Written In Stone

Finalist in the 'World of Words 2009' competition

The screams saturate my senses; shrill, helpless shrieks, the kind that are material for nightmares. The hills are the colour of week-old red roses, the blood of a hundred innocent men, or more. The landscape contorts, a continuous brown canvas splashed with colours of pain. I try to breathe. The dirt beneath me, hard packed from soldiers’ feet, is cold. I crawl forward aching from nights spent awake; long nights fearing the enemy, missing my Mary.

The screams come thicker, assaulting my ears. More frequent yet weaker. He’s losing hope. Losing strength. Losing. The screams suddenly stop. Every inch of my body freezes. That cold, sickening knowledge of a life lost, spreads through me. The feeling of snakes slithering, silently across bare flesh, the exact feeling that is the material for nightmares. A hollow whisper from behind me, “We never leave a man behind.” Our bodies carry us forward.
***

Repressed memories assault the mind, like bullets the flesh. Kisses warm the heart, like good company warms the soul.
***

“Murray,” a soft voice makes its way to my shell-shocked ears. I open my eyes. Mary leans over me. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, caressing my forehead, “it’s okay.” I close my eyes and lie next to her. My Mary, my mate. The early hours of the morning approach and the sun starts to knock at the windows. We rise, dress and taking her hand, leave the house. Church is a regular occasion for Mary and me. I like to make up for all the times that I couldn’t attend.
***

Mary and I take flowers to the monument on Flourence Street. I stay awhile and read the list of names. These men, my mates, now only represented by small scratches in stone. We leave blue flowers, the colour of a clear day’s sky. A colour that reminds me of the startled, staring blue eyes of Richard. That’s the type of memory that should stay repressed, otherwise it’s bound to give one nightmares.
***

The sky is blue, sparkling and still. I look over at Richard. “Take a look at this mate!” Richard turns and smiles, his eyes not blue but brown, clouded and burnt. The colour of the sky. I scream.

***

“It’s okay darling, it’s okay.” My Mary calls me back. My lids fly open and frantically search her face. Her eyes wide, worried and brown. Not the type of brown that would give one nightmares though. “Murray.” Her voice filled with concern, “Murray?,” turns to fear.
***

The white is blinding, lights blare and noises blur. “Mr. Flourence,” a stern voice demands. ‘That’s Captain to you boy.’ The lights fade, there is no more noise.
***

Mary takes flowers to the grave on Donald Street. White flowers, the colour of hospital walls, the colour of her wedding dress; the colour that she thinks heaven would be.
***

Murray looks down at her from the white clouds.
***

Mary looks at his name, written in stone.

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