Scraps of A Mind

Shields

Dust rises from the cracked dry ground, shadows growing with the setting of the sun. I can still feel the heat upon my face, though it grows dimmer by the minute.

A strip of red cloth is taken from a soldier's bag and tied around my eyes. I stand silent, blinded to the world that revolves around war. Something in my heart longs to see the sun, (fading with my life) in my final seconds. Another part of me is pleased, the world is an ugly place, this cloth about my eyes will hide it from view.

I hear the clatter of steel against wood, shouts arising and feet scuffling. Still, I remain motionless - whatever is happening is no longer my business. But I imagine the splinters flying, sparkling pieces of a shield dancing onto the ground. In my mind the sunlight casts flames over the attacking sword, light arching with each stroke.

The smell of sweat and honey wafts into my nose, the cloying strength of someone's arms suddenly wrapping themselves around me. I fall, heavy weight of the person covering me. Rocks dig into my exposed arm as I lay on my side, idle thoughts of "what's going on" running through my head.

Another shout, a loud crack and booming like thunder. Whoever is atop me breathes out, I can feel their hot breath on my cheek.

"It's going to be okay." they're saying, "It's going to be okay."

I'm not sure I believe them, this is supposed to be my last day on earth. Shadows pierce the gap in my blindfold, it having shifted in my heavy fall. Outside the confines of protecting arms a pair of booted feet stand motionless. Leather, grass stained and caked in red mud. Someone must be standing over us.

Whispers of 'it's okay' stop, leaving only suffocating weight and soft breaths. Anticipation clogs my airways, waiting for something to happen, for a blow to put my lights out, a kick to the stomach, anything. But all I receive is silence.

I never did find out who saved me. A good Samaritan I hope, someone who still has two legs to walk with and a deep pair of eyes (who didn't fall or suffer on my behalf). When I was pulled from the ground they told me I was free, that I could be sent home, to not ask questions.

After being covered so tightly my skin felt thin and weak, the slightest wind sending shivers down my back. Rough voices refused my request to have the blindfold removed, forcing me to listen instead.

I imagine the flaming sword, blazing under the last vestiges of golden light. It's a poetic thought that sometimes still haunts me.

Now, many years later, I still catch the scent of honey and sweat, a mantra of 'it's going to be okay' playing through my head. Seems this savior with no face left me a valuable gift. Warmth that blooms in my chest when I lay my head down every night. An overall feeling in a literal sense. They covered me.