Okay, so this is a historical fiction paper I wrote for my english class. I just wanted to post it and see what others think of it. I probably can extend this to make a full length story, but I need others opinions. Oh becasue this was for class I had to put citations in, I believe i took them mostly out, if I left anything in that shouldn't let me know.
Hope you like it :)

A face, normal, oval-round with sharp features, and a look of joy and happiness in the eyes. I look away. That person could not have known the terrors of this world because if he had, he could have never have had that look in his eyes. Surrounding the optimistic face is a solid, black frame with a bit of dust sprinkled on the top. The frame is sitting on a shallow, white shelf, the sky blue walls reflecting onto it. My eyes travel down the wall and onto the floor, and much to my dismay, is a soft, beige rug covering much of the space, except for a small strip around the perimeter of the square room. I am positive that this is only to add a so-called "comfort" to the room. However, it only makes me sick.

I continue to scan to room and my eyes fall on a soft, black sofa. Disgusting. I am not crazy! This is only my mother's idea, not mine. If I had my way, I would be home, on my floor, reading a book, and blasting music, but no, I am here, against my will.

I sigh and continue to inspect the room. I cannot find a plac—oy, here she comes. I quickly jump into the corner on the hard wood floor with my back straight up against the wall. Yeah, this will probably confuse her.

"Hello, my name is Donna Mackerbee," she says blindly without looking up, "Donna Mack—," she stops mid-word, finally realizing that I am not sitting on the sofa, like every other normal—well, most people here are not normal.

Donna quickly scans the room and finds me sitting in the corner. She smiles, sighs, and says "Please sit on the sofa."

I shake my head left and right.

"Okay, whatever floats your boat," shrugs Donna who then goes to sit down on her chair and begins to sift through a stack of papers she brought in. "Ahhh! Here it is!" she exclaims, way too excited, "Eliana?"

I nod, what a name? It means sun in Latin and also the lord has responded in Hebrew. I do not have a sunny personality, I mean, I guess it used to be appropriate, but not any more. The lord has definitely not responded to me, instead I have been hurt greatly. I have been tempted to change it, however my father picked it out, so I cannot do that, not to him.

Donna looks at me with kind eyes, a look that seems to ask me to calm down and sit on the sofa. I stare back with cold, unanswering eyes. I know she wants me to make myself at home and talk to her, but that is not a possibility and will never be a possibility.

I am not talking to her, or anyone else for that matter. The emotions I am feeling now are too great for anyone else to understand. No one else can understand how I feel, not even a clinical physiologist. I try not to think of what happened, but lately I either think of the tragedy or of nothing at all. My future means nothing, because my past meant everything.

"It is okay to feel sadness for the loss of a loved one," Donna remarks.

At this comment I well up with tears, but I refuse to cry, that will only make me weak, and my father was never weak. Never! He was in the army even before the war, never complaining, always ready to serve. He was in Vietnam at the first signs of war in 1961, sent with over 3,000 other military advisors and support personnel by former President John F. Kennedy. He fought in the first combat mission labeled Operation Chopper. He fought in the most dangerous battles, and never even got a scratch on his hand! Yet, now he is gone and there is nothing me or this Donna can do about it!

I look down, and cover my face, to hide the tears that begin to flow down my cheeks.

"It's okay to cry, Eliana," says Donna. "It is norm—," I whip my arm around to block her from touching me. She jumps back, sighs and whispers under her breath, "This is going to be harder than I thought." She did not mean for me to hear that, but lately it has been easier for me to hear and understand words and actions.

I hear Donna pacing the floor across the beige carpet. I wipe my face and look up to watch her pace. The pacing continues for about ten minutes, then she abruptly stops and looks me in the eye. This time, her eyes are less kind and more strict; however they have a hint of sadness surrounding the edges. She bends down, careful not to get too close to me, but not far enough for me to ignore her presence. "Will you tell me what happened to your father?"

Um, NOOO! I wanted to scream, however I would not give her the satisfaction of being the one to get me talking, so I kept my mouth shut. I stare at her with my cold, blank stare until she asks me another question.

"Eliana, since you won't talk about your father's death, then let's talk about the war? I am curious about your opinions on the war?" she asks politely.

I open my mouth, trying to get her excited about making me talk. It does, she smiles, and at that instant I clamp my mouth shut and press my lips against each other. I am not going to tell her about my complete disapproval of the war, and the government for that matter. Though I used to approve of the war, mainly because my father never had any problems with it, I now see the horrific nature of the war as well as the way the government mishandled it.

One example of the horrific job this country is doing occurred on Tuesday, August 17, 1965. The battle was considered the first major battle of the Vietnam War, and began because a deserter from the 1st Vietcong regiment told the American army that an attack was about to take place against the American Marine base called Chu Lai, located in Dung Quat Bay, Vietnam. Operation Starlite was launched. That horrendous operation was launched. About 700 Vietcong soldiers were killed, over 100 Americans were wounded, and there were forty-five American deaths. The United States labeled this a "victory".

A victory? A victory? How can you call that a victory, when forty-five American's died in that battle. A victory is when no one dies. A victory is when my father lives. A victory does not end the life of my father who was the bravest man in that entire army! At this thought, I burst into tears. The tears that have been buried inside me for way too long, the tears that I had not cried since the night I was informed of his death. I still remember the officers official words, "The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret that your husband, and father was killed…" The tears that had not come since the last words I spoke over a year ago.

Donna walks towards me again and reaches out to hold my shoulder, as if to calm my tears and regulate my uneven breathing. Instead it makes everything worse. I want to scream, instead I shove her away from me. She cannot possibly understand what I am feeling. Losing a father hurts you in so many ways, your world shatters, and you fall,


and further.

It never stops.

The pain is still there, even today, Wednesday September 21, 1966, one year, one week, and four days after "it" happened. The horror does not end, one week ago on September 14, the mission, Operation Attleboro was begun. Men and women are dying again, but it may still be considered a good mission, a mission that they may be able to win.

I slide down the wall until I am lying flat on my back, and continue to cry. Donna sits in her chair and waits. My tears begin to slow and my breathing becomes more regulated. I hear a sharp breath being taken in and steadily let out. I sit up and look at her eyes. She is not looking back at me this time and her eyes are not steady and kind. Instead they are watery, filling with tears and directed towards a face, normal, oval-round with sharp features, and a look of joy and happiness in the eyes, I look away.

She turns towards me and says, "That was my father." Her voice is shaking slightly. "I don't know if this will help, but I will tell you how I felt when my father died. It was similar to how your father died, though all our experiences are different."

I look at her, unsure of what to do, not wanting to hear, unsure of my feeling for that matter.

"He died in the Korean War," she says, "in a battle that the United States claims to have won." She looks at me with pleading eyes, as if she cannot think of any other way to explain herself.

"Okay," I say in a small voice. The word rolls off my tongue, and I am surprised that I can even remember how to talk.

She nods and begins, "People believe that the Korean War was fought for just reasons, but just reasons do not prevent atrocities or tragic incidents from occurring and, in my opinion, our country did a bad job in many aspects of the war. One example of the horrific job this country did occurred on…"

Hope you liked it!
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