Personal Narrative-Memoir Of War

A bang rang out. Marty heard a ringing emerging from his head. He jumped up as if he had been shocked by a defibrillator, frantically shaking his head too stop the loud alarm that was taking over his mind. The trench he was in was enclosing on him. It kept shrinking and shrinking. The dirt walls, covered by an immovable layer of blood was moving closer to him with every little movement he made. And then Marty coughed, coughed, and coughed. Vomit shot from his stomach like a blood coming out of a punctured artery. Marty used every bit of his strength to peek up above the blood stained wall of the trench. He saw a beautiful mountain scape, covered with tiny black balls that were getting closer with every breath he took. Suddenly they started

to fly towards Marty and he could hear their villainous whisper. Marty denied his gut feeling that they were his enemy.
Marty gasped as he pushed himself to wave his hand at the incoming jets. They were now may 1000 feet away. Anxiety attacked Marty from behind as he started to pant, waiting for the ink black letters on the side of the jet to be visible.
Marty took another breath, 750 feet away. Marty started to yell to get the attention of the pilots. He peered at the incoming wave of metal. Inside of the irregular shaped jet which was shooting at him, was a fighter pilot, still as a mountain lake.
500 feet away. And then the letters on the side of the jet became clear. Marty stopped yelling. His breath was invaded by the fear that engulfed him. He jumped over, and sprang his arms out to play dead.
250 feet away. Marty’s adrenaline overcame his obvious illness as he changed his mind and started to crawl frantically away from the incoming planes.
100 feet away.
Everything seemed too real.
It was all a nightmare.
Marty held his breath and closed his eyes, hoping that the planes would disappear and fade into the once remarkable view of the countryside of southern Alabama. He remembered once when he wasn’t so poor, and before the South was attacked by the malicious tyrant, Kim Jong. He had earned the nickname when he once committed mass genocide, and murdered many of his people. He remembered his parents before they were brutally murdered in the first attack. His father would sometimes read him poems back before the war. He would sometimes recite Caged Bird by Maya Angelou when he was not being deployed. He would say the poem over and over and it would give him strength.
“The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.”
He remembered a bed, in which he slept in, and not a miniature cardboard box, which had always made Marty claustrophobic. It had a gutter filled stench that precluded any chance of being pleasant. And the rain, so much rain that would collapse his box into a heaping pile of rubble.
There was once a day when it never once rained, back before the war, Marty had always been told. He was recruited by the Southern Republic when he was just 18 and had been serving for four years. He opened his eyes again, terrified of the giant metal balls that kept getting closer and closer. The metal balls were no longer distant from the trench that had engulfed Marty. He saw the giant letters printed on the side of the plane, THE FIRST ARMY OF 2110, and a picture of the opulent leader that had started the war. A cloud of confusion fogged Marty’s mind. It was as if someone had put a blindfold on him. Nothing seemed to make sense. And then Marty realized what was happening. Kim had really done it. The chemical weapons were being deployed.Then, Marty was engulfed in a layer of blackness.
When Marty woke, the sun was peering in through the open window into his curious eyes.

The yellow and orange beams of light hijacked Marty’s sight. He moved to regain his senses and looked around. He felt like as if someone had punctured his lungs and could not stop coughing.

“You know you won't find any treasure!” Exclaimed an old friend happily while leaning against a moss covered stone pillar.

It was Lieutenant Dan. A very servile man, who never disagreed with an order. Every ancestor before him had died in some sort of war dating back to the revolution, and his job was to fight to the death in this one. He was a very tall man with beautiful blue eyes, like the sea during the summer. And his eyes brought a welcoming feeling with them because they reminded everyone fighting for the SR of what civilization was like before the war. Before the second depression.

“How many did we lose?” Marty barely questioned as he wheezed

uncontrollably.
“Lots. You were lucky to survive.” The lieutenant explained. “When THE FIRST ARMY attacked, we had run out of supplies. If you remember, you were sent into battle with only a shive. You were on a reobtain mission right on the southern tip of Alabama. We needed weapons and supplies. What we did not know was that there were minefields. Everywhere. You must have been in one of the blast radius’ and gotten thrown into a trench with one hell of a concussion. You're lucky you've got all your limbs intact brother. I was worried. Anyway, that was when Kim Jong, sure you remember him, sent out the chemicals. But luckily, an initiate found you and dragged you out just in time, before the weapons were activated. And here we are now. Anyway, that is what you are feeling now. An aftermath of an 110 fever. But just a few more days of rest and I'm sure you’ll be fine. You sure were lucky, though. One of our other soldiers found some medical supplies and that’s what’s keepin’ you alive right now.”
A few days passed and Marty was feeling great again.

Marty was allowed to leave the medical tent and he meandered back to his dirt hut. He sat down and stared at the tally marks on his wall. Sometimes, Marty forgot what the war was even about. He would depressingly mark another tally on his wall of distress and sigh just thinking about his hopeless future. He was trapped by poverty. Its claws would slice him in half every day, causing endless torture. No matter what he tried to do to mend his future, it was hopeless. Marty once taught himself the story of Sisyphus, when he found a rich man’s book in a city that was raided. He would walk around his hopeless community and share the story over and over again, but change the ending so that Sisyphus finally got to the top of the

mountain.
Sometimes Marty wished he could die temporarily. Kim had treated him and his community like animals. Marty had always thought of himself as a caged bird, controlled by The First Army.
Suddenly Marty heard a crack and pop. Dust started to drift down from the ceiling like paper falling from a great height. He sprinted outside and stood to face a rhino tank. He looked around and only saw the suffering of the poor community. He never understood the reasoning of Kim. He never understood the very xenophobic quality that Kim so abused. He never understood war. Marty closed his eyes as he prepared to his end. He started to whisper,
“The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.”
An explosion sounded.