I Saw Her

I see no bravery, no bravery, in your eyes anymore. ~ James Blunt

Although we are the products of our past, we are not prisoners of it. ~Betty

An eerie howling broke the delicate balance of an unusually silent night. Unease spread sporadically and that’s the first time I saw him. He looked like anything except human. Blood stained head, distorted face, hollow eyes and strange scent from his body, nothing from his body would suggest he was once a human, a private who fought courageously against the rebels.

He was carried out from the militia jeep and the doctor with some nurses approached him in hurry. Little commotion broke out around the jeep, spontaneously but oddly, the immediate chaos didn’t seem bother the faces of the medics at all. Their gaze, though was warm and encouraging, hollow at the same time and there’s no flicker of fire I could see from the eyes of the combat units.

Fierce exchange of words between the driver and the doctor and the rapid-fire instruction given by the doctor welled my eyes with tears and my throat with disgust. This was the third day I had reached the centre of the battalions. The whole land assault unit was based in this war-torn town, which was surrounded by inferno and occasionally blasted by surprise air raid.

I still remembered 3 days ago while I was sitting in a similar militia jeep with one sergeant and a lieutenant, we were utterly surprised by a massive air raid carried out by the rebels, the Union Of Liberation (UOL). The whole jeep was buoyed the sudden quake incurred by a scudding missile that soared past us and hit a building behind. The aftershock threw my stomach upside down and the ringing in my ears nauseated me. I threw out few times before we reached the hospital, which once was a stadium.

En route to the stadium, though it was a starless night, I could still see rubber, collapsed buildings engulfed by merciless inferno and mutilated bodies. Misery was omnipresent and floating along with the heaviness of the dusty air and the scent of the charred bodies, which one of them pointed its finger towards the sky.

Unable to cope with the distraught image in front of me, I threw out for another time.

X

The injured private was laid on a bed and he was just given an injection of some morphine. A circle and a cross were marked on his face with a chalk by one of the nurses. The mark, which I immediately knew, meant ‘poisoned’.

He was now, lying calmly and stiffly on the bed. I was not a medics but I somehow could move around in the ward, which was the changing room of the athletes. Maybe everyone was just too preoccupied to notice me or they were just too numbed by the existence of human beings.

There were no familiar faces in this ward where only the terminal patients would be warded in. Put it in another ward, infantries who were admitted into this ward, largely were beyond help and once admitted in, nobody would expect them to come out from that alive.

Even the medics there thought so. They did their best to bring last comfort and what they could do next, was just had their fingers crossed that miracles could happen. Realizing nothing much they could do, layers of dullness had gradually overshadowed their, once optimistic and hopeful, gaze.

There were only two patients in this ward. One of them was having a thick bandage around his waist but one-half of his face was nowhere to be seen. I was later told his face was ripped apart by the brutal force of flying shrapnel from exploding mortar. Another one was the man I saw at the entrance of this ‘hospital’ and was closer to me.

Distant explosion could still be heard, followed by the light quakes that would shake the whole building slightly, displacing some sands from the roof. Watching the sands falling from the roof, it’s like watching a sand clock, I wondered how much time those two injured infantries have.

At the same time, the one who was closer to me said sometime. He sounded like he wanted tell me something but his voice was blur. Perhaps it’s the side effect of the injection of morphine.

But I swore I heard he said “I could see her, an angel.”

x

Panting.

He was lethargic. The feeling that somebody was following him made him nervy and uneasy. Listening carefully to any suspicious sound, he moved forward with his rifle ready.

This was a starless night but it wasn’t dark at all. Distant explosion of mortar and the constant crossfire lit the path before him. It was muddy. Normally after a heavy rain, the battlefield would become extremely muddy but the more unbearable part would probably be the heaviness of the air. Every time he inhaled, his chest would be groaning uncomfortably.

He was sweating. ‘Be careful of dehydration’ his trainer’s advice was reverberating in his ear but all he wanted to do was to survive. ‘Goddamnit’, was the first word he muttered after he discovered his canteen had been dislocated mysteriously.

His head was throbbing, throat was burning, but he knew this was not the time to stop, he must find his battalion back. Surrounded by tropical canopy, he felt trapped. That was the feeling he couldn’t shrug off, but it was useful, at least it kept him vigilant.

“Where am I now?” He cursed inaudibly.

Suddenly, he heard something. A high pitch shrieking.

‘Bangggg!!!!’ One mortar hit a tree not far from him and exploded in a spectacular fashion. The wave from the explosion unbalanced him, the noise was deafening but what he was more worried was the deadly shrapnel that was scattering everywhere. He knew he couldn’t stay on the ground, he needed a pithole to cover himself up.

But, surprisingly, there was no shrapnel. His stood up but sill pretty much disorientated, confused, he fell again. The next thing he realized was he was surrounded by layers of misty gas. “What the….” Now he knew what was that gas. Characteristic mustardlike smell, greenish colour, it was mustard gas.

No time for hesitation. He rolled on the ground, trying to keep his head low. The path around him was covered by the same fatal greenish gas. Panicked. The irritating ringing was still reverberating in his ears, his situation couldn’t be worse.

Desperate, he stole a look around, trying to seek for anywhere to hide. No luck, all he could see was naked land. He knew he might be exposed to the enemy gunfire, he didn’t even know whether he was within the shooting range.

His vision was blurring. His body was burning due to the exposure to the gas. His energy was draining away from his body.

Struggling, scrambling, fighting.

Finally he collapsed but before that, he thought he saw something.

X

He swore to me he saw her amidst the yellowish and fatal smoke. I had no intention to fight with him, realizing life was edging from his body, I couldn’t bring myself to argue with him. He insisted he saw her extending her arms to him in the smoke.

“Who was she?” Although I knew perfectly there was no one, I just asked him, thinking it might at least ease his pain.

“Don’t bother, my brother. But I swear to my sweet Jesus that I saw her.” He refused to tell me.

He went on telling me how excited he was when he saw her because he thought he was not going to make it home. But against all odds, he saw her, as real as ever.

“Was she beautiful?” Tears, again, welled my eyes. But I was too shameful to even cry. While a dying private who was going to meet his imminent death didn’t even shed a single droplet of tear, I was too timid and too scared to even cry to my heart’s content.

“Yes, she was, of course, of course…” He repeated his answers for few times as if he were trying to seek for some sort of recognition.

I sank into my deep muse. Therefore, I didn’t really pay any attention to his murmur. Knowing he was not fully conscious, I didn’t blame him. He reminded me of a story I had written few years ago. It’s about infantry, who defied all odds, survived the war and went back to his hometown only to know his parents were both dead.

He committed suicide the day after, leaving a note.

I saw angels,

Angels who brought me home safely but killed my parents.

Now I see death,

Death who brings me to back my true home and kills me.

Many people questioned me how could a devastating man could ever write a poem? I simply told them dying people always saw angels. The angels could be their pasts, could be anything. It took various forms and it had different ways to recount the stories right before you died. I never knew where I got this idea. Perhaps this was merely another arrogant speculation. But the man before me had just proved me right.

“I tell you, you’ve to believe me, she is an angel.”

X

He spoke with such clarity and confidence. Hard to believe it all came from a dying man who wrestled time with God.

“Tell me, did she change?” Perhaps I was a little too anxious to know the answer, I instinctively raised my voice which brought a wary frown from a melancholy nurse.

“Nope, she never changes. She still keeps her cute side bang with her, just like the first time I saw her. She even spoke to me, with voice I’m familiar with. Though her voice is somehow laced with a new maturity, she didn’t change much. As beautiful as ever.”

He was as agitated as me. Coughing and jerking violently now, I was hit by ripple of panic that he couldn’t finish his story in time. The saddest story, to me, was always the story untold. The story which was frozen under layers of snow had no meaning. Story was meant to be read, to be cherished and to be debated. If he died now, the story would diminish for good, nobody would ever able to immortalize it in books, plays and songs.

“What did she say?” To no avail, I tried to push him harder. But my conscience halted me, he was an severely injured infantry, not a story teller.

He went on telling me what she said to him amidst the gas. Though there were interruptions in between, he managed to tell me all. He himself seemed relieved as if the story itself were a heavy burden he didn’t wish to carry with him to the grave.

X

Amid the piercing gas, he saw a silhouette in front of him. At first he saw her ankle only because he was lying on the ground. The gas had gradually shut down his sense. His vision blurred, his hearing was distracted by the echo of the explosion, his skin was sore and dry. He crept forward, now he knew who she was.

She was Mora.

He opened his mouth. No voice was coming out. He moved his fingers frantically, trying to warn her to flee from the battleground, mortar was shattering the ground everywhere and the bullets were penetrating every inch of the moist soil.

“I forgive you. It’s not your fault, it’s my fault. Please come back to me. Please…”

Did she just tell him he was forgiven? Droplets of moist fuzzed his vision, he no longer cared whether it’s tears or sweats. All he wanted was to listen to what Mora had just said again.

He tried to focus on her and had a final look on her. But now, every inch of his body was burning. Every movement would bring unthinkable pain and eventually a futile attempt to lift his arm had completely knocked him out.

He thought he saw her again.

X

“Who was she?” Again, I asked this question, subconsciously. Barely knew what I was doing right now, I received something from his trembling and extended arms.

He didn’t say anything and he returned his gaze to the ceiling again. I opened the humid paper in my palm. It’s barely legible and the room is dimly lit, therefore, I went out and read.

X

Dear Valor,

It’s been a while since we talked to each other. I just heard that you’ve signed up for the army. Your decision surprised me. I know your temperament, you are not the kind of person who is combative and blood-thirsty. You adore writing and reading more than anything.

I ever saw you, shutting yourself in your room, writing for whole day and came out with nothing. But the happiness I saw from your face deceived no one. You are willing to spend whole day on something that doesn’t yield something. That means something. God wants you to continue writing. I know you’ll never believe in God, but He really has his own way. Believe in yourself, you are a writer, a poet, not an infantry. You wrestle with pen, not rifle and magazines.

I know you still feel sore. I’m grateful you’ve confessed everything to me but love doesn’t work in that way. You can write me poems everyday but that doesn’t mean I’ve to fall for you. Valor, you are always a brave man, just like your name. Maybe my frankness has hurt you, I’m sorry about that but you should never live in your past.

Move on, I’m sure there are plenty of girls who will fall for your love poems. I’m sure there are people who are willing to stay by your side and perhaps write together with you. Sorry once again, I can never be that person.

Valor, how can I change your mind? Can you tell me?

Yours sincerely,

Mora Doloridoe

X

The letter was not complete, many parts of it had been censored and some part of it was simply too illegible.

Volar, who now bedridden in front of me, was certainly a big fool. Had he regretted? He was just another wretched teenager who sought for love, love he didn’t deserve. By committing to Mora wholeheartedly, he thought he would soon be rewarded.

Nonetheless, I was moved. The story was crippled but was too beautiful and at one moment, I doubted if I could ever rhapsodize it into dancing alphabets which were coined together to breath life into strings of words. Gnarl of doubt was consuming my confidence. As I continued reading his story, at certain point, I wished to stop him, sensing the beauty of the story was beyond my grasp. To tell an ordinary story, I needed authenticity. To tell this story, I had to be honest and explore the darkest corner of my heart, the corner I would wish to conceal forever.

I was stripped naked before the story, by its honesty and frankness.

I started visualizing Mora in my mind. Who was she? Had she ever laughed like an angel? Did she have a sweet voice?

These questions had popped out one after another but the sudden spasm of his body drew me back to the ward again. He looked more wretched. His eyeballs were protruding out like an elf and the subsequent violent spasms had finally drawn the preoccupied doctor back to the ward.

Politely, the doctor asked me to stand aside. The nurses were all standing by the bed and listening obediently to every instruction by the doctor.

Suddenly, my tears streamed down my cheeks. His image was diffracted into millions of crystallized jigsaws by my tears. I tried to wipe my tears dry and scrutinized his hollow eyes for one more time.

I saw nothing but sorrow which crawled out from his eyes, finally. How long had he pretended he could take all this nonchalantly? He was still a fool, even before his imminent death.

Maybe he still wanted to tell me something, but I knew it’s all gone now. Sands had stopped falling from the roof, so did his lethargic heart, stop beating at last. I lied against the wall, too exhausted to even cry.

X

He had passed away. He could never quite forgive himself for turning his back on everything, Painful love, solitary poems and the immaculate angel. He had never seen an angel, in his dying second. Actually he saw himself. Whatever the angel said was what he always wanted to say.

“I forgive you. It’s not your fault, it’s my fault. Please come back to me. Please…” was what he always wanted to say to Mora.

But it didn’t really matter now, because he could finally free himself from the prison of his past and rest in peace forever.

p/s : writing this post has been a very painful experience. Striving to give my characters more depth, I've modified and remodified and reconstructed the whole story. So far, this was the most difficult story i've written. I hope you'll like this post and accept the darker side of mine. But if you wish to read a very touching story, sorry once again, I think I'll disappoint you.