what he has back home (original, pg-13)
what he has back home | original | pg-13 | 479 words
And he’ll look up into the sky, still looking up at the clouds, unable to look the enemy in the eyes fearing they’d have the same eyes as him, or as that rugged-faced medic.
Time moves backwards through half-bustling city streets into open fields, the wind rippling the wheat into brilliant waves about to take him in. All the clouds making circles above his head, and he feels higher than them up there. Because he’s standing there amidst it all, holding an empty picture frame into a past he had, a world he used to know. Except now, it’s all too far, in some other open place. Constantly moving away from the sounds of these fighter planes up where the clouds are, these bombs that go off too close to his head, and cracked buildings about to collapse in upon themselves.
Because, honestly, this gunfire is too much for his ears. And all these crying, sobbing mothers and their screaming little children aren’t doing him much better either. Jacob just stands there, directions yelled at him from the other paratroopers who made it down. And none of it registers, he doesn’t move. It all just goes over his head, all a little too overwhelming.
“Get down, for crissake’s. You’re going to get fucking shot at.” Even with all the weight and the gear strapped down to his shoulders, he can’t find it in him to move, slink down for cover because the enemy is firing hotly at them. It takes a bullet ripping into his flesh, sinew and muscle to get him down. “Kid had it coming, get a medic or something, would you? Jesus fucking Christ, medic.”
All rugged-faced, chewing tobacco to calm his nerves and deep purple bags under his eyes because of the long nights, this medic comes. Presses down onto Jacob’s shoulder, the blood seeping through his uniform and the bullet hole, so he grunts and swears something awful. “Shoulder? Shoulder.” As if the blood could be coming from anywhere else.
But it doesn’t matter how many bandages the medic gets onto Jacob, gauze taking in all the blood like a cloud filling with rainwater just before a storm. He has such a sweet face, a baby face his mother used to say, still does, all tow-headed with these green eyes you’d never believe. Jacob’s even got this baby boy waiting for him at home and he looks just like Papa, just like him, Abigail says. Her soft, sweet humming sounds like gunfire to him. But it doesn’t matter what he has back home, because he takes another couple shots (leg, side, neck) even when he’s holding the line. And he’ll look up into the sky, still looking up at the clouds, unable to look the enemy in the eyes fearing they’d have the same eyes as him, or as that rugged-faced medic. Jacob just prays to God, he’d lift his arms up to him if he could, that it’s a dream, that he’s still seventeen in that time when he didn’t have to fight like this.
And he’ll look up into the sky, still looking up at the clouds, unable to look the enemy in the eyes fearing they’d have the same eyes as him, or as that rugged-faced medic.
Time moves backwards through half-bustling city streets into open fields, the wind rippling the wheat into brilliant waves about to take him in. All the clouds making circles above his head, and he feels higher than them up there. Because he’s standing there amidst it all, holding an empty picture frame into a past he had, a world he used to know. Except now, it’s all too far, in some other open place. Constantly moving away from the sounds of these fighter planes up where the clouds are, these bombs that go off too close to his head, and cracked buildings about to collapse in upon themselves.
Because, honestly, this gunfire is too much for his ears. And all these crying, sobbing mothers and their screaming little children aren’t doing him much better either. Jacob just stands there, directions yelled at him from the other paratroopers who made it down. And none of it registers, he doesn’t move. It all just goes over his head, all a little too overwhelming.
“Get down, for crissake’s. You’re going to get fucking shot at.” Even with all the weight and the gear strapped down to his shoulders, he can’t find it in him to move, slink down for cover because the enemy is firing hotly at them. It takes a bullet ripping into his flesh, sinew and muscle to get him down. “Kid had it coming, get a medic or something, would you? Jesus fucking Christ, medic.”
All rugged-faced, chewing tobacco to calm his nerves and deep purple bags under his eyes because of the long nights, this medic comes. Presses down onto Jacob’s shoulder, the blood seeping through his uniform and the bullet hole, so he grunts and swears something awful. “Shoulder? Shoulder.” As if the blood could be coming from anywhere else.
But it doesn’t matter how many bandages the medic gets onto Jacob, gauze taking in all the blood like a cloud filling with rainwater just before a storm. He has such a sweet face, a baby face his mother used to say, still does, all tow-headed with these green eyes you’d never believe. Jacob’s even got this baby boy waiting for him at home and he looks just like Papa, just like him, Abigail says. Her soft, sweet humming sounds like gunfire to him. But it doesn’t matter what he has back home, because he takes another couple shots (leg, side, neck) even when he’s holding the line. And he’ll look up into the sky, still looking up at the clouds, unable to look the enemy in the eyes fearing they’d have the same eyes as him, or as that rugged-faced medic. Jacob just prays to God, he’d lift his arms up to him if he could, that it’s a dream, that he’s still seventeen in that time when he didn’t have to fight like this.