Your thoughts appreciated. :)

reality

This is a re-write of something I wrote years ago. I was looking for the original but couldn't find it so I wrote it again as best as I could remember! I think this is shorter but I'd appreciate your opinions on it all the same!


Making my way to the stage, I glance around the crowded room. The admiring gazes make me uncomfortable. My face flushes red and I hope that those who notice think it’s due to graceful humility. As I join the queue of heroes, my knees tremble. Bile rises in my throat - how dare I stand here, how dare I disgrace these men by standing in their company? All I can think of is how I don’t deserve a ceremony or a bravery medal - how I don’t deserve this. The man ahead of me turns and waves into the throng - a gesture that is answered by a call of “Grandpa!” from a young girl in the front row of spectators.

The girl stops calling. She has realised he is dead. Her face, speckled with his blood, tells me that she no longer hears the bullets. Oblivious to the chaos around her, she softly lays the old man’s head down onto the dusty, cracked earth. Shakily, she stands up and turns towards me. With a roar that I still hear at night, she lunges in my direction. My bullet hits her before she has taken three steps and I don’t even wince as a scarlet lily blooms on her chest.

I gasp. I scrabble in my pocket for a handkerchief to mop the sheen from my brow. I need to get out of here, I can’t do this. I can’t pretend. I look around the hall, searching for the nearest exit. As I scan, one face stands out from all others. Kitty. My darling. Her sweet face is creased by a proud grin that wrenches my guts. After so many years - she would be devastated if she knew the truth. I briefly focus on the fall of her hair across her forehead.

I trace my finger along the line of her jaw. I hear a whistle from behind me. “Quite the looker!” Ben quips as he looks over my shoulder at the tattered photo I clutch in my hands. I smile. I like Ben, he has always been good to me; we share rations and he gave me his spare socks when my only pair wore thin and my feet blistered. He’s a good guy. A familiar whiz and thud make me start, but before I can move Ben's weight falls upon me. He screams. I pull forward and look back at him. He is clutching his thigh, blood seeping through his fingers. He pleads for my help. I see the soldiers emerging from the trees on the far side of the clearing and I don’t help him. I run.

She’d leave me. Kitty catches me looking and I see concern flood her face as she takes in my expression. I smile at her and pull a goofy face, hoping she’ll think I’m just feeling nervous. I don’t feel nervous, I feel sick. The queue before me has diminished. I’m next. The man at the podium turns to face me and I hear him say my name. Without thinking about it, I am moving towards him. My uniform feels stiff, restrictive. He offers his hand and I take it.

“A good firm handshake - my mother always said that was a sign of honesty!” I try not to look taken back by the General’s joke as he releases my hand. As we finalise my payment details, I vainly try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing - or at least that what I’m doing isn’t that bad. It is though. I’m a traitor. A scumbag. I tell myself that I need the money, that Kitty and the baby need it, that it’s not like my own God-damn government was gonna look after my child while I fought it‘s war. I look at the bag of notes I’m holding and all of my reasoning sounds as it is - false and trite.

This time, I don’t just think it - I say it. The hall goes silent except for the scrape of Kitty’s chair as she stands up. The man looks dismayed by my refusal, as he holds out the glistening medal he asks what I mean. I step back from him, clear my throat and say again “I don’t deserve this.”.