October 8th, 1917: My Release From War

• Bella Cimarosti, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2018

I am snapped back to my senses. The bloodcurdling hum of machine guns echo in the distance, allowing a tsunami of traumatic visions- memories; to stream in. The sound is so powerful and overwhelming, it stifles all other thoughts. I focus on the present to stifle my flashbacks.
Da dum.
Da dum
The silence surrounds us, my heartbeat is the only sound on deck. Besides the gunshots, I could hear nothing at all, merely the empty sound of sorrow.
In that moment, I had never felt more alone. Rhythmic waves gnawed away at the portside, tearing off fragments of paint and washing them away. Helplessly drawn into the icy depths below; lost in vast oblivion. I leant against the railing watching the white water churning in hypnotic motion, whisking away the identities of the lost troops; seizing them beyond retrieval. The sickly fingers of death stroking their faces tenderly; so close, yet so far.
My aching body throbs in rhythm with the constant lurching of the vessel. I wish the pain would end. Every joint and every muscle is weeping in agony; but barely noticeable in contrary to the excruciating pit that has been shovelled out of my heart. I inhale deeply to ease the physical pain and alleviate the heartache. It’s like no other feeling; a pain so unfathomable, I am certain my innards will crumble away. Grasping for refuge from these cruel and wicked circumstances, I turn to the Gods and plead for mercy. All Gods. Any Gods. Whatever or whomever is out there; but my outstretched arms fall away hopelessly. Like a droplet in the ocean, I realise, we are all only one of many. Mere and insignificant drops. Once again, I traipse off into thought; ‘What lies ahead for me?’ I ponder.
In my mind’s eye, I see smouldering tendrils wickedly winding a path of ash and smog up into the canopy of mourning skies. The lost souls rising upwards and trailing off, never to be seen again. A piece of us all were killed in battle, an irretrievable jigsaw piece that can never be restored. It was a scape void of all light. All faith and hope shadowed from sight.
The wind is cold.
It pierces my skin like a swarm of enraged hornets, sharp, hard, unforgiving. It is like no other sensation. A pain so unreal I question all existence. The visions around me all warped by the recollections of the battle, permanent stains of black despair splattered across all of my memories and distancing all hope from reach. ‘What is actually real?’ I search the vast expanse of rough grey water for a sign of something; anything. Anything besides the cruel truth. Nothing.
Suddenly, the frosty gusts of wind settle, and delicate breeze gently lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. Morning rays lick my skin with tenderness and I am engulfed in the warm embrace of dawn; smoothing away the furrows etched between my brows, and appeasing all of my uncertainties and doubts. Sunrise in the distant East rings choir bells on deck. Symphonies of hopeful gasps harmoniously float to my ears, having escaped the chapped, salt crusted lips of injured diggers. It’s a foreign phenomenon erasing all solemnity from view.
And in this instant, I lift my gaze with a newly profound vision; I could see again. I could actually see. Golden rays filled the grief- stricken skies and the once harsh ocean depths was transformed into a bed of glistening diamonds. It’s the most beautiful vision, although invisible to my eye, I can feel it in the air.
Hope.
Sightless, yet insightful, a smile spreads across my face. For now, in this moment, all is okay.