Yellow Filth

Peering out over the rustic iron bunk bed rail, he squinted as the dawn’s intense light filled his line of vision, temporarily blinding him. He laid in silence, staring at the khaki green of the canopy that hung fashionably from one side of the ceiling to an adjoining archway. Lost in the thought of losing his best friend to the enemy, Liam pushed his pillow aside and slipped out of bed as swiftly as possible, if he ran fast enough, he could run away from the guilt. Staring at the bathroom mirror sickened him. Liam saw a coward who did not act in time due to fear. He remembered the jeering faces of his fellow team members when they had heard of his inability to save his friend, Colin’s life. Splashing water on his face, hoping that it would wash away all disempowering thoughts, Liam eyed the worn, grimy steel tap which continued to drip balls of liquid crystal, even though he had tightened it with all the horsepower his wrist possessed. Sleeking his hair back with some petroleum jelly, he heard rustles and footsteps coming from the main hallway. The noise, indistinguishable from a group of drunken teenagers at a social event, penetrated not only the drums of his ears but the tranquillity that rested patiently in his mind.

‘Spencer, didn’t see you at breakfast. Morrison wants to see you. Don’t chicken out again.’ Richard taunted, as he hi-fived Steven, who hissed and broke down into a laughing fit. Drearily, Liam dragged his limbs towards the kitchen where he would find his plate cold, untouched and as usual unappetising. Sitting in the empty dining room in solitude, the taste of every mouthful of watered down scrambled egg that resembled a colour closer to that of clouds rather than of the sun, lingered at the back of Liam’s throat. It was the taste of a heavy conscious. Liam understood the disgrace that was heaped upon him by other faithful soldiers and questioned why he stayed in the army. Having migrated to Australia in the year of Princess Diana’s death, Liam had always pictured a peaceful simple life where he would work in the day and blow his wallet at night at a local bar but instead he received a regimented routine of lifestyle which hypocritically, engaged in activities that provoked war rather than peace. This train of deep thinking was disturbed by a fly that had landed on his rash of overcooked bacon. Realising that if he had anymore, the chance of vomiting would increase sharply, Liam picked up his paper plate and plastic cutlery and threw them cautiously into the general waste bin near the water jugs. Pacing down the hallway, back to his dorm bathroom to wash his greasy mouth and hands he awkwardly bumped into Sergeant Morrison.

‘Liam, please follow me.’

Obediently, Liam followed yet struggled to rid the filth from his hands and face, whilst keeping a composed disposition as he strode behind Sergeant Morrison. Making a sharp right turn into the Morrison’s office, Liam almost walked into the hollow wall of the ancient building.

‘A forensic team was in your dormitory early this morning. You may have woken up with a heavy head as you had been sedated, ensuring you would not hinder the investigation. They appear to have found a Swiss knife engraved with your name. Blood stains were discovered. Just moments ago, the DNA results arrived and the blood matches that of Colin. The police are on their way.’

‘Sir, not only did I fail to save Colin, I murdered him.’

And those were Liam’s final words. He raised a jet black pistol that had rested on his worn leather belt, held is against his head and pulled the trigger.

‘Yellow Asian filth’, muttered Sergeant Morrison.

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