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Show house/ 397 One night after another I was awakened from my sleep with the sounds of gunfire and artillery blasts in my ears. I did not know that I had ever heard such sounds - even John Wayne movies had not translated them accurately. Along with the crack agnd boom of munitions were the sounds of death: groans, oeineamor shrieks, onnfasrni Qno, rattlesy T.I, IIIM.S as though I had been stretched before a gigantic screen and forced to watch each stage of the battle, each phase of death. I anticipated the foray beside them, plotted with them to avoid the enemy, felt their fear and their blood-lust. I watched as they struck for cover, felt panic as they found themselves beyond shelter, gaped as they were wounded, maimed, killed. I was compelled was to watch as they died. And then IAallowed ftp awaken, moaning low in my throat to find my pillow soaked with sweat and tears. I was afraid to go back to sleep. The night I dreamed of Brian blown apart, his legs in fragments, his arms blown into the air - dead or not, I did not know which horror to choose-that night I could not awaken, but was transfixed by the dream, forced to walk through it, sorting his parts, impaled by my own vengeful spear against the wall of sleep. At last my mother came to me and placed a cool hand on my forehead. "Darling. You were having a nightmare. Wake up." "Oh my God," I whispered. I was not taking the Lord's name in vain, not this time. "Brian will be killed over there. And it's my fault. It's all my fault. |
