sermocinare (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sermocinare) wrote2009-09-20 05:01 pm
sermocinare) wrote2009-09-20 05:01 pm
Entry tags:
From the shock of a shell or the memory of smell...
(x-posted from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
runaway_tales
Author: Fireez
Challenge: Blueberry Yoghurt #29 (the first time), Molasses #14 (prisoner of war), Fudge Ripple #26 (anguish)
Rating: PG for subject matter
Word count: 397
Summary: For some people, the Great War will never be over
Author's Note: From Wikipedia: "In World War I, shell shock was considered a psychiatric illness resulting from injury to the nerves during combat. The horrors of trench warfare meant that about 10% of the fighting soldiers were killed (compared to 4.5% during World War II) and the total proportion of troops who became casualties (killed or wounded) was 56%. (...) The large proportion of World War I veterans in the European population meant that the symptoms were common to the culture."
Dee did not need to look at the date on today’s paper to know that the anniversary was approaching. Over the years, he had developed a kind of sixth sense for it, reading the multitude of small, surreptitious signs – a tenseness in the shoulders here, a clench of the jaws or hands there. The haunted look in his father’s eyes, growing worse with every day. And, of course, the nightmares.
The first time Dee had heard the screams, he had been four years old, a frightened little girl who hid underneath the covers of her bed, believing that there were demons in the house, howling monsters come to eat her alive. It wasn’t until years later, until his mother had given in to consumption, that he had found out that reality was somehow far worse than his imagination.
Dee had taken up residency on the couch, like he always did around this time. Usually, he occupied the other wing of their far too large town house, but not on these nights. As soon as the screaming started, he was off the couch and running barefoot over to the bedroom door, slamming it open, not bothering with being quiet. He wanted, needed him to wake up. “Father? Wake up!”
He grabbed the shaking, convulsing body by the shoulders, shaking him probably more forcefully than needed, but damn it, he had to wake up!
His father’s eyes snapped open, staring at him, wide, uncomprehending, wild, the sweat-drenched body tensing, hands clenching into fists, and for a moment there Dee was afraid his father would hit him, mistaking him for the enemy, his mind still trapped in that ever-repeating nightmare.
But then, the old man let out an anguished wail, slumping forward, all tension suddenly gone, and it was all Dee could do to hold him upright, hands stroking his back soothingly, his father’s face buried against his shoulder. After the howling and screaming, the bedroom seemed to be buried in an almost unearthly silence now, which was only broken by Dee’s soft whispering: “It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s over, remember? I’m here. I’m here. Shhhhh. It’s over.”
He repeated that last line over and over, even though he knew that it was a lie. At least for his father, the war would never be over, a part of his mind forever lost back in the trenches at Verdun.
runaway_talesAuthor: Fireez
Challenge: Blueberry Yoghurt #29 (the first time), Molasses #14 (prisoner of war), Fudge Ripple #26 (anguish)
Rating: PG for subject matter
Word count: 397
Summary: For some people, the Great War will never be over
Author's Note: From Wikipedia: "In World War I, shell shock was considered a psychiatric illness resulting from injury to the nerves during combat. The horrors of trench warfare meant that about 10% of the fighting soldiers were killed (compared to 4.5% during World War II) and the total proportion of troops who became casualties (killed or wounded) was 56%. (...) The large proportion of World War I veterans in the European population meant that the symptoms were common to the culture."
Dee did not need to look at the date on today’s paper to know that the anniversary was approaching. Over the years, he had developed a kind of sixth sense for it, reading the multitude of small, surreptitious signs – a tenseness in the shoulders here, a clench of the jaws or hands there. The haunted look in his father’s eyes, growing worse with every day. And, of course, the nightmares.
The first time Dee had heard the screams, he had been four years old, a frightened little girl who hid underneath the covers of her bed, believing that there were demons in the house, howling monsters come to eat her alive. It wasn’t until years later, until his mother had given in to consumption, that he had found out that reality was somehow far worse than his imagination.
Dee had taken up residency on the couch, like he always did around this time. Usually, he occupied the other wing of their far too large town house, but not on these nights. As soon as the screaming started, he was off the couch and running barefoot over to the bedroom door, slamming it open, not bothering with being quiet. He wanted, needed him to wake up. “Father? Wake up!”
He grabbed the shaking, convulsing body by the shoulders, shaking him probably more forcefully than needed, but damn it, he had to wake up!
His father’s eyes snapped open, staring at him, wide, uncomprehending, wild, the sweat-drenched body tensing, hands clenching into fists, and for a moment there Dee was afraid his father would hit him, mistaking him for the enemy, his mind still trapped in that ever-repeating nightmare.
But then, the old man let out an anguished wail, slumping forward, all tension suddenly gone, and it was all Dee could do to hold him upright, hands stroking his back soothingly, his father’s face buried against his shoulder. After the howling and screaming, the bedroom seemed to be buried in an almost unearthly silence now, which was only broken by Dee’s soft whispering: “It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s over, remember? I’m here. I’m here. Shhhhh. It’s over.”
He repeated that last line over and over, even though he knew that it was a lie. At least for his father, the war would never be over, a part of his mind forever lost back in the trenches at Verdun.