Lest We Forget

11/11/2010 10:24:00 am BenefitScroungingScum 8 Comments

Breakdown By Blood In The Sand 

Nine nine nine, the phone rings. 'Emergency which service do you require?' a female voice, metallic uncaring. Flashes in the night sky and I am there again.

'Fucking all of them, and make sure Plod has guns. I'm going to kill someone.'

Silence, then a cough. The woman composes herself and sighs.

'Hoax calls...' I cut her off mid sentence. 'Fuck you love, fuck this country, fuck the world. Tell them to bring guns.'

The television had shown troops in yellow swarming across a desert. Hazy green images, night vision. Tracer spiralled into the sky and my mind broke. My girl was 8 months pregnant. New life grew in her belly and children were dying again, because we are at war again.

I walked away from the news, out into the world and made a phone call. I couldn't breathe and my chest pounded. Small arms cracked in the distance, in my mind; then children ran past giggling. I screamed at them.

'Stand To'

They laughed some more and I ripped off my shirt. 'Fuck off... DO IT NOW' The kids ran and I fell to my knees. I didn't know what year it was and I thumped the tarmac to prove it wasn't sand. A cigarette and a moment to reflect, time to think.

An old lady wandered over. 'Are you OK love?' I shook my head and pushed the burning cigarette into my face. 'They're all dead' I started to laugh, got up and ran. Fear filled my veins, ice water. I found a bar.

Walking in unable to think straight. I must be dreaming. Kids are dying and folk are laughing, playing pool, drinking cold beer. What year is it? I ask a man and he laughs at me, they all do.

I am semi naked, burnt and frightened. I see a mans face, tattoos and anger. Fear becomes blurred and violence erupts. The pub is now silent and I am insane with terror. 'Where's my fucking weapon?' Blank faces, blue lights.

Two female Police officers ask to speak with me outside. I nod and allow them to handcuff me. Outside men are waiting, yellow jackets and flashing lights. I'm pushed into a wall and it hurts.

In the Police Station a Sergeant asks me my name, I ask him what year it is. He tells me to stop being a prick. I ask him again. His patience is worn and he tells his men to take me to a cell.

They want to take off my boots. I see a dead boy, one boot shredded. Dirty toe nails, thick black hair and no face.

'You're not having my boots'

A fist slams into the side of my head and my wrists are twisted against the cuffs. I scream and punches rain in. I cry out as I get beaten. On the floor now, kicks and more punches. I vomit and choke. Darkness comes.

I wake up, more fear. Panic now sets in, so I bang on the door. 'Shut up you dick' unseen voices taunt me, as I plead for water and my meds. I need the pills that stop the terror. 'Help me...'

I am given a cup of water. I beg the hand delivering it to call my Doctor, call my mum. I need my pills. Laughter and words are what I get 'Not so brave now are you?' I'm told to piss in my cell, so I fill the cup.

I bang at the door, again and again. Discipline, the will to go on, I still have this. The hatch drops and the Sergeant speaks 'I'm getting bored of you sunshine' I launch the piss at him, howling a war cry.

They leave me on the floor crying, broken. More fists and boots crashed in and I am ready to surrender, all fight now gone. I go inside my mind. I pick up a severed hand, cold and stiff. I wave it at the boy with no face and dirty toe nails. The car full of dead people has a flat tyre and I laugh. Who's going to change that?

Then I scream. Over and over. Men come in and walk out and still I scream. A woman holds my hand and I scream. My Doctor sits in the cell so I scream at him. As I shuffle out I look at the Desk Sergeant. I mouth a word at him and he looks to the floor, 'Soldier'


Anonymous said...

Sorry, I don't quite buy this. To me it's a bit of creative writing. Apologies if I'm wrong. PTSD is real but this piece of writing feels contrived. And I feel like a bastard for saying so.

Mr H said...

You really think I'd make this shit up?

Fire Byrd said...

Anonymous is a prick.

This post hurts, and so it should cause it's not all about old men in red coats with their medals and poppies.
It's about the here and now smashed minds of the soldiers who are not getting the treatment they need and surely deserve.

Mr H said...

I got sectioned when I left the Police station. 60 days in a secure Mental Hospital - missed my sons birth...

Oh how I wish I'd made it up...

Dray said...

No, he isn't making it up.

I've counselled alcoholic, drug abusing ex-servicemen who have left me hospitalised without front teeth, so don't give me any frugging crap about invention.

And today, of all days. What a twot. PTSD is real in ways nony can never, ever imagine.

I really hope the ... ye gods, I'm angry..

Sorry, very unprofessional of me.

Fire Byrd said...

Dray, this is a blog not a professional journal. Write what the hell you like that's why you call yourself the name here isn't it?
Helping guys overcome their PTSD when they have to face the fear inside them is, according to a Falklands Vet I worked with, a lot more terrifying than being there.
And so ignorance from people who don't know about how bad PTSD is for service personal should be jumped on. Anonymous shouldn't open mouth before understanding what others can go through.

Anonymous said...

Sounds like the writer should still be sectioned. This very damaging fairytale should not have been given space on this adult blog.

Scribbler said...

I think Anonymous is the archetypal troll. Don't worry about it. What a tit.