joe miller. (values) wrote in noircity, @ 2014-10-01 06:36:00 |
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It feels like he'll never be able to wash the chill wind from his bones and he wonders, again, what kind of temporary madness had overtaken him to volunteer for this unending vertigo. Every time he closes his eyes, he's seized by falling, the endless heartbeats of terror when there's no up or down or sky or ground, just spinning and all of his internal organs clamoring to orient themselves. Every time he opens his eyes, he hears another man gasp and rattle the metal frame of his cot, clutching it for dear life. Another sleepless night in Georgia. They're training themselves not to fear death. He wonders if it will make them better soldiers or simply better at dying, if they learn to aim towards it with their chins tucked. Stepping off the edge is hard the first time and harder the second, but it gets easier with every leap. It's a funny thing. He never thought he was the kind of man who had that in him. He's taken risks before, but he never was the kind of man to play with his own life. Maybe it's the thought that his life could be set against so many others. Maybe it's the tempting possibility that he could be doing the right thing, for once. He wonders what his father would think if he could see him now. After all these years. His father sitting at the table, his neat clothes and his coat folded over the back of the chair, facing him in his uniform: his father shakes his head and says Joel, my boy, (and he whispers it's Joe now but his father's memory pays no heed) The wise man fears death because only fools think they have lived a life good enough to be prepared for its end. There is only one way to escape the falling that he's discovered so far. It's simple, but effective. Her arms always do the trick. He paints the shabby flat, the threadbare mattress, and the wavering candlelight on the back of his eyelids and when he closes his eyes, he puts her arms around him and he knows exactly where he is. She is his solid ground, the memory of her: she is strong and warm, and her scent seeps into his bones until the chill abates. Her hair curls against his cheek and her breath tickles his neck. She digs her nails into his chest, rakes down his skin, and the exhausted ache in his joints fades. She murmurs into his ear: come home. Could be that she's changed her mind. Could be that after everything, their fights won't matter. The one thing he knows is that until he gets back to her, every time he steps through that open hatch, he'll fear death. |