Walking Wounded
by
Zephyr
Rowan shivered as she stood with her family in front of a massive ornamental iron gate. Above them, a somber sign read "American Military Cemetery and Memorial." It was late autumn in southeastern France, a time which brings a pervasive cold that dampens both clothing and spirit.
As they entered, Rowan's father began talking about the war in an expert manner. Her older brother Tommy shot her a knowing glance, rolling his eyes at yet another lecture. Normally Rowan didn't mind her father's stories. But here in this cemetery, his loud, authoritarian voice seemed unsettling. She knew he had not enlisted until the war was safely over. Rowan found this ironic. Didn't he feel guilty now, talking so loudly around all these dead soldiers? But if he had gone to war, he could have been killed and then she wouldn't be here, wondering if he did feel guilty. She puzzled over this thought.
She thought of death. It frightened her. Yet at the same time, there was something enticing in thinking about death. To risk death, especially in a time of war when one might do ordinarily foolish things and perhaps even get rewarded for it seemed a chance too good to be true. Like a roller coaster, she thought. Always scary to think about but once you were riding, it was exhilarating.
Rowan's attention wandered off. She looked down at her feet. They felt cold and oddly heavy. It seemed impossible to move them, as if she were rooted forever to the earth. Her family moved on without her, stopping here and there among the countless white crosses. A sudden aching feeling made her choke back tears. She didn't understand the feeling but it quickly faded into a curious numbness.
The crosses made her feel guilty somehow. She was alive and these men with their names chiseled in alabaster were dead. She had a startling vision of pale dead hands reaching through the deep green turf, grabbing her ankles and holding her in place to protest her warm, living presence.
A whole army lay here, she thought. An army of dead soldiers whose gleaming crosses bore mute witness to some empty, cold destiny, which Rowan was only just beginning to understand.
She imagined how it looked when someone died in battle. In the movies it seemed neat and clean. A quick shot, a hand clasped to the chest, then the fallen figure with a small red hole. She knew that in real life death was messier. Once she saw a dog struck by a car. She had marveled at the long trails of pink, glistening intestines, strung out like gory ribbons across the black asphalt.
Death was a puzzling thing. Why was her father so taken with it? She thought about him. She liked it when he told her stories or shared his magazines and books with her. It was as if he reached out to her in a way he didn't share with her mother and Tommy. But she hated him when he struck her in his unpredictable rages. The painful blows were one thing, the sense of betrayal she felt was another. It wasn't right. Each blow reminded her of how little control she had over anything. Just like these dead soldiers, she thought. People walk around all over them and they can't stop it.
She imagined her whole family dead. It was a guilty thought, but the sense of quiet peace was comforting. No one watching her, controlling her or trying to intrude in her thoughts. But she would miss her father's stories and there were times she liked to make her mother and brother laugh. She liked to see their faces creased with smiles. But none of it lasted long enough. The serious faces always came back. The intrusive, judging faces. They had their own worlds, which seemed impenetrable. Her world was subject to intrusion at any time. It was never secure for very long. Her only solace was the bubble.
Rowan thought of the bubble as a plastic shield, something she first noticed in school. It first descended during the planning of a class party. She watched the other children animatedly discussing the upcoming affair. Suddenly she felt isolated. She imagined herself enclosed behind a clear barrier, something which allowed her to see and hear the others, but somehow separated her from them. It was frightening at first. She wanted to cry out, but how could she explain? She became used to the bubble as the school year passed. Later, she could anticipate it and learn to control it somewhat. It would still descend when unplanned but now she could call it forth easily when she felt the need to drift away.
Her reverie ended as she watched her family turn toward the car, her brother calling her to come along. She sighed as she felt the bubble descend. She climbed into the back seat and sat quietly, watching the woods pass by in green and brown flashes.
The bubble was comforting. It kept things from penetrating too deeply and freed her to live in two worlds at once. The demanding, external world and the more peaceful, internal world she preferred. The bubble made her lonely sometimes, though. There were movies in her head that ran constantly. Characters from books and films fought battles, explored unseen lands and lived out splendid adventures. She wondered if other people had movies in their heads too. It would be nice to somehow talk about it. Still, she couldn't bring herself to discuss it with anyone. Her family laughed at her sometimes, just like the kids in school. She knew she was too strange, too different. The bubble wouldn't allow much sharing anyway. To feel peace she needed the bubble and separation was the price.
There were other things inside her head as well. There were times when she felt giddy, as if the world was a wonderfully comic place that was hers for the taking. There were other times when an angry tightness knotted her belly, making her sit up in bed at night while fighting an urge to destroy something. Sometimes she gave in and took out one of her toy soldiers, slicing the plastic limbs with scissors. She would feel guilty afterwards and sometimes wrap the toy victim in a soft Kleenex bed. Sadness would follow and as she buried her tear-stained face in her pillow, the bubble would begin its comforting descent.
After supper that evening, she watched a war film with her father while Tommy and her mother played checkers in the kitchen. A weary soldier with a wounded arm stopped a passing ambulance wagon. The driver turned him away, grumbling that walking wounded could make it to an aid station on their own. As the soldier started down the muddy road alone, a wet, gray mist settled over him. That's me, Rowan thought. Walking wounded. Not riding with the others, just walking down the road by myself.
by
Zephyr
Rowan shivered as she stood with her family in front of a massive ornamental iron gate. Above them, a somber sign read "American Military Cemetery and Memorial." It was late autumn in southeastern France, a time which brings a pervasive cold that dampens both clothing and spirit.
As they entered, Rowan's father began talking about the war in an expert manner. Her older brother Tommy shot her a knowing glance, rolling his eyes at yet another lecture. Normally Rowan didn't mind her father's stories. But here in this cemetery, his loud, authoritarian voice seemed unsettling. She knew he had not enlisted until the war was safely over. Rowan found this ironic. Didn't he feel guilty now, talking so loudly around all these dead soldiers? But if he had gone to war, he could have been killed and then she wouldn't be here, wondering if he did feel guilty. She puzzled over this thought.
She thought of death. It frightened her. Yet at the same time, there was something enticing in thinking about death. To risk death, especially in a time of war when one might do ordinarily foolish things and perhaps even get rewarded for it seemed a chance too good to be true. Like a roller coaster, she thought. Always scary to think about but once you were riding, it was exhilarating.
Rowan's attention wandered off. She looked down at her feet. They felt cold and oddly heavy. It seemed impossible to move them, as if she were rooted forever to the earth. Her family moved on without her, stopping here and there among the countless white crosses. A sudden aching feeling made her choke back tears. She didn't understand the feeling but it quickly faded into a curious numbness.
The crosses made her feel guilty somehow. She was alive and these men with their names chiseled in alabaster were dead. She had a startling vision of pale dead hands reaching through the deep green turf, grabbing her ankles and holding her in place to protest her warm, living presence.
A whole army lay here, she thought. An army of dead soldiers whose gleaming crosses bore mute witness to some empty, cold destiny, which Rowan was only just beginning to understand.
She imagined how it looked when someone died in battle. In the movies it seemed neat and clean. A quick shot, a hand clasped to the chest, then the fallen figure with a small red hole. She knew that in real life death was messier. Once she saw a dog struck by a car. She had marveled at the long trails of pink, glistening intestines, strung out like gory ribbons across the black asphalt.
Death was a puzzling thing. Why was her father so taken with it? She thought about him. She liked it when he told her stories or shared his magazines and books with her. It was as if he reached out to her in a way he didn't share with her mother and Tommy. But she hated him when he struck her in his unpredictable rages. The painful blows were one thing, the sense of betrayal she felt was another. It wasn't right. Each blow reminded her of how little control she had over anything. Just like these dead soldiers, she thought. People walk around all over them and they can't stop it.
She imagined her whole family dead. It was a guilty thought, but the sense of quiet peace was comforting. No one watching her, controlling her or trying to intrude in her thoughts. But she would miss her father's stories and there were times she liked to make her mother and brother laugh. She liked to see their faces creased with smiles. But none of it lasted long enough. The serious faces always came back. The intrusive, judging faces. They had their own worlds, which seemed impenetrable. Her world was subject to intrusion at any time. It was never secure for very long. Her only solace was the bubble.
Rowan thought of the bubble as a plastic shield, something she first noticed in school. It first descended during the planning of a class party. She watched the other children animatedly discussing the upcoming affair. Suddenly she felt isolated. She imagined herself enclosed behind a clear barrier, something which allowed her to see and hear the others, but somehow separated her from them. It was frightening at first. She wanted to cry out, but how could she explain? She became used to the bubble as the school year passed. Later, she could anticipate it and learn to control it somewhat. It would still descend when unplanned but now she could call it forth easily when she felt the need to drift away.
Her reverie ended as she watched her family turn toward the car, her brother calling her to come along. She sighed as she felt the bubble descend. She climbed into the back seat and sat quietly, watching the woods pass by in green and brown flashes.
The bubble was comforting. It kept things from penetrating too deeply and freed her to live in two worlds at once. The demanding, external world and the more peaceful, internal world she preferred. The bubble made her lonely sometimes, though. There were movies in her head that ran constantly. Characters from books and films fought battles, explored unseen lands and lived out splendid adventures. She wondered if other people had movies in their heads too. It would be nice to somehow talk about it. Still, she couldn't bring herself to discuss it with anyone. Her family laughed at her sometimes, just like the kids in school. She knew she was too strange, too different. The bubble wouldn't allow much sharing anyway. To feel peace she needed the bubble and separation was the price.
There were other things inside her head as well. There were times when she felt giddy, as if the world was a wonderfully comic place that was hers for the taking. There were other times when an angry tightness knotted her belly, making her sit up in bed at night while fighting an urge to destroy something. Sometimes she gave in and took out one of her toy soldiers, slicing the plastic limbs with scissors. She would feel guilty afterwards and sometimes wrap the toy victim in a soft Kleenex bed. Sadness would follow and as she buried her tear-stained face in her pillow, the bubble would begin its comforting descent.
After supper that evening, she watched a war film with her father while Tommy and her mother played checkers in the kitchen. A weary soldier with a wounded arm stopped a passing ambulance wagon. The driver turned him away, grumbling that walking wounded could make it to an aid station on their own. As the soldier started down the muddy road alone, a wet, gray mist settled over him. That's me, Rowan thought. Walking wounded. Not riding with the others, just walking down the road by myself.