Hellfire
I like listening to all the sounds of the city around me. The ones I knew before I became what I am now. It brings a certain sense of calm that I can’t usually conjure up myself. The images of my time over there still stay with me through most of my time awake. Being conscious is better than when I sleep, though. The doctor told me that was normal for people like me. Like he would fucking know. He’s never had to hear the screams, never had to just sit there, and listen to his brothers and sisters die while he can do nothing but try against all odds to push it all away. The things that people like me have had to do to keep people like them safe from death and terror. I still hear them. Sometimes I can push them to the background just like back then, but they’re still there. Always. It feels wrong to deny them my attention. They deserve to be heard. But the doctor said that they’re not real. Like he would fucking know.
I pass by so many places that beckon me in, promise a reprieve from my demons. But I know their lies too well. Besides, they’re not demons, I am. No chance of giving them a reprieve from me though, so I keep walking. The city streets have gone to shit. Or maybe they were always like that. I can’t help but think about why I bothered fighting for all of this. Fighting the monsters for the grime and the sin. I try to tell myself that I didn’t. That I fought for the “potential”. For what we could be if only we had the time. The problem is, I know my own lies too well, too.
I pass by another prospective friend that beckons me in through its doors. I know this one, though I’ve never been in. I remember asking my dad what VFW meant. He said it was a place for people who had been through hell. I stop and face this hell on earth, and I can’t help myself. I’m already through the door before the voices can pull me back.
At this time of night there aren’t more than a few grizzled guys in leather jackets and old fatigues propped up against the bar. I can’t help but notice their boots of all things. Still crisp and clean, as if they polished them this morning. I find myself missing my own. Old habits die hard for all of us, I guess. It only takes a few moments of suspicious glares to remember that I still have my hood up. I drop it and something in them relaxes, but only a little. I smile my carefully practiced smile. They recognize the look in my eyes, I guess.
I wander over and introduce myself. They don’t answer. They’re not listening to my words. They’re listening to the other things. They’re watching my posture, my hands, my soul reflected in my dark eyes. I’m doing the same. They start talking amongst themselves but make no effort to turn me away. It’s just small talk until someone pulls out a knife from a sheath at their belt. Something in me sparks, but no one reacts so I try to lull the fire in my chest back to slumbering embers. The guy says it was his knife in the service. Said it was taken back by Uncle Sam after he was discharged, something about wartime supplies and all that shit. Apparently, a buddy of his who took a desk job managed to get it back to him. He’s pretty happy about it. I know what he means. I say as much.
They turn to me, maybe forgetting I was there, I don’t know. I continue. I tell them how I miss my own service weapon. Like another limb. Always near, always ready. I tell them how the feeling of cold steel in my hands is a comfort that I can scarcely find elsewhere. I kick myself. The voices chastise me for opening up. They claw me back and I feel the dull burning again. It hurts, but I know I deserve it. I feel a hand on my shoulder and the embers in my chest threaten to grow into an inferno. I see pity and sympathy on their faces and it smolders again. They tell me that it gets better and say all the other pretty lies they’re supposed to say. I thank them and turn away.
I step out into the streets once again. The smell of brimstone taunts me through my memories. The feeling of my sword in my hand. The bright flame that shone from its blade cutting through the darkness. The familiar weight of my armor resting against me like the embrace of a mother I had never known. The faces of those like me, conscripted to hold back the darkness, smile at me. After only a flicker of times gone by, it recedes and I find myself back on the streets, head held high to the sky and an ocean of everything threatening to tear me apart from within. But I know I don’t deserve that easy end. I walk and leave hell behind me the best I can. Besides, I know I’ll see it again. Like an old friend. The voices promised me.