The Trauma

The soldier slashed his bayonet wildly, his battered shins moving vigorously. In the thick and humid jungles behind beckoned his fallen comrades. The ferocious explosions reverberated throughout the thick and deadly vines which seemed to cast out the only source of illumination, the glorious Sun. The soldier’s sweat permeated into his thick coat. His gruff voice reflected upon the massive development from a young boy, his unshaven moustache stuck out prominently from his sharp chin. Then, a stinging bullet buried itself beneath his skin. The soldier collapsed like a falling log but not a grimace nor cry was heard. Soon, he drifted into a dream, his fellow soldiers stumbling over branches to help him.

He burst into life on a bed layered by a thin and grisly bed cloth. Then, he stood up and trudged outside. The morning sun illuminated the skies like mines which were activated; swallows swooped through the air like bullets and villagers walked around indifferently, carrying out their daily chores. Then, he took his seat by the steps of a hut. The hut had been standing in the heart of the village for the past few years. People were usually carried out with a bloodstained ivory cloth stretched over their face. This man was lucky, but he was polluted with the guilt that stained his heart. He recalled the deathly grimace that were expelled from his comrades’ throat when they succumbed to their injuries, the blatant explosions and how the ground shook as if they were about to be split open. For an hour, the soldier sat by the steps, his thousand-yard stare gaining the curiosity of villagers…