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Sometimes I walk past the house – dread, hate and fear filling up my insides. Sometimes I think I put myself through the pain to make myself stronger. All I can feel is hate and anger invading my blood, my body and my mind. When I think of those months, the waiting dark clouds are released to take over the few memories filled with light. The war had just broken out. All of the children were being evacuated to Wales within the first week. They said it was for our safety. My parents had told me that my sister Edith, and I would have to go away for a while, then the war would be over and we could come home again. They told us that everything would be fine and that there was nothing to worry about. Those memories were the only few that brought light to the darkness within - the ones that kept me sane. We packed our belongings into a little, brown suitcase, carefully selecting each item before placing it inside. Our heartbroken mother stood next to us; together we packed in silence. The tension in the room suffocated me. I knew then that I needed to get used to life without my mother. As hard as it was, I had to try. Before going to bed that night, I took one final glance at the river outside my window, hoping that maybe one day I would see it again. Early the next morning, we made our way across the city to the train station. Thousands of children scurried around like rats, searching for their parents. I was handed a name tag with my name and a number to place around my neck. They treated us as if we were items being given new stickers with a completely different price on it. Now I was Number 5830. We had no thought as to where we might be going. The other children were just as clueless as us; no one knew what was going to ha... ... middle of paper ... ...from those who are puttin’ a roof over your ungrateful ‘ead?” “I’ll tell them I was hungry.” “Get over ‘ere. GET OVER ‘ERE NOW!” He grabbed me. The crack of the whip deafened me. I shrieked and cried out in pain, each time the whip came down on me. The smell of blood overcame me. I felt sick. I was rolling down a hill - my life was reaching an all time low. After that night, Edith and I started talking again. We reported the Master to our billeting officer who then transferred us to a different family. After about four years of living with the new family, the war was over. We were finally able to go home. The very same train took us back to London and our mother was waiting for us in the exact same spot. For the first time in years, I felt joy again. The news was brought to us that our father had died in war, but we had our mum, which was more than enough for me.
Many war stories today have happy, romantic, and cliche ending; many authors skip the sad, groosom, and realistic part of the story. W. D. Howell’s story, Editha and Ambrose Bierce’s story, An Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge both undercut the romantic plots and unrealistic conclusions brought on by many stories today. Both stories start out leading the reader to believe it is just another tpyical love-war senario, but what makes them different is the one-hundred and eighty degrees plot twist at the end of each story. In the typical love-war story the soldier would go off to war, fighting for his country, to later return safely to his family typically unscaved.
She picked a seat in the way back, away from all the people. She silently stared out the window making a quiet list inside her head of all the things she had forgotten and all the people she remembered. Tears silently slid down her face as she remembered her aunt crying and cousins afraid of the dark in their house. She couldn’t do it anymore. It was the best for everyone she thought. Deep down though she knew how hard it would be for everyone to find out she was leaving. From her family’s tears, to the lady in the grocery store who was always so kind and remembered her name. She also knew how
I walked into the room on New Year’s Day and felt a sudden twinge of fear. My eyes already hurt from the tears I had shed and those tears would not stop even then the last viewing before we had to leave. She lay quietly on the bed with her face as void of emotion as a sheet of paper without the writing. Slowly, I approached the cold lifeless form that was once my mother and gave her a goodbye kiss.
The arrival of winter was well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road he was much more aware of all his surroundings. He grew up in this small town and knew he would live there forever. He knew every landmark in this area. This place is where he grew up and experienced many adventures. The new journey of his life was exciting, but then he also had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach of something not right.
Bracken, Patrick and Celia Petty (editors). Rethinking the Trauma of War. New York, NY: Save the Children Fund, Free Association Books, Ltd, 1998.
I would shut my eyes because I knew what was coming. And before I shut my eyes, I held my breath, like a swimmer ready to dive into a deep ocean. I could never watch when his hands came toward me; I only patiently waited for the harsh sound of the strike. I would always remember his eyes right before I closed my own: pupils wide with rage, cold, and dark eyebrows clenched with hate. When it finally came, I never knew which fist hit me first, or which blow sent me to my knees because I could not bring myself to open my eyes. They were closed because I didn’t want to see what he had promised he would never do again. In the darkness of my mind, I could escape to a paradise where he would never reach me. I would find again the haven where I kept my hopes, dreams, and childhood memories. His words could not devour me there, and his violence could not poison my soul because I was in my own world, away from this reality. When it was all over, and the only thing left were bruises, tears, and bleeding flesh, I felt a relief run through my body. It was so predictable. For there was no more need to recede, only to recover. There was no more reason to be afraid; it was over. He would feel sorry for me, promise that it would never happen again, hold me, and say how much he loved me. This was the end of the pain, not the beginning, and I believed that everything would be all right.
In the story “Home Soil” by Irene Zabytko, the reader is enlightened about a boy who was mentally and emotionally drained from the horrifying experiences of war. The father in the story knows exactly what the boy is going through, but he cannot help him, because everyone encounters his or her own recollection of war. “When their faces are contorted from sucking the cigarette, there is an unmistakable shadow of vulnerability and fear of living. That gesture and stance are more eloquent than the blood and guts war stories men spew over their beers” (Zabytko 492). The father, as a young man, was forced to reenact some of the same obligations, yet the father has learne...
The first act of a soldier struggling with post-war life is the chapter, “Speaking of Courage,” when the character, Norman Bowker, is trying to work through the loss of a fellow soldier as he drives around his childhood hometown. “The war was over and there was no place in particular to go” (O’Brien 131), “As he came up, a pair of red flares puffed open, a soft blur...
In our society abuse of power, pain and suffering is talked about in many different ways. However, most people don't know how grueling it is to actually go through and recover from such an ordeal. In the novel “Breath Eyes Memory” by Edwidge Danticat, the narrator Sophie moves from Haiti to New York to amass with her mother and escape their past. They struggle to survive in the big city and find it hard to escape from their appalling past. Danticat illustrates the effects of having constantly try escaping from your painful past.
A soldier’s journey, a trip back home from World War II and a collision with reality is described in the opening of Henry Green’s novel, “Back”. The opening deals with the soldier’s journey, his experience at the warfront, the death of his love, and finally a child who is his own son, the last thing he has of his love. Charley, the soldier is seen reminiscing the moments he had with Rose and his experiences at the battlefield while he walks through the graveyard towards the body of his love. The author conveys a lot more than just what the words say in the first few paragraphs, leaving the reader eager to turn the page as well as giving the reader the freedom to interpret what certain words and sentences mean.
I have yet to paint a single happy painting, I paint what I feel, and it’s been many years since I have been happy. Of course whenever I see my brother I am reminded that he could be gone, that things could always be worse. That’s something I have learned, that no matter how terrible it’s going, it can always be worse. I never thought that life could be that bad, that it could steal everything you’ve ever known and the rest of the world goes on. No one but the victims of something this horrendous will truly understand what it’s like to have to suffer while everyone keeps going. Sometimes I wonder why did I survive, other times I wonder why I was put through this in the first place. I try not to pity myself, but self pity is something that’s hard to avoid when you are accompanied by a large burden of guilt. I read many books, but my brothers are extremely hard to read. To see what he went through, while I was going through it myself. His experience contained a lot of physical labor and abuse. He was beaten several times because he actually “stood up” for people. I say that in quotations because their was only so much confrontation you could do, if any, if you wanted to live. He often gave people his soup, people that were weaker than him, he stood in the back of the line. He stood in front at selections. I truly cannot believe he is still with me today, but without him, I probably wouldn’t be here either. Now a days, I see him often. I sometimes cook for us and we talk about anything imaginable. That’s another thing I do, cook. I love cooking and baking, it distracts me from the reality of my life. In both cooking and baking you have exact guidelines that you follow, no surprises, just the organized steps that are already set in place. That is the complete opposite of how my life has been, so I use my hobbies as a getaway from my memories. Actually, they are
I cried as we locked up the house for the last time. I felt like we had just spackled, primed, and painted over my childhood. I felt as if my identity had been erased, and like the character in the song, I had lost myself. There was no longer any physical evidence that I had ever lived in, much less grew up in, the house.
Everything seems like it’s falling out of place, it’s going too fast, and my mind is out of control. I think these thoughts as I lay on my new bed, in my new room, in this new house, in this new city, wondering how I got to this place. “My life was fine,” I say to myself, “I didn’t want to go.” Thinking back I wonder how my father felt as he came home to the house in Stockton, knowing his wife and kids left to San Diego to live a new life. Every time that thought comes to my mind, it feels as if I’m carrying a ten ton boulder around my heart; weighing me down with guilt. The thought is blocked out as I close my eyes, picturing my old room; I see the light brown walls again and the vacation pictures of the Florida and camping trip stapled to them. I can see the photo of me on the ice rink with my friends and the desk that I built with my own hands. I see my bed; it still has my checkered blue and green blanket on it! Across from the room stands my bulky gray television with its back facing the black curtain covered closet. My emotions run deep, sadness rages through my body with a wave of regret. As I open my eyes I see this new place in San Diego, one large black covered bed and a small wooden nightstand that sits next to a similar closet like in my old room. When I was told we would be moving to San Diego, I was silenced from the decision.
“Harry? Blimey mate, we were looking all over for you.” Dean Thomas’ voice ripped through the thinly veiled calm Harry had erected. In that moment, the boy-who-lived collapsed into the arms of a concerned boy. Sobbing, screaming for all those who had lost something in the war.
I lay on the hospital bed unable to move my legs and a throbbing pain in my head. Thoughts continuously entered and left my head and to me the room was going in circles. One thing agitated me and that was the question will I be able to lead a normal life again?? According to the doctors I was wheeled for life but I failed to believe that and I was in the wait for a miracle to happen….