Or maybe I need to stop.
Stop feeling emotions, stop being so gullible, stop making new friends.
Just stop.
Stop being kind, stop being social, stop being friendly, stop being approachable. Stop.
Stop caring. Stop thinking. Stop everything.
STOP.
That’s when the bullet hit.
I fall to the ground in pain, and a scream escapes my lips. My shoulder is aching. “Pete,” I mutter. “Pete!,”, but he can’t hear my cries for help. “Soldier down!” The yell comes from somewhere behind me and the sound of moving feet engulfs me. The dirt under me seemed to dissolve and my breaths turned shallow. My eyes try to close.
Stay awake.
But the darkness was too powerful, and its strength pulled me in until the whole world turned bleak and black. The sea was endless, an ocean of darkness. My body turned numb and all pain disappeared. Then an image formed, it was only small, three lines and a white dot. The dot and lines rapidly changed, from simple to detailed. The dot became a light, a blinding light, that made my eyes burn. The lines became beds, the sheets stained and ragged, and each one occupied with a man. At further inspection, I realised that I was in a tent, a hospital tent.
“Where… Where am I?”. Just asking the question made my head throb, and I quickly moved my hand to nurture it. A nurse immediately comes to my aid, “Hello, my name is Samantha, and I’m your nurse. Don’t worry you’ll be out in a few days,” The lady was an elderly woman. She seemed to be 60-70 years of age, her hair was in a tight ginger bun, and her ears were pierced with bright blue dragonflies. Her face was covered in wrinkles, and her smile was large and gleeful. Her uniform was neat and bright.
“Now we’ll just need to test a few things, can you lift your arm up like this?” Samantha raised her arm in a swinging action as if bowling a cricket ball. The action, usually easy and relaxing, was like being shot all over again. Pain erupted in my shoulder like a volcano exploding. Millions of gunshots are pounding through me, over and over again. I scream and grab my arm which has fallen back down. I look at my shoulder, it has a bandage and I’m wearing a totally different shirt. “You’re a brave young girl,” she whispers and squeezes my hand tightly, “Very brave,” she repeats.
Her smile widens and we do a few more tests, shoulder rolls, shrugging and swinging my arm once again. Slowly, my arm seemed to become stronger, and within 8 days I was as strong as I should be. “You’re good to go,” Samantha says with a wide smile. “Thank you,” I smile back and go into the battlefield once more. The sun is harsh on my skin, an instant change in heat compared to the tent. Hunger bites at me, I could eat a whole horse. The smile disappears from my face.
I should see what Pete’s up to.
Once I find Pete we talk. He’s filthy, dirt stains his face, and a cut has emerged on his chin. He shows me his new friends, Will, Tom and Matt. They’re all funny, tall, strong and around the same age as us, except for Tom who’s 30. Matt and Will have short blonde hair, whilst Tom has slightly overgrown brown hair. “Nice to meet you,” I say. Will grins, “You’re a short little guy, aren’t you?”. Pete’s friends are now my friends, and I’m thankful. Now I have company, and that’s better than a thousand cans of food.
The next day is my first actual shooting shift. On the first day I got here, I did hold a gun, but was too scared to shoot a bullet. I’m anxious as I pick up my shotgun and load it. I’ve seen some of the other soldiers doing this so I know how. I hold up my gun and the guy next to me starts firing at people.
I shiver.
I hold up the gun higher and see a man holding a gun about to shoot, and to my horror, he’s about to shoot at me. I duck my head just as the bullet flies over me.
This is do or die.
I shakily lift my gun so it’s just poking out and aim it at the man. My fingers move towards the trigger and I let out a yelp. A loud noise erupts from the gun and a bullet releases. I slowly lift my head and see the man lying on the floor.
“You’re doing the right thing,”
The person next to me pats my back and continues shooting, but if I’ve done the right thing, why did it feel so wrong?
At night I’ve made it a habit to write in my diary, it’s a way to document what I’m going through, what I’m feeling. I write about my time in the hospital, I write about making new friends and losing some too. I write about the book I’m reading and the one I want to write when I get out of this nightmare. I write about the kind nurse and the hospital tent, as well as the disgusting battlefield. I even write about the trip here, with Pete, on the way to France. I write about shooting a man and being praised for it.
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