Above the Fallen

PALETA VI

He was far more broken than how he looks, and the scars reminded him of the battles everyone thought he has won.“ “

A man in camouflage and boots and a man with scars were talking on the front porch steps on a warm sunny Tuesday morning. The grasses were dead, but the sidewalks were clean. They would watch as the neighbours’ children play and wonder about the youth he never had.

He looked at his son in camouflage sitting right next to him with a light above his head from the gaps between the rustling leaves behind. -Say, son. What has the war done any good to you?

He then smiled and let out a breath of air, looked down and answered. -Well, ya know dad. First, it pays well. He looked at the man with scars. -Look at the house; we used to live in such a tiny apartment when I was a kid. And. And. The tap won’t stop dripping at night, he chuckled a little.

The old man smiled. -I couldn’t sleep at night hearing those little drops. Darn it. They both laughed, and for once it felt nice reminiscing about the past until there was another gap of silence between them. -Say, son. Have you ever been alone there and afraid?

He looked at his dad and his scars, and his eyes of concern. -Don’t worry dad. Don’t you know? This brings great honour to our family! He smiled trying to persuade the father who wasn’t convinced.

Silence. The wind blew and the leaves rustled in sadness. -Don’t worry dad. I’m doing this for us and our country, for the neighbours’ children and my future children. It’s no big deal. Hell, I’m basically a national hero.

He jokingly said to lighten the atmosphere. -But, son. Please. You’re still young. Go party like the people at your age. Do that weird thing they do in their computers and shout at the screen. Go find a woman and put a ring on her finger. Enjoy your youth. Every time you leave, I worry so much that you might not come back.

The son looked at his boots, and couldn’t look up. His eyebrows tensed and his eyes were blurry. -It’s okay dad. He stood up. -I got to go now.

He picked up his huge bag and carried it on one strap on his shoulder.

They gave each other a hug before he left. Waving at him shouting he’ll be back before Christmas. He walked away, until he was gone.

The old man went inside their home coloured in a combination of cream yellow and brown, passing by frames of honour and medals of war, medals of dust and dirt. He picked up a nice picture frame placed on top of one of the table cabinet and carefully looked at the face of his son, who was barely 12 years old, smiling widely as he can beside a man in camouflage and boots. He smudged the dust off the man’s face and saw scars he feared greatly.

It was him.

Wearing a uniform he dreaded so awfully much. He carefully put back the frame from where it was and sighed in a mixture of exasperation and regret. He kept walking towards inside his home and his pace fastens as he passed by a mirror. He couldn’t look at himself. He was far more broken than how he looks, and the scars reminded him of the battles everyone thought he has won.

But did he really?

War for the price of his youth. He grew up too fast in the midst of smoke and piles of rubbles. He used to be a child wondering around searching for remnants of what was left from all the suffering. Trying to find a bit of happiness or even better, leftover food. He used to be naive, alone and afraid. Taking shelter from the rain in broken structures which used to be homes of the families that once were... alive. He used to quiver from the cold every night, bearing in mind the memory of his parents who died with no clear idea of what happened, only the sound of explosions and utter darkness. He used to, for that was a war he grew up with and fought as he grew older, and fought once more, and fought until he was too old. Now, he’s just alone and terrified. A once soldier in the front lines who fought for food and shelter, a once soldier that never want to go back, unlike his son.

He remembered his son mentioned honour before he left. He couldn’t disagree more. For all he could think of were the corpses and ashes he saw growing up, and the blood and terror of everything else.

He once stood above the carnages of corpses and asked the dead if honour really matters.

And as he grew old and saw the weeping families above the tombs of the fallen, he still couldn’t answer if everything was worth it, if war was worth it.