School
Home sweet home, maybe now I can find asylum from my experiences in the Jungle. The air was cold as I was released in January, but the cold wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for the wind. Yet as the door clicked unlocked and the hinges squeaked open, I called "Honey, I'm home!" It was just for a small spark of humor. I don't yet have a 'Honey' to embrace intimately or snuggle with or brace my face into when the scars burrow too deep, even though there is someone I write to from time to time who I feel some affection for, someone too far from me physically. My backpack crashes against the tile floor with a bang, prompting a quick scold from Mom to be careful.
As if I could care. Right now, all I can think about is playing my games, or - anything to take my mind off.
I huffed a gruff smirk and thudded upstairs to take a shower. Those 15 or so minutes were relaxing, like what bed can do to a person in that the body becomes relaxed in its fully natural form (that is, in this case, totally nude), the mind drifts freely from the sensation, and even the spirit takes a holiday. After that, I sit on the toilet to "take a number three". Telling what that means explicitly would get me in trouble, but let's just say it's a sort of meditation...fueled by hormonal release. That was as long as the shower. It was great, as the intellectual and moral problems drift aside, leaving the heart to pump warm love for thoughts of some delicate girl getting nipped at all over until she just can't stand the feeling anymore, the teasing pangs just bearing at her stamina's end while keeping her alive to constantly feel it. Hearing her squeaks and cries in my imagination causes my own breath to become jagged, with her fictional squirms jolting me to mimic it on the seat.
About halfway through my exercise, the door knocks. Again, it's Mom. This time, she's a bit more persistent, demanding calmly for me to explain everything of how things went. Damn, I can hardly get any peace around here...And 'peace' to me isn't the same as 'peace' to the pacifists that infest this country like a roach problem, fucking hippie shits.
What's my beef with them? They have no appreciation of what men and sometimes women like us do. They say they do, sometimes plastering their vans with stickers of the armed forces, but they don't honestly know what it's like. Pacifism, my friend, is a luxury. They take it for granted - Worse, they act like it's the means to the ultimate society, like us warriors will cease to exist and all freedom will die just so they can taste their vaunted "world peace". That's bullshit, and that's not the America I grew up in! This is supposed to be "The land of the free and the home of the brave." Was that a lie? Those 'fucking hippie shits' would argue "Yes," with a dazed yet zealous hoot.
Mom knocks again. "Come on," she urges, as if she realizes I'm delaying the inevitable end of my rest. My meditation finishes with a dud, leaving my lower gland in a stinging cramp as if both tracts merged together and the waste fused with the 'forbidden factory', giving birth to diseases and infections. I get my clothes on, barely covering enough to ward off 'indecent exposure' which, since I'm a man, means I have the benefit of running around without a shirt and still not disturbing the family or neighbors. I wish women had the same range of freedom. It's just so attractive, yet distracting. I guess that distraction is partially why it's still not allowed, nor will it ever be. They say in France, women can run around topless on beaches. I've only heard stories about it.
Finally, I am bluntly confronted by both Mom and Dad, to go into detail. But, why am I so reluctant to discuss all the horrors and false glories I endured? This is Vietnam! This wasn't "The Good Fight" like World War 2, and even some of those veterans broke. This was savage, barbaric struggles to survive an endless onslaught of resource loss, breaking morale, filth that could swallow a child alive, and the guerrillas that kept teasing us with firefights that did little more than scare the common sense out of all us. I think that was their plan; just scare us until we couldn't think, then repeat so many times until we lost the will to fight. That's not to say we never died, just that was their most frequent ploy.
"I don't want to talk about it," I plainly grunt as I struggle to slither out of the living room. "Aww, C'mon," moaned Mom, "We want to hear about all your epic stories of greatness." As I marched up the stairs, both pursued me, and I barked, "Leave me alone!" "Look," Dad lectured, "Your uncle served in WWII and he would've been proud of what he did. What's missing?" I sarcastically quipped, "My sanity." Mom saw the Silver Star pinned onto my shirt and she became excited, almost bouncing up and down, begging me to tell her how I got it! It was because I risked death by Mustard Gas in order to hoist the handicapped Major off his ass and into the helicopter a hundred meters away. Amidst the gunfire from both factions and the seeping sounds of the helicopters creeping closer while dumping the golden death upon everything, that's not exactly fun. If I were the action hero I wanted to be, I swear I'd self-consciously love myself for it, crying sweet awesome! But no - I'm just a man, and it wasn't even on my own ambition. It was more like "CAPTAIN! You come back and haul me up there or my ghost will haunt you for the rest of your days, the report will show me dead and you'll be blamed for it, and you'll lose what shard of survivability you have left, maybe even demotion." It wasn't my choice, more like my commanding officers forced it on me. Now here's the kicker: That same incident, as it was happening,
I was sick with the flu!
Yeah, what fun
that would be to remember, getting shot at from Viet Kong kicking my ass while I'm sick and trying to rescue my boss from his own damn crippled husk!
I went out into my car and went for a drive, after struggling to free myself from their clasp. I drove around town, yet all I could hear was that chant: "All we are saying, is give peace a chance." It drove me nuts. I shook my head and went for a walk down the block to my friend Shawn. He was more than a friend, he served alongside me back in the early days of our terms. Basically, we're Brothers-in-Arms, which means he should know how I feel.
I noticed I didn't even bother to get out of my uniform, and my medal still dangled on my chest. I looked at it and then I remembered the sweet ignorant bliss of youth, thinking of how cool it would be to live as this hero, revered by the common people. Honestly, I think the lingering strains of hellish work would actually vanish if only people DID recognize the humbling power implied by such a decoration. People passed me by, but nothing. They minded their own business, from families to loving couples to other lonely guys and gals. All of them did not acknowledged this uniformed, decorated individual who stood out like a star on a Christmas tree.
I finally got to Shawn's house, and I rung the doorbell. He answered and invited me in. We talked, and I vented my frustration with my own parents and my little reflection from walking here. As we chatted, his own Mom was hollering from afar to urge him to clean up around the house. I unleashed my whole rant on him.
"I remember why I came into all this service junk, as if my heart starved for action and glory, but the action literally bit me in the ass and the glory doesn't even exist! Nobody cares that I risked my life for them and those that give a rat's ass instead belittle it every step of the way! I mean it would've been all worthwhile if I could at least get a 'Wow' once every so often, but nothing. Forget about things like 'You're the man' or 'You rock,' I'd be lucky to get noticed - by someone who
isn't some fucking hippie piece of shit! They're as dumb as deer, while I slug through all the crap and all the endless WAITING to get shot at in a one-sided firefight against my favor then wait some more to repeat it again, and again, and AGAIN."
By then, my head slammed the table, mostly from depression and dying morale but also partially because I had a shot of cola before I left - which, unbeknownst to my parents, I spiked with a bit of alcohol, out of my desperation for mental escape. I could've gone on, but I lost the will to and I reckoned I made my point. So how did this bud of mine react?
He patted me on the back, said calmly "That's how life is, but it's not supposed to destroy you like this, so don't let it." I snickered and quoted wisely, "Life is like a war." A chuckle later, I perked up some, enough to wipe my greasy face off his glossy wooden table. "Well," I calmly sigh with a sign of relief, "Thanks for the talk." We clanged glasses, and kicked back a bit, at least until the night crept and I had to go home.
Alas, it was time to face my pains and slay this dragon head-on, thanks to the chat I had earlier about dealing with these sort of issues. I sat down with Mom and Dad, telling them not only what went on but why it troubled me so much, from the moment of dashing for my Silver Star to the psychological torment that raged non-stop to even drawing on their own empathy with their own troubled pasts, since we all bear scars and bad memories, even you reading this.
I can't say there's a moral here, but maybe some scholar can nitpick one out. But you might think, "Wow, that was a sudden turn of character." Well, actually, too much work makes us crazy yet too much play makes us lazy, so my shift in attitude isn't that much of a stretch. Not only that, but drudging through hell and back out its ass isn't so bad when you know people *do* care, at least enough to give you a hug instead of another lecture. Now you might be some unfortunate sap who recently and suddenly lost his parents and became a proud parent all before turning into a legal adult, but even then, at least you should have someone out there who's been through what you have, at least close enough so that when you vent it all, they can take it and make you feel better about it - maybe, if they're adept with words, make you feel
good about your bad memory.
All I need to say is, it might be hell, but at least there are some good points, even though much is an illusion - both bad and good.
I was wondering whether he'd ripped the idea off from vidya. Pretty much every other tacticool thing he writes he starts off with "this is inspired by a level in (insert game name)". He rivals Chris for unoriginality.
