I Have Chosen To Write A Short Story That Is Centred Upon The Topic Of Education – To Educate Individuals On The Unseen Ramifications Of The Sacrifices Taken By Our Soldiers, The PTSD And Mental Illnesses That Came Along With The Physical Wounds For Many Of Our People. My Story Depicts The Hardships Faced On The Battlefields By Soldiers, The Life They Gave Up To Serve Our Country.

• Sophie Lai, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2018

A trumpet rudely awoke me. The same familiar sound each morning still frightened me, still washed terror over my thin body sporting an array of purple patches to compliment my ghostly white skin. The past few days were painted into my consciousness, repeating over again like a horror movie. Replaying back the events for what felt like the millionth time. “No, stop” I screamed out. I was being tormented, my mind was tormenting me. I didn’t know what was worse, inside my mind or the outside world. Such a lugubrious comparison between two models of hell. My eyes began to grow wet, blurring my vision. The skyline red and charcoal – like the day was bleeding out before it had even begun, before my eyes betrayed me and drifted off into unconsciousness momentarily. Solace before the trumpet was back in my ears, and I was off again to fight for my country.

Adrenaline surged through my veins as my movements became mechanical. Duck, run. With every ticking second forcing my heart to beat faster – my veins struggling under the pressure. Loud roars as bombs immersed the ground – engulfing all the life it lays eyes on. Be strong, I tell myself. As my vision shifts to the right, my eyes lock on the man beside me. John. The cries, the fear. The eternal fear, fear of failing our country, of faltering. Of not being good enough, of not trying harder. Of not being enough to save our children, our nation, our morals and beliefs.

And then there were blurs. Shallow breaths that become more steady as I focused my heavy eyes on the room. The strip lights, swaying, flickering. Dazed, I was. A state of euphoria, pure bliss. A momentary lapse in my consciousness. The unwarranted loss of air like when your chair almost tips was gone. Like when you miss a step down the stairs. The persistent loss of air that consumed me. They were good, it was gone. The doctors were good. The physical pain was gone. Temporary bliss. Of nothingness. But then it hit me. Like it always hit me, when watching the bombers in the dead of night. The memories, flooding in – my mind unable to control them. Faltering, becoming overcome as they exploded within me. An uncontrollable howl escaping from my chest. Beads of sweat forming on my head as I relived that night for an eternity. The night my battalion died.

I’m getting better. I really am. I will not be classed by my experiences, by my past. My health will not define me, I define me, I am definite - complete. My actions, my inactions. My stomach churns as I sway from side to side. Shifting my weight, fumbling my fingers. My work was heroic, I am a hero. I am not defined by my mental health, society will not define me and I will continue my fight for us soldiers to be appreciated, helped and acknowledged regardless of our trauma.