Strain- Part One
Patrick Edmonds
Courtesy of Air Combat CommandHe had been home for a week now. Only showered once, which was decent enough after not showering for two months straight. At 20 yrs. old, the basic luxuries of life already seemed irrelevant to him. He appreciated the scarcity of things now, realizing how temperamental it all was. Dishes could be done later. Laundry washed tomorrow. Sleep? Sure, why not? The irony was not lost on him of how his months of regimentation to survive his war now changed to a form of listlessness unlike any he’d ever experienced on account of the very war he’d survived. Smile at it. Casually though, when no one was looking. That is how he now saw his place at this old table and bed and home, once so comforting and warm in their selfless acceptance of him, but now so detached and cold in their reluctant embrace of his return. And so that is how it was that the duffle bag came to sit at the entrance of his old room, originally sitting tall but hunching more and more each day.
“Dinner!” his mother called. He’d been lying in his bed staring at the ceiling and considering nothing in particular. His father came to the bedroom door, looked down at the duffle bag and then up toward his son.
“Okay?” His father asked reluctantly. He’d still been trying to determine exactly how to approach his son’s return.
“Yeah, fine.” His son didn’t move. He just continued to stare at the ceiling. “What’s up?”
“Did you hear your mother call?” His father sighed looking down at the bag.
“Yeah. I’ll be down.”
After his father left the room, he pushed himself up slowly. His back still hurt, even with the pain killers. The IED had torn the hummer apart. Amazingly, no one was killed, but two of the soldiers, including him, were injured severely. But as bad as it was, it became his ticket home. After a month in the infirmary, he was deemed unfit for combat. His training didn’t permit anything else, so he was honorably discharged.
After some more time and a few more calls from his mother, he finally rose and headed down the stairs. The smell of his mother’s meatloaf pervaded the halls. When he came down and entered the kitchen, he found the table completely set, as it had been every night he had been home, and his parents sitting silently.
“Smells good” he said as he sat down, wasting no time to grab the mash potatoes and macaroni and cheese.
He cut a large piece of the meatloaf and then waited as his parents served themselves and said grace. He looked down at his plate as they prayed. His food covered the entire plate. After they had finished praying, he dug his fork deep into the mash potatoes and then scooped up some macaroni and added a piece of meatloaf. His mother stared as he packed everything together onto his fork. She strained her eyes and rested her fork on her plate as her son mashed her neatly prepared dinner into a single entity instead of three separate dishes. He blended everything together into a mangled heap of distorted colors, unrecognizable from their former selves. After scooping another bite of what used to be his favorite meal, he reached for the salt, adding generously and making quiet sighs of approval with each additional taste as his mother continued to stare with a sad incredulity.
“Ahem” interrupted his father, staring at his wife and gently grabbing her hand. Their son continued to eat his dinner, isolated in its simple sustenance, never raising his head once while his parents picked at their plates and watched as he ate.
“Well, what are your plans tonight? Any of the boys around?” his father started.
Not raising his head and between bites, he uttered a simple, “No.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” his mother added.
Some more time passed in silence. Eventually he finished, cleared his plate, and walked it to the sink. “Thanks,” he uttered as he grabbed his keys and headed to the back door. “I’m heading out. I’ll be back later.”
Just as he opened the door, his mother asked, “Is there any chance you might get to your duffle bag before you head out…or maybe I can get it for you.”
He hesitated for a moment, gripping the door tighter and looking slightly over his shoulder. “Don’t touch my bag" and he walked out.
Reader Comments (2)
The duffel bag is his soldier's life that he is not willing to give up. He prefers this life over the fake one he now has. I like how he adds the salt to his favorite meal, trying to make it taste better in his new life.
There are many things here and I wait for the next part. Good lunch. Did you ever read Soldier's Home by Hemingway? You would like it --