After countless surgeries Bob took a final look around, glancing past the sterile hospital room now lavishly decorated with cards and balloons, instead allowing himself long moments with those precious loved ones who had supported him all along and even at the end were standing at his side, and having said a silent goodbye died.
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His heart stopped. After lying for hours in the cold and dark, he could hold out no longer. His legs, his arms, even his voice failed to answer the call from his brain.
The alley, which looked like a good short cut in the driving snow, was deserted. The entire neighborhood was bundled up inside.
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It was late, too late. The dance was long over, and the gang were supposed to be here for an all-night movie marathon. They should be half way through The Lord of the Rings by now.
The phone pierced the silent tension.
“Hello?”
A somber voice replied. “Is this the mother of Richard Abrams?”
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A lone bead of sweat rolled past his ear and under his starched white collar. He thought of his family briefly but quickly pushed them aside. The pain, the suffering, the humiliation came back is heady waves. Today all would be set right. Reaching inside his overcoat he flicked a small switch.
10… 9… 8…
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Explosions echoed off nearby buildings. The Humvee roared down the street slowing for nothing. Rounding a corner Sgt. Markos saw an obstacle. The road was blocked by the burnt-out shell of a minibus. Standing in front four small children held weapons.
Pressing down on the accelerator, Markos left the threat and his soul behind.
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Jimmy climbed into bed and whispered, “I love you sweetheart. Goodnight.” With his right hand he stretched out to hold his wife. His arm moved a little further across the bed until it reached full extension. For a brief moment Jimmy began to panic. Where was she? Then with a flood of emotion, he […]
Silently the waiter came to clear the dishes and deliver the bill. He reviewed it carefully: two salads, scallop risotto and shrimp Alfredo, two glasses of pinot grigio, two pieces of blackberry cheesecake. Putting his pen away, he glanced at the uneaten food across from him before shuffling off to their - no, his empty […]
Most gave the same hybrid look, saying both, “Shut up!” and, “Do you know how stupid you look?” Occasionally it would be, “Poor man;” but usually it was contempt and disgust. Ten years on and it still stung like the first day.
Still, he was compelled to continue. Opening his Bible, he began to speak.
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Mark caught his breath. The injection seemed to be working. He could feel himself relaxing, hear his heart slowing. His eyes were heavy, but he stole a glance toward his wife. He managed a weak smile before closing his eyes. The last thing he remembered was a steady whine from the machine near his bed.
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He was no longer a boy. With his bare hands he had killed men. And held dying friends. Such things had aged him far beyond his four-year enlistment. He sat and wondered if he would ever be free from the war. Today at least, on that bus home, he was free from the uniform.
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