The air raid sirens are alarming and the only thing louder is his heart pounding in his ears. He is covered with sweat, mud, and the only thing that keeps him going is the man who was weighing him down. Dragging his fellow solider through the muddy earth towards safety. Not that he knew where safety was at that exact moment. He didn't really know anything except his own name, Lt. John Stewart Allen. And the name of the man he was stumbling along to safety, a boy by the name of Greene.
The ground behind him shook as grenades blew up behind him. Bullets rang out and Lt. Allen. He ducked behind a broken building. He had to stay focus and find a safe place to hide. As bullets rang out around him, he remembered, Stephen Greene, Topeka, Kansas. The red headed boy had never even seen a skyscraper until he was in his army fatigues. And now Private Greene was no more than a limp redhead, freckles mingled with gun powder and mud.
Allen thought about leaving him. Just once. A quick feeling, or maybe an actual audible voice screaming at him to run, told him to drop this kid and leave him and go. But Allen wasn't a coward and he wasn't going to leave a kid who probably had never even had one good fuck (or any) in his short life. Instead, Allen shouldered Greene and half ran, half dodged and carried him to this war torn city.
----
He awoke with a start. The room was a lavender-gray with florescent lights flickering in upturned light fixtures on the sides of the walls. Mr. Allen's glaucoma riddled eyes trailed down from the ceiling to the pale textured walls, the mauve trim and down to the handicap bards that hugged every wall.
As if residents at Pleasant Grove Retirement Center, needed the wide plastic handles to remind themselves to hold on and that they might need some help. Mr. Allen blinked. Glaucoma was a bitch, one that he never thought he was going to have to deal with. He had just finished healing from his cataract surgery when the darkening began. It was like being bum fucked by life, yet again.
Getting old was a fucking cunt sucker motherfucker. Mr. Allen's mouth twitched. How he wanted to say those words, hear them pour from his mouth: through the throat, over the tongue, slide over the gums and past the lips. He was really afraid if he started talking that way he wouldn't be able to stop. And he couldn't afford to be kicked out this place. He couldn't bear to call it a home. A man's home ought to be somewhere where a man can call the shots, not have a sponge bath twice a day.
Mr. Allen closed his eyes, hoping sleep would find him again. He hoped he'd dream of that year he was 22, but not seeing battle. Of meeting her. Mrs. Allen. Mrs. Allen for 56 years. They say if you lose a limb, you continue to try and scratch it. As if you can still feel the itch. Oh how Mr. Allen had an itch for the missus. He woke on his left hand side thinking he was lying next to her, the way she liked, so they could face each other, but instead, all he faced was the plain wooden door in an empty nursing home room. Sometimes during the night, right before he woke up, he was sure she was there. Tangible. Her dark blue eyes like the ocean, her Chanel number 5.
That was worse than waking up to an empty bed in an empty room.Being able to almost touch her and then waking up to lose her. He would never cry. Never. He wanted to believe that the tears he withheld would count for something, some token, to get through those awaited pearly gates. it scared him that he might not receive admittance. He had done his share of sinning, and if the bible held any indication of what judgment might be like, he'd just as soon stay in this lavender and mauve hellhole. Better to be sponge bathed by a nurse's assistant, staring through a golden gate at mansion above that did not have him as the lease holder. No. Here would be just fine, thank you very much.
-Too tired to continue. More laters, -Dizzy
The ground behind him shook as grenades blew up behind him. Bullets rang out and Lt. Allen. He ducked behind a broken building. He had to stay focus and find a safe place to hide. As bullets rang out around him, he remembered, Stephen Greene, Topeka, Kansas. The red headed boy had never even seen a skyscraper until he was in his army fatigues. And now Private Greene was no more than a limp redhead, freckles mingled with gun powder and mud.
Allen thought about leaving him. Just once. A quick feeling, or maybe an actual audible voice screaming at him to run, told him to drop this kid and leave him and go. But Allen wasn't a coward and he wasn't going to leave a kid who probably had never even had one good fuck (or any) in his short life. Instead, Allen shouldered Greene and half ran, half dodged and carried him to this war torn city.
----
He awoke with a start. The room was a lavender-gray with florescent lights flickering in upturned light fixtures on the sides of the walls. Mr. Allen's glaucoma riddled eyes trailed down from the ceiling to the pale textured walls, the mauve trim and down to the handicap bards that hugged every wall.
As if residents at Pleasant Grove Retirement Center, needed the wide plastic handles to remind themselves to hold on and that they might need some help. Mr. Allen blinked. Glaucoma was a bitch, one that he never thought he was going to have to deal with. He had just finished healing from his cataract surgery when the darkening began. It was like being bum fucked by life, yet again.
Getting old was a fucking cunt sucker motherfucker. Mr. Allen's mouth twitched. How he wanted to say those words, hear them pour from his mouth: through the throat, over the tongue, slide over the gums and past the lips. He was really afraid if he started talking that way he wouldn't be able to stop. And he couldn't afford to be kicked out this place. He couldn't bear to call it a home. A man's home ought to be somewhere where a man can call the shots, not have a sponge bath twice a day.
Mr. Allen closed his eyes, hoping sleep would find him again. He hoped he'd dream of that year he was 22, but not seeing battle. Of meeting her. Mrs. Allen. Mrs. Allen for 56 years. They say if you lose a limb, you continue to try and scratch it. As if you can still feel the itch. Oh how Mr. Allen had an itch for the missus. He woke on his left hand side thinking he was lying next to her, the way she liked, so they could face each other, but instead, all he faced was the plain wooden door in an empty nursing home room. Sometimes during the night, right before he woke up, he was sure she was there. Tangible. Her dark blue eyes like the ocean, her Chanel number 5.
That was worse than waking up to an empty bed in an empty room.Being able to almost touch her and then waking up to lose her. He would never cry. Never. He wanted to believe that the tears he withheld would count for something, some token, to get through those awaited pearly gates. it scared him that he might not receive admittance. He had done his share of sinning, and if the bible held any indication of what judgment might be like, he'd just as soon stay in this lavender and mauve hellhole. Better to be sponge bathed by a nurse's assistant, staring through a golden gate at mansion above that did not have him as the lease holder. No. Here would be just fine, thank you very much.
-Too tired to continue. More laters, -Dizzy
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