just slightly. My father was always the man I wished I could be. The intelligent man who never gave up, who when I was going off to war, told me I would be okay, that I would come back. I didn't come back to him, but I did come back. I came back because he had instilled in me that I had to do my best to come back to him, because he made me feel as if I could do it, and even though I'm defective because of it, I am here. I even married and had a family. Maybe if those words hadn't been spoken, I wouldn't have made it. Maybe it wouldn't have put me in that proper frame of mind, and even though Astrid has the advantage of wanting this, I know she needs my words of encouragement. She needs to hear me when she's close to death, when she's dodging bombs, when she's trying to survive, to give her that extra push. <br><br>"I've always been that way, but you never were. You're like your mother." I flit my eyes over to my wife, holding my gaze with hers, and I flicker of a smile reaches my lips. "She's the strongest person I know." Sometimes, I think she wishes she had been in that war instead of me. World knows she would have come out a lot better, though that doesn't mean I would have switched with her. As with Astrid, I would commit myself to the war an infinite amount of times before allowing her to go. "You can do this so much better than I ever could. You are going to do this better than I did." I turn my gaze to her, looking over her youthful visage, the tears spilling over with the tiniest twitch of my eyes. I grip her hands in both of mine and bring them to my lips, kissing them. "I know you aren't a child... Well, you are. We all are." I whisper, my mind calm now, my thumping heart slowing down, though it's only for now. It will act up later on, most likely in my deepest sleep. I will wake up screaming tonight. "But you are a brave girl. One of the bravest I know, since the day you were born. I had to make a special crib for you because you kept on trying to crawl out of it, you know." I smile sadly, teeth gleaming faintly in the warm light. "If this is a game, if this is a story, you will win, and you will write and write because this is only the beginning of your story." My thumbs rub gently at her hands as I talk, my usual rambling occurring, now that I've been brought back down to myself. I have to be a father now, not a broken man. "And I know you are going to do whatever it takes to come back to me, to us, my dearest Astrid." I kiss her hands again, my own hands trembling fiercely still. "You are the heroine of your story." I have to believe in her, to further make her believe in herself. It's all I can do to get her back to me. <br><br>She had asked me if she would have to go to the station by herself tomorrow morning, or if her family would take her. I feel ill thinking of it, thinking of her off on that train, sending herself off to what I think of as Hell. I'm not going to be able to take seeing that. I will fracture all over again, because she will truly be gone. However, I can't stay home. I have to stay with her until the last possible moment. I won't allow our last goodbye to be here, when I can have a few more moments with her and have our goodbye there. We will all go. I would have given so much to have been able to say goodbye to everyone when I had left, though I am extremely grateful that I had been able to at least say goodbye to my father. A faint smile comes onto my lips and I swallow, clearing my throat before I speak. "If you don't mind me falling apart all over again, dear Astrid, I will see you until my average eyes betray me." I murmur, as the wait begins for when my daughter will leave my side for the most harrowing journey she could ever ask for. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Oct 7 2012, 12:58 AM Post #5 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br><br> I watch as Father endures my words like a poison sweeping through his insides, prying him apart with its crowbar. He doesn't want to let me go, and I understand. I'm not just some ordinary girl who's grown up and decided she wants to own a shop and sell flowers in a place on the corner, or marry some high lord. The future I've chosen…it's consuming. It takes over everything you are, and have. You can't wake up some day in your bunk and just up and decide to do something else. This is a whole 'nother life, a whole existence I've chosen. But it's swallowed me up now, and there's no going back to the life I had before. I'm certain it'll change me before I come back, there's no doubt of that--I'm just putting my hopes on becoming a better, stronger person because of it all…with more wonderful, exciting stories than I could tell if I lived a thousand years. I want to make something of myself, I do. I keep on repeating all the things I've thought over hundreds of times before tonight, because they all become so much harder to hold onto when I see my father crying. <br><br>"And you've done a very good job of it for more than seventeen years, Father," I try to positive, but it's so difficult to when he's like this. I just want to comfort him--but how can you comfort a person when the only thing you can really say to take away their pain would be to give up on your dreams? You can't, you can't do that. Not when they're someone you care about and who cares about you. Because then they care about your happiness, so in the long run, you can't sacrifice that for them. It's a twisted, convoluted cycle, but that's life. <br><br>Father's upset that I've chosen to gamble the very life he's watched over for all these years, taking my hand in his, the warm blood from his gash squeezing between our skin like the thin trickle of my conscience. "Isn't that what life's about? Finding something worth risking it for?" I ask as I gently place my hand over his, my lips curving into a soft smile before I turn to glance at Mother for a moment. "You've got that in Mother…I just want to fight for my own," I shake my head. I'm sorry that I was never able to find that sort of cause in something else…in land to explore…or a man, like others would expect (my trouble is that I don't think I could ever find someone who would love me the way Father loves Mother). But my roots stretch all the way back to my grandparents, people who spent more time amongst the clouds than amongst the grass some days, and that's where I'll find my purpose. <br><br>My contrition only deepens when he says how I've sentenced them all to days of waiting and clinging to promises, and I bite my lip, looking back at all of them. "You all know I would never want to put you in pain," I whisper, and my voice almost sounds childish with the extent of guilt I feel. Father's not only worried about my life, but my sanity, his having being tested so many times during his own experience. "But you must have faith that I, and every single itty-bitty flake of my pieces, will come back…and until then, please, just…please, live your lives and be happy, so happy." I don't want them to be constantly thinking on me, wasting thoughts on someone miles away with anxious theories. "I'll be doing the same," I shove a cheeky grin on my lips, eyes flickering upwards, picturing the moon and stars beyond our roof. "Only up in the skies." <br><br>A little bit of hope swells when Father laughs suddenly. It's the smallest smidgen of hope, because I know what his true laughs sound like, cheerful and warm as the inside of a biscuit just out of the oven, and that this one was nothing like this…but I can see that he's starting to try, and that means everything to me. I don't like how he starts with it, though. "Don't say that. It's not true, it was never true," I murmur, brows knitting together. He always makes himself sound so weak and brittle. When being in pain…suffering…that does not equal feebleness. If anything, going through those only gives a person more strength. I know how Father sees it though. He thinks himself a burden and makes a habit of taking blame for problems his own niggling mind invents, problems that I have never believed existed in the first place. But that's just his way, wanting to care for us all and shoulder as much responsibility as he can. I just wish some of the people in town could see that, but we don't need them anyway. <br><br>I can't hide a smile when he compares me to Mother, however. "I'd like to be." I don't think you could ever find a man on this earth who thinks more highly of his wife than Father. He treasures her like a swashbuckling Shakespeare creation, and I can see why. I beam brightly as they look back at each other, Mother sniffling as she smiles and wipes her eye. Father swears I'll succeed, kissing my hands as laughter breaks from my lips like a dish, tinkling and loud as the tears begin to over-brim. He believes in me. "I remember," I chuckle when he mentions the crib. "Stellan says it's impossible--" I crane my neck to glance over at my rather large little brother, giving him my usual cross look I normally hand out like summer sweets to him, my life rival "--but I do." I turn back to Father, squeezing his fingers, careful about his wounds. "I remember everything about this place." <br><br>He tells me how I'll take the war and pen my victorious tales, his faith filling me like a bowl of warm soup on a winter day. I was certain before we spoke, but now, I truly feel as if I could do anything, anything at all. "And I'll write letters," I assure, grinning from ear to ear. "It may not even be for so long. I hear we're getting help, now…but you'll all be frequently hearing about everything that's happening on my patch of the planet, I promise." My smile softens when he gives confidence that I will do whatever I must to make it back safe and sound to my family…taking back his earlier words on how I'm not a heroine, and suddenly, I'm wrapping my arms around him. "I promise that, too," I say gently, but fiercely, clutching his shoulder as I pull back. "And I don't. Break. Promises." I nod my head in salute. "Ever." <br><br>His rueful response to my request for my last hour in this town to be spent with all of my family makes me shake my head, and this time it is me who kisses Father's hands. "Thank you," is all I say, and although it's such an ordinary sentence, something I say every day, I don't think I've ever meant it more. And I don't mean to just thank him for coming, but to thank him for letting me leave without making it harder than it already is. You always think your family will be there for you when you need them to be, and now I know that could never be more true about mine. <br><br>The rest of the night..there were few words to be said. Before I went off to sleep, Mother came up to my room, sitting on my bed next to me, holding my hand…but she couldn't think of what to say. She didn't want to say goodbye. She felt as if that would make things so final, and she knew that we would be writing. There wasn't anything more to be said than we both already knew, that there was love, and sadness, and there was going to be so much missing…so instead, she held my hand, and talked of old, sweet memories, and Father and Stellan joined us. I could hardly sleep at all, thinking of all the changes rushing my way. But there would be plenty of time for sleep on the train. The time I had left in the house was time to be spent with the people most important to me…so I begged Father to read the family a story. It hadn't happened in years, but now that I knew that maybe it couldn't happen for years, I wanted it. I couldn't think of a better way to spend my last night. <br><br>When morning came, I almost felt ready. We left early, sitting in the carriage close together, as the world in the window passed us by. It was all happening so fast all of a sudden, that I very nearly wanted to scream "STOP!" and just…put it all away. Count it as a time when I had temporarily lost my mind. But I couldn't shy away now, not when I had the love behind me, and the adventure in front of me, so with those two, I found the strength to smile at the station, and hug my family good-bye. Mother and Stellan had letters for me, but Father had something else--a little charm carved of wood, something I suspect he did instead of sleeping last night. It was such a beautiful little thing, almost alive, and it took me back to all those times when he would say that there were times when he thought he had a pet rabbit instead of a daughter, a scampering creature who had a twitching nose for mischief! I think I still am, actually, and I laughed and swore to always keep it close. <br><br>We tried our best to make the goodbye as simple as possible, as if I was just going away to another town for a while. I almost wished I was. <br><br>Eventually, the clock chimed and I had to board, so we embraced and kissed, and I went away, from those who loved and knew me best, to a place I could tell them stories of. <br><br>--- <br><br>It was as if someone had suddenly thrust a book into my hand, and told me that from now on that would be my life. It was horribly structure at first, with all the time tables and rules and having to do this or that at precisely this hour. You have to understand, that growing up with Lavinia and August Proctor as my parents, I wasn't too used to the idea of having to do something right at a certain moment, or asking permission to do things as rudimentary as going to the wash closet! But in a way, it was also fun. In a strange, strange way…just because it was all so new to me. Going to bed with aching muscles, or chewing the end of my pencil while I tried to remember my geography. At first, it seemed a bit like I had just been sent to school. And I'm sure my parents enjoyed those letters very much. <br><br>But after my basic training was done, it was onwards to pilot training, where everything was suddenly much harder and much more exciting at the same time. Yet as I predicted, I was in utter and complete love with it, and always a bit put off when my first-hand lessons ended earlier than I wanted them to. The best bit was when I learned how to fly with night vision goggles, and the whole world all around just looked like stars and night, and nothing else. <br><br>In a way, I suppose I almost forgot that it was all for the war, and that I would have to be fighting. But I was soon reminded of that detail when I finished the training, faster than they predicted. Captain Barrow was in charge of my unit, a brusque and jolly man at the same time. He didn't hesitate to remind us what we were fighting for constantly, and in due time, I found myself closer to the sun than ever, but with guns in my hands. It was a surreal experience…but…you don't find it so hard to shoot when you're dodging bullets yourself. Unlike my father, I never saw the faces of the lives I ended. Only the planes, like great, big flying dragons of steel, ready to drop fire on people I cared about, and the land I loved. People just…drop, like snowflakes, falling so far below you, and then they vanish under the waves, as if they never existed at all. I can't tell the story of my first kill, or my last one, because they all felt the same, all the same bursts of fire and splashes in the sea. <br><br>If I ever had any doubts, I didn't write them in my letters. Instead, I sang songs on how the food was almost as bad as my own cooking, or how Captain Barrow drank so much one night that the soldiers tried to see how many sardines they could fit in his mouth while he was passed out. I tried to keep them light…but I never lied, either. I told them when I chipped my ankle, but I also said how nice it was not to have to wake up at five in the morning, and to eat meals in bed again. I think writing those letters helped me a lot--they kept me focused on the good, and the everything I was doing this for. And it helped a bit when you had friends fighting for the same cause, captains who believed in you, and an infinite amount of love from home. I did what was expected of me and more, rose in ranks, told my war stories. Somewhere along the way, I think I saw that this was who I really was. A fighter. <br><br>---- <br><br>Fourteen months and twenty-two days later, I found myself in charge of a reconnaissance mission. A unit was planning to land on a long-abandoned island and start building a new fort there, and they just wanted us to survey the terrain overhead for them before hand. It was an easy enough task, and since I would be going on leave tomorrow, I took on as squadron commander for the first time, deciding that a bit of extra work before I took my break would be nice, and Captain Barrow was much obliged. I was so excited to have something new to write about…and yet not even need to write it, since it would only be a couple of days before I would be back at home again, kissing my mother and father and standing on tip-toe to muss Stellan's hair! <br><br>With a smile on my face and whistling song in my heart, I hurried outside in my favorite coat, ready to finish up and pack up home after it was all done. Strolling past the other members of my unit as they prepared for flight, I heard a gasp. <br><br>"What are you wearing, Astrid?!" Rochford asked, a man who was a bit too old-fashioned for my liking, and a stickler for the rules. <br><br>"That's Lieutenant Proctor to you, Rochford," I pointed out, lackadaisically buttoning up. <br><br>"But you let the others call you Astrid!" he complained. <br><br>"They've earned it!" I said with a shrug, and decided not to waste anymore time. "And as for what I'm wearing, I don't think it's any concern of yours. A bird can fly in whatever feathers he chooses." I didn't think I should have to dress up in all my patches and badges for this simple thing. Everyone else seemed to be ready, save for one boy, sixteen years old and a full spring chicken when it came to flying. He was shaking so badly he could barely climb into his plane. <br><br>"Oh, it won't be so bad. It's just a little bit of patrol, Robby, nothing to worry about!" I assured him, giving him a pat on the back before a new idea sprouted in my mind. "Here, I'll tell you what…" I began as I reached around my neck, lifting my dog-tag necklace over my head, the wooden rabbit dangling by my name. <br><br>"Take this. It's my good luck charm. Nothing worse than a scrape or bruise has ever happened to my while I was carrying this, you can ask anyone," I grinned as I held it out to him. "It's my most precious possession." <br><br>"…and you're just…giving it to me?" he said, eyes wide as pumpkins as he started to reach for it. <br><br>"No! Have you gone around the bend?!" I gasped almost as loudly as Rochford, nearly yanking it back. "I'm lending it to you, you silly. I'm trusting that we'll meet again and you'll give it back. Can you do that for me?" He was still a little surprised, but I could see enough worry leaving his eyes for him to feel better, and he gave me a nod. <br><br>"Good," I smiled, and draped it over his head, the chain falling around his neck. "Now go on, get in. We're going to be late." <br><br>---- <br><br>The mission went as expected…at first. We flew over the waters, heading for the island. There was nothing showing up on our radars indicating any ships, nor anything else on the island that gave off the same energy as weaponry tended to do. But when we were in a couple of hundred feet from the island…the unpredictable happened. Submarines rose up from the waters to greet us like metal sirens, but instead of welcoming us with song, they did it with aerial missiles and gunfire. It was all so fast I could barely breathe. <br><br>I couldn't think as it happened, the ringing of shots hitting planes in my ears, my fellow soldiers' screams over the radio like whips of sand in the ear as their wings were blown off and they fell from the sky. I shouted orders, but they weren't listening, the attack coming so suddenly that they had forgotten everything they had learned, and they succumbed to fear--offered themselves to it. I told them to retreat, but it was too late, for shortly after the submarines caught us off guard, they sent in their planes, and we were surrounded. My hands moved at the controls on their own, my chest squeezing so tight that I thought my bones were trying to pop my heart out. Within less than an hour, only four of us were left. Robby was crying hard over the receiver, something about his family and that reminded me that I was supposed to see them in a few days. I had to get back, no matter what! I screamed for those left to try to find a way out, to just keep shooting but keep on flying and dodging and surviving… <br><br>And that was when Rochford, so eager to live, flew in a straight line, right into my left wing. Blinded by his terror. <br><br>I started to fall, the wheel shuddering under my hands as I tried to hold it steady. "No, no, no…no, PLEASE! PLEASE, DON'T!" I screamed my plane, but it didn't listen. "I HAVE TO GO BACK! I HAVE TO GO BACK! I PROMISED!" I slammed my hand against the dashboard, the small picture of my family in my compass jumping up when I did. "PLEASE!" I was going down. There was no stopping it. <br><br>These planes had no parachutes, no escape. They weren't even built for fighting. <br><br>"I can't…" I sobbed, thinking on how I had promised, I had promised I would come back…but the promise meant nothing now. I was already dead. <br><br>You are the heroine of your story. <br><br>And then suddenly, I heard my father's voice, and I remembered, and I knew that if I was doomed to die…I would do it as a heroine. <br><br>I pointed my plane towards the submarine. <br><br>"Astrid, what are you doing?!" Robby screamed. <br><br>"I'm not about to go down without a few devils in tow!" I shouted, and even managed to laugh (laugh, in the face of death!), not bothering to brush away the tears the ocean would soon swallow. I hope the sorry lot in that metal cocoon had said their prayers this morning. "You have to go back. Go back, Robbie, and tell them everything! Warn our side about these submarines!" The world was rushing up to meet me. "And tell them this is the tale of Lieutenant Astrid Proctor…" Nine seconds. <br><br>"And this is where it ends." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Oct 7 2012, 06:14 PM Post #6 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>As soon as I got the orders to survey the Western shore for any possible dangers (Whilst a slew of other men checked out the East, North, and South regions), I didn't bother enlisting any other men to go with me. With several defensive attacks being carried out around our created borders, the chances of stragglers, and especially a full on ambush, are slim to none. I feel almost relaxed here, or as relaxed as a decent soldier can get. You're either aware or you're dead. I'd be a fool to ignore the possibility of something being out here. I hold my rifle in both of my hands, casually, a death grip the last thing you want when you want it to slide into position as smoothly and quickly as possible. My eyes, reflecting the edges of the sky, the last blue bits as the sun drowns itself in the sea, flicker this way and that, looking behind myself several times before I reach the water's edge. <br><br>There's no one, which is unfortunate, since that means I have no one to bring back to the camp and interrogate, which is key to getting any one of our enemy's current whereabouts. Lovely. <br><br>I glance off to the side, and then the other, and there's a peek over my shoulder, before I release a sigh, sweeping my gun over my shoulder and behind my back. I pull a crumbled pack of cigarettes from one of my front pockets, a lighter soon following. I put the cigarette to my lips and hold it there gently as I light it, my hand coming up to hover around it and protect from the sea breeze. I puff on it to draw the flame to the edge before I suck in deep once the embers are burning. Back the lighter goes into my pocket as I close my eyes, the hot smoke sliding down my throat and into my lungs. While the smoke softly billows out from my lips, I feel at ease in that moment. I listen to the gentle lapping of the waves against the sand, my boots only about ten inches away from the possibility of getting wet, and I indulge in the cool wind rushing against my heavy uniform. <br><br>The small break gives me a chance for my mind to wander, just a touch, to think of when my next leave is, and I remind myself it's not far from now at all, and for an extremely short segment of time, I am happy about this. I get to be away from here, away from this. It's been about a year and a half since my last leave, and I need the escape. I need to separate myself from this before I go crazy. That's figuratively speaking though. I have heard of some men who have literally gone crazy due to this war, but that's not me. It tends to make me numb, and tired, but I can handle it. I deal with it. I'm good at it, and not because of the desperate need to stay alive. It's bred in me. This has been my life for as long as it was possible. I am a soldier. I'm Major Elias Ledger, son of the famed General Amos Ledger, the man who led many of our troops to victory in the first half of this war. It'd be no wonder to anyone why I'm here and how well I'm doing. I'm destined for it. <br><br>Though it doesn't mean I ever wanted it for my destiny. <br><br>I'm soon taking another long drag of my cigarette, rolled by First Class Private Herman Lawlor, who seems to have a knack for making them the exact thickness and strength I prefer, the thought of my father raising the hairs on back of my neck. My father. Even though I am physically away from all of this for awhile, he keeps me here mentally. On top of that, I have to deal with him being the tyrant that he is, the way he despicably treats my poor mousy stepmother Agnes making it all the worse. I constantly wonder why I didn't run when I had the chance. I was just a boy, a motherless boy, who stuck around due to his unnerving father making him feel needed after his mother's sudden death. I should have left. I kept putting it off, and now here I am, in my fifth year of duty in our military, and I don't see an end to it anytime soon. I've been lucky, on top of my knack for these things, and I'm still young and healthy. My worst wound, which put me out for only a couple months, was a series of severe burns along my back. Most of it has healed well enough, with most of the concerned skin looking just slightly off, while there is a thin patch that's diagonal across that isn't exactly the prettiest thing. I'm fortunate though. I haven't lost a limb, or an eye, or have scars all across my face, all which inflict my father. A supposedly deranged man took my father's eye and disfigured his face, while much later on he lost three quarters of his arm in an explosion, and now wears a prosthetic. That's all among other knicks, scratches, scars, and former wounds aching to his day all across his body. All of that, along with his age, has caused him to be merely a man behind a desk now, instead of in the fields, but if it were up to him, that's right where he'd be. If there is anything that man is good at, it's violence and terror. <br><br>Before I realize it, the burning tip of my cigarette has reached my fingertips, and I hiss through my teeth as I drop the roll, all half an inch of it falling into the water, lost forever in a matter of seconds. I huff out the last bit of smoke from my mouth, rubbing my mildly stung fingers together for a moment before I turn on my heels and start to head back. There's nothing here. I've spent too long here already considering there isn't even anything to report. Now, turned, I look to the left and to the right as precaution, and just as I am turning my eyes forward from the right, I comprehend that I had seen something. I swiftly turn and pull my pistol from my belt in one motion, but there is no one at the ready to attack. Instead, all I had seen was the bottom half of someone's leg, sticking out from behind a large boulder. I narrow my eyes and make my way forward, gun still in hand, as quiet as I can be in the sand, and I sweep around the rock, towards where I expect the upper half of the most likely unconscious body to be. <br><br>I shouldn't be, considering how many females are in our armies now, but I'm surprised to see it's a woman, and a petite woman at that, nearly face down in the sand, the water nudging her bottom half every few seconds. As I thought, they are knocked out cold, possibly even dead until closer inspection, and away my gun does as I step to her side and kneel down. I put a hand upon her delicate shoulder and hip, rolling her over so that she's on her back. Now, I can see from her rising and falling chest that she's breathing, spotting the damp spot in the dry sand by her head, still moist from when she must have heaved up the water she had swallowed. She was lucky it occurred on her own, because by the time I had gotten to her, she probably would have been dead. She's alive, so I move on to evaluating her health. She has a sizable gash along her hairline, the edges of it already attempting to clot and scab while the blood that seeped from it is dried along the side of her face. Besides that, she has a few tears in her clothing and from pulling up her sleeves, moderate bruising on her arms and possibly her abdomen and legs. I attempt to identify her next, going through each and every one of her pockets, but to no avail, as there is not a single source of identification. She wears no dog tags, and she isn't in any sort of uniform either, which means no patches to tell me what side she's on. Going by her wounds, she could have easily been in one of our off shore attacks, but she shows no signs of being from any sort of military. I sigh in frustration, because this means I'm going to have to wake her up before I can tie her up. It would have been a lot easier with her unconscious. <br><br>My eyes drift up to her face, this time without any sort of mission in mind, just taking a moment, and I soften as I actually take her in. She's young, presumably a couple years younger than me, and she's got this sort of sweet round face that I imagine lights up with the simplest of smiles. I reach up and brush away the sand from her skin, along with a bit of the dried blood that's willing to come off easily. I have no formed opinion of her. I know she's not from my fleet, but that doesn't exclude her from the several surrounding us. She could quite possibly be our enemy, but I don't know that. Right now, she's just a girl. If she's just a peasant girl with no affiliations with the war, she has come across far too many misfortunes as of recent to have ended up here. <br><br>I can't sit here watching her forever, even if she is the nicest sight I've seen in awhile (We don't have a horrible lot of females here, which is for the better, for the majority of the men I have with me aren't what I'd like to call gentlemen), so soon my hand comes to her cheek, where I begin to pat her in a gingerly manner, but I soon enliven, going faster and harder against her face as I speak to her, "Wake up, miss. Wake up." It comes out strictly, used to the tone I use with my men (Though I don't usually call them 'miss', unless they are being utter nancies about trivial things), and it soon seems to work. Her eyes flutter open, the last bit of light from the sunset reflected in her wide eyes of burnt sienna. For some reason, I find myself stuck on my words for an instant, but they come rattling off before she can speak, the first word shakier than I would like. "Who are you and what squadron do you belong to, if any at all?" I ask quickly and clearly, the hand that had been touching her face now hovering over my gun, ready to pull it if she were to try anything, knowing I have the advantage on her since I found not a single weapon on her person. Even if she does turn out to be on the other side, this is going to be painstakingly easy. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Oct 7 2012, 11:31 PM Post #7 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br><br>It's the funniest dream. I'm wandering through a forest, but it's not an ordinary forest. Everything's strangely colored, and there are trees the size of flowers, and flowers the size of trees, with great, giant petals that would give you keen shelter from the rain. I follow a pathway made of orange dust, but with every step I take, the road behind me blows away a little bit more. I can't tell where I've walked before, my old journeys all erased. I can only go forward. So I amble on, the odd creatures of this world pausing now and then to look me over. I'm beginning to grow thirsty…but luckily, there's a pool ahead, so I hurry towards it. But when I kneel in the blue grass and cup my hands to take the water--I notice I don't have a reflection. As if I'm made of the same stuff as the monsters from the stories! Some ghost, or spirit. That shocks me out of my thirst and I leap to my feet, and when I do, a reflection appears. But it's not my own. It's a wooden rabbit, with his tale on fire. <br><br>"Who are you?" he asks, his words coming out in letters of smoke from his hole of a mouth--is he a pipe? I frown, and open my own mouth to answer, but his letters break through the surface of water, and like a moth to the light, fly towards me, and I find myself swallowing them. The smokes burns my insides and steals my voice, and I can't answer. But he doesn't stop asking "Who are you, who are you?", taking no notice of my throat cracking like porcelain under pressure. I finally move towards the water, eager to drink again to cure myself, but the pool has turned into a black abyss that rises like a tide and engulfs me whole and I'm falling, falling, and… <br><br>…someone's slapping me. <br><br>Suddenly, I become very aware of how uncomfortable I am. Gritty and sore all over, and there's a stone jabbing in my side. I open my eyes, and thankfully, it's not too bright, the sun almost gone. "Owwww," I murmur, pulling myself to sit up as I toss away the offending stone and rub my tender cheek as I look up at the guilty party. "You could have done it a bit nicer, you know," I start, ignoring his question for the time being, while not truly enjoying the way my bones feel as if they have been soaked in offensive poisons, eroding them away to more aches than actual tissue. <br><br>I glance over the one who was doing the slapping, presumably, if there wasn't an evil otter around doing the work beforehand. He's a soldier, any child could tell that in a second. But he has a gentle touch about him, you can see that in his face, and in his eyes….my-y, those eyes are bluer than blue itself. But a pretty face is no excuse for thwacking a girl on the beach. "You might not have any smelling salts on you, but the ocean's right there, dear," I quirk a brow and smile, giving a nod in that direction, and out of habit, move to pull up my sleeves, only to find that's already been done for me. And oh, ouch. <br><br>"Ah, just look at this," I frown, talking more to myself now as I hold out my arms, looking at the scrapes and marks. I shake my head. "How did this happ--" I start, when all of a sudden, the word feels like a pendulum, smashing into my temple, and my eyes grow wide, my breath breaking its pattern and becoming sharper, faster. "…how did this…" I breathe. I can't…I can't remember. "How did this happen?" I look down at the rest of my body, in the same condition, like a ragdoll made of different parts, one leg more black and blue than the other, one shoe missing. I can't remember. I can't remember. My hand covers my mouth, my nails sinking into my dirty cheek, making deep crescent indents. "What…" I can't remember…anything. <br><br>Nothing. Nothing at all. I try to think of what happened before, anything at all, but all that comes up is blank. Space. White, black. Nothing. "WHAT'S HAPPENED?!" I scream--no, it rips out of me, and saying it out loud only makes it worse. I frantically turn back to the man, tears like glass beads clinging to the corners of my eyes. "What…" It's as if everything's been locked in a box, and every time I try to think back, I hit wood…crash into it. "Please," I beg him, but he doesn't know. He was the one who started asking questions…who I was, and…"…squadron…" He said that earlier. Ow, ugh, oh, my head. Was I, in…I…my hands immediately go to scratch around my neck, searching for a necklace, but there is nothing there. I nearly rip apart my pockets then, but they're all empty. There's nothing on me…me, who am I? My name, my name. <br><br>"Who am I? WHO AM I?!" My red and black stained fingers are trembling uncontrollably as they scrabble at the rest of me, nothing, nothing to hold on to. "Oh, God," I sob, my chest feeling heavy as mud, one hand just squeezing there as the other moves to my head. "My mind.." the words come from my throat like a throttle; is my voice even my own? What is familiar anymore when I know nothing? "Where is my mind?" I whisper, my useless eyes screaming that I don't know this place, my thoughts singing that I am nothing, and my heart crying that I love no one. No, no. <br><br>"No, God, no," I moan, hands falling to the sand as I crumble, till I'm lying on my side in shambles, eyes squeezed shut so tight that circles of light spark painfully in my darkness. "This is a dream, this is a dream, it's a dream," I repeat as my legs curl up to my chest, my palms mashing against my eyelids. "Please, please." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Oct 8 2012, 04:03 PM Post #8 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>She certainly seems to be fine attitude wise, telling me I'm not very nice and suggesting that I had made use of the ocean to wake her up instead of slapping her. "I prefer a more hands on approach." I smirk towards her, though it fades slightly when the wording sounds off to me, cause I remind myself of my father. I suppress a shiver at that and focus on her, because I'm not him. I would never hit anyone unless it was for self defense reason, or on the battlefield, where there are hardly any rules. <br><br>So far, so good. She doesn't recognize my uniform as being anything threatening, so chances are she's on our side, unless she's too foggy right now and hardly even realizes. She goes on to examine her bruised arms, and all seems fine, and I wait, wanting to hear how in the world she got so banged up and unconscious on the shore. There's a problem though, as it turns out she doesn't know. That churns my stomach, because my immediate thought is that she was drugged or gassed and someone took awful advantage of her before either dumping her here, or tossing her into the ocean, where she was fortunate enough to have survived. My brows furrow, angered by this notion, and I glance around as if they are nearby, watching us, but there is no one. The closest to us is most likely my troops, and I know they had nothing to do with this girl, not under my watch. <br><br>There's something too dire about that look on her face though, like she's forgotten more than what caused her to arrive here. My brows stay narrow, but now they are touched with concern, my royal blue eyes softening. There's something really wrong. She turns to me amidst her discord, and the look on her face, in her eyes, makes my chest feel heavy, and she pleads with me. "I-I don't know, Miss." I get out, my throat feeling a little tight as I inwardly panic for her, upset that I can't help her, that I can't tell her what she wants to know. She's so confused. She becomes more alarmed, tearing at her pockets, trying to find anything that could tell her what she needs to know, but I know she'll find nothing but wet lint, because I've already checked. There's nothing. There are no answers for her there. <br><br>It get worse, because she begins to ask in a heart wrenching screech who she is. My gaze widens as that, because that means above all else, she doesn't even know her own name. That's when I put together that she has lost every part of her history, and my eyes drift up to that gash atop her head. Whatever happened to her, it afflicted her brain harshly enough so that she's lost her entire past. The corners of my lips drag down slightly as I take in her situation, what she must be feeling, and I can hardly imagine, but I know it must be one of the most awful things you can go through. She remembers not a single thing, because if she did, she would have something to focus on, to build onto. She, as I can see, has absolutely nothing. She's empty. How horrid it must be, to not know who you really are, even your own name, to not be able to remember who your loved ones are, or not be able to reflect back on a single memory. <br><br>I have no way of helping her either. I can't get her her memories back. I don't know her. I can't tell her who she is. I'm just a stranger to her. I feel for her though. My heart literally feels like it's aching as I watch her, and I tear my eyes away from her as she falls onto her side in the sand, telling herself it's a dream. I have to do something. I can't leave her here. I wasn't going to before I knew of her amnesia, whichever side it was she was on, and I'm surely not now that she obviously has nowhere to go. She needs help. <br><br>"Miss." I start in a gentle voice as I look back at her, but she continues to plead on, and I'm reminded of the young boys I've had under my belt that break and whine, lost in their fear for the war's unknown, and I have to give them direction. I have to make them focus and start reaching for the task ahead, or they are never going to get anywhere. It's the same here. I take in a steady breath and get down on both of my knees for balance before I reach forward swiftly, grabbing hold of her skinny forearms and lifting her up onto her knees. My grip is tight, but it won't hurt her. I know the fine line between hard and painful. "Listen to me." I start firmly, staring down into her eyes. "This isn't a dream. You were in some sort of accident and hit your head. You don't remember who you are, but you are somebody, understand me?" I keep my deep voice strict, keeping her attention on me. My hands slide down to her elbows and I help her to stand up. "I am going to take you back to my camp base, and there, I will keep you safe while you try to figure out your past." What am I doing? Am I really telling this alien girl that I will take care of her while she's having a huge crisis, even though I have no affiliation with her whatsoever? It seems so important though. She needs my help. <br><br>"I'm Major Elias Ledger." I state, and while my voice is still clear and strong, it's not as harsh as it was. "But you may call me Eli." With that, I give her a kindly smile, wanting her to trust me. "Now, I want you to do something for me." I give her elbows a faint squeeze, making sure she's paying attention. "I want you to think of your name. There must be something. Run your mind through the alphabet and tell me which seems the most familiar to you." My smile grows a tad, but my mouth stays closed, keeping it subtle. "I need something to call you." Even if I only get a first initial, I can do something with that. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Oct 8 2012, 11:29 PM Post #9 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br>Broken, broken, broken, like a box made of eggshell that's been shattered on stone, cracked open and everything within has spilled out and dried on the ground, not even leaving a drop of remembrance for me to lap up. I don't cry words anymore, only senseless groans of horror mixed with screaming as I reach up and pull my hands through my wet hair like whale bone combs, wrenching them like a stringy curtain over my face as my body convulses and shudders. I feel sick, the tremors wracking my body, a clamp of stinging electricity. Why is this…why did this have to happen to me?! What have I lost? Who's there, waiting for me being these locked walls holding my recollection? What's there? Is it good, or bad? Who am I? Who am I? I sputter as the tears burn and I shake, what is there left? Why am I…what…what can I…it hurts, God. Where a-- <br><br>Like a flash through all the tangles of my madness, reality seizes me again, taking hold of my arm and yanking me onto my knees. A breath of shock leaves me as I find myself staring face to face with the soldier again, his eyes the port I suddenly come back to. He tells me that all of this is very real, and it's happened, no dream, no nightmare. Something happened to me. His words echo as if we're in a tunnel. You are somebody, understand me? You are somebody. Understand me, understand me… "…me…" I repeat, and then take a breath. Come on, now. "Yes, I'm…I'm still me," I murmur, clenching the inside of my cheek between my teeth as I try to stop the tears, somehow. I had forgotten at all, but…me in the beginning, when he first woke me, that girl…I've got something. He's right, he has to be right. <br><br>He pulls me onto my feet, my knees quivering. He says he's going to take care of me while I try to remember, and those words give me hope, as if it must happen then. I nod firmly, wanting it to be true. It has to come back. There's no other place for it to go. "Thank you," I say, voice weak and raw but honest, and I find my fingers wrapping around the fabric at his arms, clinging to him, but securely. At least I haven't forgotten manners. I try to smile, and I can feel my lips trembling against each other. "Thank you, Eli," I whisper. He's a Major. I don't know exactly where that places in the army, but it is somewhere high, of course, but here he is, letting me call him by not only his first name, but his nickname. I wish I had something to give back, but I…don't remember it. I can't. <br><br>But Eli asks me to try. <br><br>So I close my eyes, and instead of attempting to search the void again, I do what he says and imagine the alphabet, going letter by letter. I don't go far, however, because I stop at A. I don't know why, but it seems so right, just…burning in my brain, as if it had been seared onto it, all three points of it. A triangle with a missing bottom, a tent, A. But is it just because it's the first letter of the whole list? …No, it's not. Somehow I know it's not….I know something. Maybe I can do this…maybe I can get my memories back, after all. This can't last forever--no, I won't let it. Feeling stronger, I open my eyes and smile at Eli, strongly, this time. "A," I tell him confidently, but then I fade just a bit, my thumb anxiously tracing along the rough textile of his sleeve. "I-I don't know if it's…mine, but…" No, that's not important. The thing is, I've got something. "...it feels important to me." I feel another tear smarting in the corner of my eye, stupidly. I immediately wipe it away. Little fool. You must be strong now...you shouldn't cry. You don't even know what you've lost, only that it's important. <br><br>But that's still enough to hurt, somehow. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Oct 9 2012, 12:01 PM Post #10 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>"That's it. Yes. You're still you." I tell her faintly, assuring her as she grasps this. I saw it. I saw a girl with an identity when she woke up. She has a sense of self, she just doesn't know who exactly that self is. It's better than nothing. It is something to grasp onto in the vast emptiness littering her mind now. Going by how mouthy she was, she's a strong girl too. I can see potential, and I'm not going to let her falter when I feel that she can get through this. I would want someone to see the same in me and help me through such a debacle, because even though my memories are not the best, I would still want to know who I am, to be somebody rather than nothing. I will make this girl somebody. <br><br>It doesn't take her long to pick a letter out, going with the top spot. A half smile quirks on my lips as she gives me a true smile, but it fades as she does, and she tells me that even though she isn't positive it's her own, it's important to her. "If it's important to you, it's important to me." I whisper to her over the rush of the ocean waves as the moon peeks it's bright eyes from around the clouds. "It's what you feel is right." I stop a moment, thinking to myself. A. What can I call her? I'd hate to give her an actual name that's not her own. I focus on the letter, and think of the first thing that comes to mind. Soon, I'm remembering a sharp black A on a dingy playing card, an Ace of Spades in my hand at the end of last night's poker game with a few of my closest men. That class of card had been sneaking up on me all night, helping me to win almost too often, though fortunately my men know me enough to know I'm no cheater. It's a strong card, the strongest card in most games. It was lucky for me. Maybe it can be lucky for her. "How about Ace?" My smile grows. "Like the top spot on a playing deck. It's not a true name you can grow attached to, but it's something I can call you in the meantime. Does that sound all right?" <br><br>I look towards the horizon, and I realize that night has officially fallen. They are going to start looking for me if I don't return soon. As I look back at her, with the wind chilling her damp skin and playing about her hair, I realize how freezing it must be for her, especially since she's all wet. It probably hasn't hit her yet, considering her shock, but now that she's calming down, she's surely going to be feeling it. "Here, before you start shivering so violently I won't know what to do with you." I finally let go of her arms as I let out a low and short chuckle, stripping myself of my gun in order to take off my overcoat. The uniforms are heavy enough as it is, and missing a coat won't be too big of a deal considering I'm just traveling back to camp. I never let go of my gun, as a precaution as I always want to be at the ready if we were to be attacked, but I manage to get the jacket off, and once the rifle is slung back around me, I help her to get her petite frame into the heavy coat. "Better." I place my hand on her back for a moment, leading her towards the direction of my base, before I drop it to my side and walk right alongside her. <br><br>"I doubt they will understand my... Compassion, towards you, so we are going to need to give you some sort of alibi if you want to stick near me." The boys would probably think I was crazy, taking on this lost girl who I've only just met, and those who hardly know me would believe I would just be doing this to take advantage of her, which is not anywhere close to being who I am. I'm not a sick pig like most of them seem to be. Also, Colonel Lancaster would scoff at it and possibly make me drop her off at the next town so that she can find her own way, which I believe would be disastrous. I know what it's like to be alone, never mind alone with no purpose and no sense of how to get to those who care about you, thinking you might not even have a single person in the world, and I would never wish that on anyone. Fortunately, it doesn't take me long to think of something good enough. "You'll be my once removed second cousin, but on my stepmother's side. You recently lost your family due to our enemy, and heard that I was nearby, and came to me, because you have nowhere else to go with any other family being so far away." I stop as I give her a once over, taking her arm so that she stops with me, knowing I have to somehow hide that gash on her head. I soon reach into one of my pockets and pull out a clean brown handkerchief, which I use to wipe away the rest of the excess blood on the side of her face after squeezing out a part of her wet inner jacket onto it, "Pardon my rough hands." I apologize as my thumb and forefinger hold her face still while I rub the blood off. "This will be good enough until I can clean you up properly." With that, I fold the hanky so that the blood is no longer showing, and hand it to her, "Wrap this here." I order as I gesture to my hairline. It will cover up her wound, but merely look as if it's a band that's keeping her hair out of her face. "There." I say as she does what I tell her, before we are back on our way. Now, onto details. I'm glad this isn't a short walk. <br><br>"My stepmother's name is Agnes Swire, who is married my father, General Amos Ledger. She's older by quite a few years. You have only met twice. We have only met once." I pause to think of where it was we could have met. "Around this time of year, five years ago, before I first joined the army. It's November 17th, by the way." I inform her, gathering she doesn't know the date. "If you have any questions, ask away." There isn't much time for that, as that's when we are back at camp, a majority of the men in their tents, retiring for the night or just screwing around doing whatever it is they do. Those who aren't done with their tasks for the day are still out working in the cold. Many of them turn and stare when they see me coming with a young attractive woman at my side, a mixture of curiosity, skepticism, and sometimes lust coming over their faces. A few shout out, just stating my return, and I nod to them to show that I'm fine, while several others let out wolf whistles and other questionable calls, and almost like a reflex, I put my arm about her in a protective manner, my hand resting on her shoulder as I lead her to the Colonel's tent. <br><br>I turn to her once we get there and take her hands in my own. "This will only take a moment. Wait for me here." I release her hands and turn into the tent, where I meet with the Colonel. I tell him how I didn't find any of our own soldiers, nor did I discover any threats. I tell him of my so called 'cousin' who found me on the beach, shaken from what had happened to her because of our enemy. I ask him if she may stay with us, and he inquires if she can work. I lie a bit, saying that she can surely work, and would probably be made useful in the kitchen, since we are short a few in that aspect, among some other things. He considers it while I hold my breath, and agrees, as long as she promises to stay out of the way. I tell him that I will keep her out of trouble, and thank him graciously before saluting him, bidding him good night, and heading outside, letting out a breath of relief. <br><br>"You're in." I inform her, my arm maneuvering around her once more as I lead her to my tent, keeping a watchful eye on all of the men. "You'll most likely be working on our kitchen, because you'll have to earn your keep if you're going to stay here." I pause for a moment, thinking of what else I have to tell her, "Oh, and to everyone else, you're Alice, just for the purpose of authentic facts." I speak quietly, not wanting others to hear, and I smirk a bit, "Apologies for the name choice, for some reason that story Alice's Adventures In Wonderland popped into my head." I tell her as I unzip the flap that leads into my tent, letting her go first before I follow her in, zipping it closed behind me. My tent is one of the more spacious ones due to my title, and while there is only one cot, I'm sure we can figure something out. <br><br>"Make yourself comfortable, this will be your home for awhile. It doesn't change much from place to place." I strip myself of each one of my guns and a slew of knives, leaving myself with nothing but a small pistol at my belt, placing them on a small brass fold out table at the head of my cot. I strip myself of another jacket and a thick tunic, the latter with numerous filled pockets, leaving myself in my trousers and thermal undershirt. I pull my cigarettes and lighter out of the jacket before I fold the clothing up well enough and place them on the bottom shelf of the table, ready to be worn tomorrow. We don't have an abundant amount of extra uniforms, and considering the dense and resisting fabric, we get several wears out of them before bothering to wash them. <br><br>I pull a cigarette out of the pack, purposely turning away from the trunk across from my cot, as I put the stick to my lips and bring the lighter up to it. "The trunk has some dry clothes for you to wear until your own dry out. Let me know when you're done, and then I can tend to your head wound." I say whilst balancing the cigarette on my lips, and finally I light it, facing the tent wall and not moving anywhere, taking a slow drag in. I have not a clue how this is all going to work, but so far so good. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Oct 12 2012, 11:08 PM Post #11 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br> He doesn't act like I'm crazy, or even as if I've lost everything…the way it really is. I mean, it's not as if he's trying to shield me from the truth, either--it's just…he gives me hope, and makes me feel as if, despite all this winding chaos, I've got someone beside me. An ally of sorts. Eli makes it seem as if we've been friends this whole time…that whatever happens now will touch him, too. So, despite all the darkness closing in on us, my smile forms again, dimples pinching my cheeks. I need this. Someone to share things with. Without it…I'm alone, and if I'm alone…I'll be lost, the same way I was minutes ago when I went to pieces in the sand. Eli's giving me something to hold onto. <br><br>I wait as he pauses, deciding what to do with the smallest tidbit of information I gave him. I try my hand at coming up with something myself, but he ends up beating me to the chase. "Ace?" I repeat, a bit taken aback, for that's not a typical name by any means. And yet, it seems more right than any other A name would or could be (unless my real one, of course. I just hope I would recognize it if it ever came along). It's much better than Anne or Abigail, and he's sold me with his smile. "Sounds…tricky," I respond, nose twitching slightly as I give him a smug little grin. "I like it." The top spot in a deck. I wonder if the real me is even close to being as extraordinary. I hope so. No, I'll make it so. Maybe the point of the matter isn't to just become who I once was, but to become someone even greater than I believe existed before. <br><br>A gull cries in the distance then, and I look towards the water, where the black sea turns over and over, like a fresh sheet being shaken out over a bed. The moon's already high up in the sky, with wispy vaporous clouds of silk drifting past it like careless dancers. For a second, I almost feel as if I remember something. Some story about someone who lived on the moon, or in the moon…or was it a ship? The memory's as far and hazy as the stars, and I'm quickly pulled out of my thoughts as Eli speaks up, talking about shivering. It's at this moment I realize how cold it really is--that biting wind taking nips at my skin, and my hair feeling as if it's going to freeze over any second. But Eli takes care of that, taking off his coat and helping me into it. "Much better, thank you," I chirp as I tug it around me tighter, one side of the coat overlapping the other like the flap of an envelope. "Blimey--they must sew lead into these things," comes my remark as I lift one arm, feeling much, much heavier than it was before. "Is that how they train you then?" I quip before laughter breaks over, imagining a world with soldiers running over hills with suits made of iron…or maybe tin. Tin soldiers. <br><br>Not long after, Eli mentions that he doesn't think everyone will understand my situation, and that I'm going to have to lie. At first I think it's odd. Aren't soldiers supposed to be heroes? I didn't think anyone would mind. But then I realize…there's a possibility I could have been a spy, or something worse. I don't think it's true, but because I have no proof of who I am…well, sometimes the army likes to perform precautionary methods that wouldn't be too comfortable. "Right," I nod, preferring this idea. I don't fancy wasting away in a cell just because I can't remember. He comes up with a fair story about me being a relative on his stepmother's side, and that I, having lost my family in the war, came to find him for help and protection. "…that's rather grim," I say, blinking, frowning as I think about it. Everyone gone except for me. It wasn't very far from the current truth, except that I'm the one who's gone, not them…and that I'll soon be back. It's nothing as permanent as death. I…I hope. I pray that won't be the life I return to when my memories return to me. I shake my head and shoulders, as if to rid myself of such a curse. "Never mind that, though. It sounds very…" Perfect was hardly the word I would use for such an ordeal. "…very conceivable." I smile smartly at him, just before he stops me suddenly, looking me over like a child who had just arrived home covered in mud. <br><br>Without a word, Eli squeezes part of my jacket onto his handkerchief. "What are you…" I start, curiously, but then he apologizes and starts wiping my face, the cloth turning red where it touches my skin. "Ow," I breathe sharply, my head hurting now. Strange how you can go on without feeling the cold or pain for some while before it's actually brought to your attention. "I feel like I'm being groomed before church," I say as he works at it, my eyes following his movements. When Eli finishes, he tells me to cover the wound with the handkerchief like its a hairband, and I loop the cloth between my neck and hair and tie a knot near the crown, careful not to put too much pressure where it hurts. <br><br>Eli gives me a few more scraps of his family history to nosh on during the walk, so I can be a little bit more rehearsed with my supposed story. From what he says, I sound like a very distant cousin indeed…but more deserving of his help that a complete stranger, the way I really am. I repeat the words in my head after he says them so that they might sink in better. November 17th. I wonder how that day would have affected me if I could still remember. If it was close to someone's birthday--even my own--or if it means nothing at all, the way it does to me now. Everything is liable. "None that you can answer," I respond with a closed smile. No, I mustn't be bitter. "I think that'll do for now. We can go over particulars later." If it's needed. That is to say, if I won't be tossed aside, distant relative as I was, and all our lies would turn to mud. The odd thing was, I wasn't only curious about myself. I was curious about him. A stepmother and a father who's a general. There were many tales to be told there, I could imagine, although I couldn't be sure if they were the sort one would like to talk about. <br><br>We walk into the camp together, the tents and men huddled together like mischievous children. Most of them seemed to have a high regard for Eli, from the way they reacted upon his return, though some of the others seem to be…less…savory, shall we say. And I start feeling nervous, not because I don't feel as if I couldn't handle a pig or even a wolf, but because from this moment on, I'm Alice Swire. At least, until I have a moment alone with Eli, but I don't know how often that will happen, seeing the size of the place and knowing that if I can stay, we'll both have duties to attend to. I can't just follow him around. Worry causes me to feel the cold and my aches more, but Eli wraps his arm around me, and his warmth and assurance brush them away. <br><br>We reach the biggest tent, the Colonel's, and Eli takes my hands before he goes. "Good luck," I whisper quickly, giving him another smile for fortune, right before he disappears. I wait outside the tent anxiously by a pile of chopped wood, fidgeting as I wonder what his colonel will say. If they cast me aside…where will I go? What will I do? Maybe I've only know Eli for an hour or so, but he's the only thing in my new life right now, and I wouldn't want him to be taken away as quickly as he came. I've already had enough taken from me for now…I don't want him to go, too! It's strange. I'm more worried about the fact that I would be losing him when I'm sent away than any of the other details, but he's been my anchor since I woke up--no, my lighthouse. Somehow, just…somehow, I feel that if I stay with him, I'll find my way back. <br><br>My thoughts are interrupted when my eyes catch another soldier's from across the way. I turn away, trying to shake off the attention, but when I glance back to check, he's still there. A sickening smile forms on his thin lips, and my hand instinctively moves behind me, going to grasp at the oak handle of the ax planted in one of the logs. But right as he starts walking, the tent flaps to the side, and Eli appears again, telling me that I'm "in." "Oh, thank God," I give a sigh of relief under my breath, forgetting myself for a moment. I let go of the handle as he places his arm around me, informing me of the new situation. The kitchens? "Maybe I was a cook at the palace in my old life," I say thoughtfully, although it's very doubtful. I can't imagine it at all (then again, I can hardly imagine anything but nonsense, it seems). <br><br>"Don't worry, though. I'm good at taking direction, I think. I won't get you in trouble." Not after all he's done for me. Eli's truly putting himself on the line. If they find out he lied…well, I'm not sure what would happen, but I don't believe they would just make him stand in a corner. This is the army, after all. "I promise," I look up at him as we walk, eyes meeting his, wanting to know that I mean every word of it. He won't be putting himself at risk because I'm not going to do anything foolish to expose this charade. <br><br>Eli tells me my new, new name then, which isn't too different from the one he gave me a few moments ago. Only two new letters…just a "li" (a lie?) in between. "Alice Swire," I test it out for myself, my lips carefully forming the letters, tasting it. "Hm." The life of Alice Swire sounds as if it would have been a little tedious. The same conversations in the parlor, the same floral dresses and ribbons, day in and day out. Ace Swire, however, sounds as if she's had more than a couple adventures--or no, actually, Ace Ledger sounds the finest. Full of excitement and spirit. But i shouldn't even be thinking about any of this. It's not my choice, and it doesn't really matter in the end. None of them are mine. Nothing is mine. <br><br>Except for the A, possibly. <br><br>At the mention of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, however, I find my mood lifting. That's a comparison I wouldn't mind. "Is it because of my ears?" I ask brightly, left eyebrow lifted as I point up at the two ends of the tied handkerchief on my head, each poking up slightly on the side, almost like the sleepy brown ears of a hare. "Funny, I remember that," I chuckle lightly, attempting not to lose my mind again as I shake my head. I can remember a character in some story, but I can't remember my own. It seems as if fantasy is all I can remember. If only I could trade! But I have to be thankful that I have help at all to begin with. <br><br>I follow Eli into his tent, and it actually looks larger than it does on the outside. Though expectably plain, there's all the usual amenities of a normal bedroom…save for a glass window, of course. "That's good," I reply as my eyes trace over the lines of the cloth ceiling. "As it would happen, I'm rather keen on familiarity right now," I quip, rocking back and forth on my heels as I clasp my hands behind me, smiling at him. The more I push through and just try to make light o the situation, the more I feel like…myself, whoever she was. It seems mad to try to buoy something of this gravity, but there are worse things than madness. <br><br>Eli immediately begins to make himself comfortable, and I fall in pattern, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of his chair to dry, because I think I've made it a little damp on the walk over. I go over to the trunk as he bids, and sift through the things, all of them too big. I settle on a long green shirt and a pair of beige pants, grateful for the belt. "So…" I start as I button up, contemplating whether to tuck the shirt in or not. I decide against it, for it's not as if I'm going to be put under inspection in here or anything. "…it might take me some while before I remember my story." I admit with a slight wince as I have to roll up the bottom of the pants a smidgen so they don't drag on the floor. But large or not, warm clothes are wonderful, I'm suddenly remembering, my wet garments lain out over the space on the small wooden bench to the side. "If nothing else, can I learn yours 'til then?" I ask, straightening myself out as I make my way over to him. <br><br>"Like…how long have you been in the war for?" </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Oct 14 2012, 06:27 PM Post #12 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>"If the army is anything, it's familiarity." I mutter as Ace remarks on being keen on familiarity now. "People seem to think it's always so adventurous all the time, or exciting, but after awhile it becomes the same song and dance." It's safe to say I've been here too long, and yet, compared to some others, hardly enough time has been spilled onto my resume. I haven't done the decades my father has yet. I don't plan to, but it's slowly becoming the destiny I'm stuck with. I'll probably still be here even when the men around me are either dead or able to come home due to mental and physical injury. That's the only way you get out of this place. It's like a prison. <br><br>I roll the thin paper log of tobacco between my thumb and forefinger absentmindedly as I listen to her go through my clothes. I puff on it gently a couple times, shifting my weight from one boot to the other. I listen to her shuffling, gathering by certain ruffling that she found something to suit her for now. She speaks up soon enough, feeling it wouldn't be silent for long with her around. She doesn't seem to be the quiet type, lack of memory or not. She asks to learn about my story until she can recall what makes up her own. I suppose that was inevitable. Right. My story. I'm about to ask her what she'd like to know, but she beats me to it, inquiring how long I've been in the army. I blow out my smoke slowly, sensing how close she is to me, and taking that as a cue to turn around. I do just that, peeking over my shoulder cautiously to make sure she's dressed before I face her entirely. <br><br>"Five years." It sounds more surreal when I say it out loud. Five years. That's a quarter of my life in the army. "I started when I was fifteen years old." I move passed her, taking another drag of my cigarette, this one so long it nearly diminishes the whole thing. I drop the butt on the floor and smash it down with the toe of my boot, the strings of tobacco and burnt pieces of paper blending into the grass beneath us. I hold that smoke in my lungs for as long as I can before I let it slip out, a short cough escaping at the end of the stream. I know, and most everyone knows, that the minimum age to be drafted into this army is fourteen years old on both sides, so I go on to explain, whether she knows this fact or not. <br><br>"Just as I reached fourteen, I came down with a severe case of influenza." I walk over to my cot and sit down, glancing up at her expectantly before I gesture to the empty spot beside me for her to sit with one hand and over to the folding chair at the other side of the tent with the other. She can sit near or far. I don't mind either way. "I hardly ever got sick, which backfired on me because it meant my ability to fight off such infections were horrid." I shake my head, smirking to myself. "Though, honestly, sometimes during my sickness, I was grateful it had kept me off the battlefield that much longer." I inhale deeply through my nose and huff it out through my mouth. "The influenza transformed into pneumonia, and if I hadn't been the luckiest boy in the world, I doubt I would have made it." <br><br>I fiddle with my lighter, flicking it on and off, blue eyes reflecting the bright orange frame. "It weakened me greatly once I had recovered, so my father refused for me to be taken into the army until I was in the right shape to go." I glance over at her. "Since my father was a top general, that sort of persuasion was easy. He insisted. My father would rather die than suffer the embarrassment of having his son enter the military, only for him to die within the year. What a disgrace I would be." I grunt slightly at that, leaning forward and placing my elbows on my knees. "So, for the next eleven months, he trained me his way. Training in the army is brutal as it is, but training with General Ledger makes it seem like a party in comparison." I let out a curt laugh, remembering how I found some points of my official training laughable after what I had been through. "He made sure I got dirty too. He wanted to make sure I got sick. I had three colds in that time span, though that didn't stop the training." As my father would say, a cold wouldn't keep you from the fight, so why should it keep you from anything else? <br><br>"By the time I was fifteen, I was more prepared than anyone else in my age group. There was so much expected of me, considering that I was the offspring of the most ruthless and feared soldier in recent history." I turn more somber as I think of my father and those days where everybody was either cautious of me or tried to belittle me, as if I had to be knocked down to size, but that wasn't the case. "I went through basic training, as was protocol, but it was like a vacation before I was put into the thick of it. It went unfortunately fast." I sigh, pulling back my shoulders, feeling the tightness of my scarred skin. "This has been my life ever since. I take leave to see my father and stepmother from time to time, but I always come back here, to the same morbid game of war." I sound so tired all of a sudden, even surprising myself, so I swallow and run my hand over my face, shoving my lighter into my pants' pocket with my other hand. "It's a fulfilling life, to be sure." I say with a simper while my tone is partially sarcastic and my eyes are wholly admiring the girl intently listening to my not so chipper tales. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Oct 17 2012, 10:48 PM Post #13 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br> "Well, the same song and dance can be fun if you change partners," I shrug my shoulders as I continue surveying the room. There isn't much in here, at least on the personal note. I don't think I could tell much about a person's life by looking around this room, except for the fact that it doesn't seem to be very exciting, just as he said. "Or if you just happen to have the right one," I finish as I glance over the table where he's lain down his weapons as my own words sink in. My, I must've been a contradictory little thing in my past life. My finger absentmindedly goes to nudge the handle of a knife so that it's straight on the table before I glance back at him, smiling, too caught on recognizing my own personality to realize what I've indicated. <br><br>Eli doesn't seem to be bothered by my inquiries, answering me almost straightaway. Five years. That's long and short at the same time. Once you reach a certain age, that number doesn't seem so large, but when you're still young, it's a great, big heaping chunk of your life. He's twenty, then, and for a moment I wonder if I'm younger or older. I don't think I'm the latter, but there's no proof either which way. I feel that this story isn't going to be a very happy one, however, and for a moment, I'm sorry I asked. I don't like hearing these sorts, but at least I have some comfort in knowing that the protagonist of the story, regardless of any trial he's been through, seems to be all right now, standing before me in one big piece, not bits of them. <br><br>My eyes follow the falling cigarette like a burning star before it hits the floor, immediately extinguished by Eli's shoe. He begins a story on how he became ill, but before he continues, he gestures for me to sit on the cot or on the chair, and naturally, I choose the cot. Why would anyone choose to sit far away during a story? Unless it was some sort of show-story with a little stage, and thus sitting a bit away would make it so you could see the whole picture better, there was no reason for it. I take a seat beside him, lifting myself onto the coat as I kick off my soggy boots and cross my feet beneath me, hands cupping my knees as I listen intently, face waiting. <br><br>His flu had gotten much worse, almost killing him. But he survived, and I'm sure his body is now much better armed against such attacks. Eli mentions how his father didn't want him trying to join the army until he was completely well again, which seemed like a very logical thing. It could be a dangerous thing, jumping back down into your boots again before you can walk right. I thought it was nice that his father had used what sway he had to make sure Eli didn't join prematurely…that is, until Eli finishes by explaining how his father didn't want to be disgraced by a recently-ailed, weakened son. "He did it because he didn't want to be embarrassed?" I clarify without needing to, my eyebrows bunching up in dislike of his father's character already. I thought he had done everything out of love, not reputation…a thing that is on the bottom of the totem of importance. <br><br>His father then proceeded to further ensure no stain would be made on the Ledger name, going so far as to push Eli into his own sort of training, which I don't think I would want to imagine. Eli even caught three colds! What sort of monster of a father would put his own child through something like this?! "But that's ridiculous," I can't help but insert, shaking my head. I'm almost relieved to say that nothing within me recognizes these sort of sentiments, thankfully, but it doesn't make me happy to hear the person who has become my sole savior in the past few hours was treated this way. I thought his tale would be some exciting, fantastic one, maybe about how his father rescued some family from a burning building, and from that day forth, Eli truly felt inspired to become a hero, too. But that's not even close to the true story. In fact, I don't even know if Eli ever even wanted to be a soldier to begin with. <br><br>As he carries on with his story, I'm only given more proof on this theory. Expectations and training and his father. His father is like some veiny black disease that overtook Eli's whole life, spreading everywhere until there was no room for his own decisions to be made. The same song, same dance, same game. That's all Eli thinks of this world his father's created for him. Some world he wants his son to conquer. I prop one leg up, letting the other dangle beneath me. "That's not a life," I remark, almost like a disgruntled child who had just been told magic doesn't exist. "That's a schedule. A routine." I rest my chin on my knee, my hands a cushion in-between. "One you didn't even choose for yourself." It didn't sound fair, or right, or happy. Nothing positive, really. I stare back at Eli, seeing through his smirk like a pair of scissors, cutting the strings of his mask, the facade falling to the floor. I see a dreary soul, tied down by chains formed by his father and time. <br><br>I raise my head then, eyes sweeping over Eli without his full uniform. I like it better. "Where do you think you'd be right now?" I ask suddenly, genuinely curious, unaware that I could be being meddlesome. "If you never had anything to do with the war, I mean." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Oct 19 2012, 02:09 PM Post #14 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>"It is what it is." I grunt in return to her evaluation of my life, or lack of one. She's right. It's not a life, or it's not my life. It's my father's formation of a life for his son. He wants a mirror. He wants to wake up one morning and see himself in me, see that hardhearted bastard who could watch hundreds of his men fall and not bat an eye, as long as they were winning. He believed sacrifice was apart of that. He wants a man of importance, someone respected and feared, who makes people become their best selves when he walks into the room, because they are afraid of being otherwise. I can recall a time when I was young, of my father and mother fighting, and after he had smacked her, he had told her that is was better to be feared than to be loved. My mother attempted to hit him back, managing a few slaps against his scarred face and jabs at his shoulders as he laughed at her, saying that it was a damn sure thing that I didn't love him. <br><br>I didn't. <br><br>He still scares me, along with about ninety percent of the squadron and whoever else comes across him. My poor stepmother only just learned to stop shaking whenever he speaks to her. <br><br>I meet her eyes as she asks me what I would be doing if I hadn't had a thing to do with the war, and she stops me short. I freeze, staring down at her, and I find that nothing comes to mind. No one has ever asked me such a question before. Being the son of General Ledger, everyone assumes that this life is what I wanted. They don't ask questions. They merely gather this is my destiny and it would be highly improbable that I would crave anything else. That's not even close to being true, but now that I am being asked, I realize that even though I have wished for a life free of the army, I never really pondered on what it was I would do otherwise. <br><br>What can I do? <br><br>"I'm..." I shift my eyes over to the side, ashamed of what I'm about to say, "I'm not really sure, actually." My lips lift into an incredulous smile as flat noted chuckle hiccups out, my cyan irises glossing over. "I hardly have a clue what I would be, or who I'd be." I know I would be a whole lot of nothing wrapped in human skin to my father, but who else would I be? What would I be doing? I look down at my lap, and I trace my finger down a thick jagged line along the bottom of my thumb, one of my numerous scars. That one I got from unimpressively slicing myself on a sharp rock getting out of one of the trenches. "Look at me. Molded into a robot. Programmed to do what I have to do. No functions of my own." My low voice rolls out another chortle as I hide my growing melancholy, giving a single shake of my head before my scarred palm goes up to swiftly wipe my eye, abruptly blurred by an ambush of tears. How embarrassing. <br><br>I keep my head down as I pull my boots off, swinging my legs to the side opposite of her, laying myself down behind her. I'm not a particularly large man, nor do I move much in my sleep according to my former bottom bunk mate in basic training, so if she wants to lay with me, she can go right ahead. I'll quite easily keep my hands to myself. The arm nearest to her comes up, slipping my hand behind my head while the other rests over my bread basket. I scratch there lightly in an absentminded manner as I stare at her shoulder until she turns around, "Apologies if you were expecting the story of a valiant hero, the writer of his own tale. You won't find that here." <br><br>I close my eyes, her question nagging at me despite already answering it. There had to be something before this, before my father began forming me into his puppet. There must have been something my mother had supported in me, a childlike dream I must have had before her passing. That's when I recall my faint memories of her, and remember that she was a teacher. As I child, I had always admired it, and even assisted in teaching her youngest students at times. A teacher. I told my mother I wanted to be a teacher, like her. It wasn't long after that she tried to run away with me in tow, in order to give me my best shot. <br><br>My eyes snap open, and I hop up onto my elbows, propping myself up. "No. I would have been something." I narrow my dark brows as I think on it, pushing past the cloudy influx of memories from my childhood. The want to be a teacher or professor had been stomped out after my mother's death, the fate of being a soldier drilled into me the longer I made the foolish decision to stay by my father's side. I realize that the desire has never really left me, however, in the small bouts of joy I feel when I help with the basic training, or tutor a fresh faced soldier on how to perform a task. I am liberated when I see them get it, when they get that spark in their eyes, and they thank me. "It's not overly romantic or anything like that, but... I wanted to be a teacher." I look at her with a grin suddenly infiltrating my lips. "My mother was a professor until the first draft of the war took away the majority of her students, and after that taught elementary until the day she passed. I always idolized the charge, and I suppose even now, it's what I enjoy most, training my men." <br><br>I relax again, my arms going back to their original position, and I let out a sigh of contentment. "I'd probably be a professor of some sort, helping with the war on the outside somehow, and hopefully courting a girl as bright eyed as yourself." I glance over at her for a moment before I swallow and gander up at the ceiling. "I'll surely be teaching you while you're here, Ace. The last thing we need is for you to be clueless while you're tagging along. I'll get you to be as sufficient as the rest of my men, though you'll probably end up being better, getting one on one with me." I say in a light cocky tone, a cheeky smile forming as I look back at her. "That means we should both get some rest." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Nov 7 2012, 12:21 AM Post #15 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 407px; text-align:justify;"> <br>After my question, Eli just sort of turns into stone, like I've turned into a Gorgon instead of just asking him about his dreams and aspirations. "I've knocked you for a loop, haven't I?" I remark briskly, one eyebrow raising above the other in a half-frown. "I can see the horror of the unknown flooding over your face." Must've been the same look I had on the shore when he found me and I realized I needed to look for myself--all right, no, nothing's so drastic as that, maybe, but perhaps something a bit like it. Anyway, I promised to stop thinking about it, at least for the moment. <br><br>Eli answers me then, telling me he's unsure. Which isn't an uncommon thing. Some people live their whole lives without ever knowing what they're meant to be, or want to be--I don't know how I know that, but I do. I suppose it's natural for humans to be flawed, or else we wouldn't be human at all. Eli seems to take this more seriously than I, however, his eyes starting to turn glassy, and he goes far enough to call himself a robot, which I won't stand for. "Oh no, come on, now," I say, leaning and nudging his shoulder with mine. "You don't have to be so dramatic," I tease. "I don't think I'm one to ask easy questions," I chuckle, but then when I see how this question has really hit him hard, to the point where he's wiping away tears, I stop abruptly. This isn't a game to him. It's something serious. <br><br>"…many people are the same," I say with a small smile, trying to hearten him again, my hand going to rest on his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze, but Eli pulls off his boots and lies down, giving up on the subject, it'd seem. When I glance back at him, Eli's apologetic over the fact that he hasn't given me some big spiel with all the splashy effects, which only makes me frown. "That's not true. Anyone can be a hero…everyone is the hero of their tale, and the writer. Sometimes it just takes a little longer to pick up the pen, that's all." I feel as if there's someone almost speaking in my head, telling me what words to say, and that makes them mean so much more. They're familiar words, words from a dream I've had many times, it feels like. <br><br>Eli closes his eyes, and I start to worry that I've gone too far. He's taken me in, after all…I should probably try to watch my mouth, but it's hard. I can't stop from saying the things on my mind. I mean, it's odd, because I must have a lot of space since I can't remember, but I just feel like…if I did keep everything bottled up, I'd explode into pieces. But no, there's nothing wrong with saying how you feel. Someone told me that before. <br><br>Still, I can't stop mulling over it, and I just sit there, staring at Eli and trying to imagine what he's thinking about--if he's angry at me, even. But then all of a sudden, he sits up, and retracts his previous statements, saying he would've been someone. Immediately, my worried look evaporates, attentiveness immediately taking the reigns as I copy his movements, so that I can be at ear and eye level, my features indicating nothing other than "well, go on, then!" He starts by saying how it's not romantic or anything, heaven forbid, but eventually cracks a smile and says he wanted to be a teacher, like his mother. "That's a good one," I gasp--I've never really thought about that profession before, for some reason. It feels very different to me, but the way Eli describes it…you just can't argue with something like that. He makes it sound so pleasant, like the whole purpose we're put on life would be to educate others--to make them better, to guide them with a warm hand. A fond smile brightens my face as I listen to him talk about it, excited as a boy who just got his first bike. <br><br>"You are something, though," I can't help but correct when he pauses for a bit. I don't like the idea of people thinking they're nothing. If anything, that would be…no, stop. I said I wouldn't. "But maybe you'll be the something you want to be sometime in the future. You never know." He couldn't be in the war forever, after all. That'd be mad. I roll over to lie on my back as he goes on, staring at the cloth ceiling as he's telling me what he'd be…courting a girl like me, maybe. A little tidbit so startling that I feel the heat rushing to my ears. I was finding no trouble with sleeping side by side with a friend. I was thinking of it like sleeping with your sibling or twin--you're just sleeping. But now, I feel flushed. And oh, he's looking at me. I can't find the words to say, just staring back at him until he swallows and looks away and I gulp and avert my own eyes, pressing my lips together as my dimples dig even further, keeping quiet as Eli soldiers on and tells me how he'll be my teacher here, even lacing it with a cheeky note. <br><br>"Oh, I can hardly wait for class to begin, 'Professor Ledger'," I laugh, doing a mini two-fingered salute within the narrow space. "I'll make you proud, cousin." By the end of the day, there were so many false names that i was beginning to feel like I was in a storybook. But then again, it's just like we already said--life itself's nothing more than a novel you write. <br><br>"Good night, Eli," I say with a smile in my tone, the arm next to his giving his sleeve a friendly tug. "See you in the morning." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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