Unescapable

• Donna Akbari, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2011

Chained together. Unable to separate. Together we stand, as a unit, a family, a troop. But divided we fall. Alienated, isolated, alone.

Staring out the scratched and foggy train window, I let my mind wander. The memories of the war were constantly flowing in and out of my mind and I couldn’t stop them from consuming my thoughts and body. Ever since I left the war, memories would flood my mind and paralyse me. Helpless and trapped. The memories imprisoned me in the past. They were trapped in my body. Trapped in my mind. Trapped in my life. They say grief is like the ocean. Once immersed in it, you realise that it is deeper and darker than all of us, and pain is like a thief in the night. Quiet, persistent. Unfair. Diminished by only faith, time and love. Grief is what was surrounding my life. Grief that followed me like an invisible monster, lurking in my shadows, day in and day out.

My eyes were unfocused and weary as I stared blankly out the window while my mind and the horizon simultaneously slipped away from me. The harsh sound of the train triggered a series of vile images that I hoped to one day forget.

Choppers were flying in every direction and spitfire planes were dropping bombs as if they were dainty little packages – gracefully falling from the deep, dark, empty sky. The city was chaos. People were running around hysterically screaming for their loved ones. In my panic to get to my troop, I noticed a young man, a year or so younger than myself. By looking at him for a brief second it was so clear that he had given up and was walking calmly. His face showed distress, but he was nevertheless in no hurry. His hands were in his pockets as he stepped over the masses of people on the cold ground of the city. In the brief moment where I was analysing this young man, an explosion sounded behind me. Information from my training flashed into my mind. Run.

The train jolted to a stop. I refocussed my eyes on the mangled city of Munich that had been destroyed by games of the military. Rearranging myself in the cold leather seat, I once again rested my head against the window of the old train, hoping to block out the harrowing thoughts that have been persistently following me since the war.
Looking out onto the platform, I noticed a man in camouflage. He was alone. The people on the station avoided him like matches in a petrol tank. Soldiers like us did not belong in our towns anymore. Suddenly my thoughts were engulfed in men around me, on the cliff top – frantic, yet calm. I couldn’t help but think about how cruel the war was. We were all human beings. They were exactly like us. They were fighting for their countries, fighting for their families, fighting for a life, yet we would all return as outcasts. Disturbed and distorted from this mess. The shooting was ear splitting, but it was silent; no one was making contact with each other. We were as silent as the corpses we would leave behind.

The image of the enemy pulling into the shore and watching the sea water slowly turn red – stained with hate and evil, made me nauseous.
The train door squeaked open and a new hoard of people walking into the train. A man sat down opposite me and began to read his book, Effortless Love, with a picture of children on play equipment on the cover.

Seeing that book cover made my heart sink. It felt as if I had swallowed my heart and it had fallen through an empty pit, landing at my feet. I thought of the bodies – the bodies that the bombs had obliterated. They put those bodies in the playgrounds. They made big graveyards out of the playgrounds where children would once run and enjoy their childhoods. The playgrounds were haunted with immorality.

The man tapped me on the shoulder and brought me back to consciousness. Confused and somewhat frightened, he asked me if I was okay. All I could think of saying was ‘I survived a war, did you know that? I survived a war where they put bodies into mass graves where there was once a playground. I survived the death of my family, my parents, brothers, sisters. I survived the loss of my country. And now I am alone. An outcast to the community where I once lived. Where I used to belong. I feel like an alien. I look like an alien. The war did that to my troop. And to me.’ but I managed to choke out a ‘yes, thank you.’

They say that the mind supresses memories that are too traumatic to handle at any certain time. I couldn’t help but think that if I could remember so many memories, which ones was my mind hiding from me? Could the memories be worse than the isolation I feel everyday as I walk through the once lively and welcoming town where I grew up? Could the memories be worse than walking into a pub and being told to leave because I didn’t save his child, or being rejected by your wife, or looking around the unfamiliar mess of the city that you once belonged to? The memories followed me like a persistent child, begging for answers. Answers that I don’t have - that I will never have.