Shell Shock

My husband came back a different man.

He shakes and stirs, he screams in his sleep and weep whilst he is awake. He runs and hides if he hears any loud sound such as the clattering of pans.

I do not blame those who stare. I do not even blame the kids far laughing. They think their father's cowardice is a game. They do not remember the man he used to be, they were too young to even recall the war breaking out, too young to remember who their father was.

I thought he would be a hero, more heroic than I had seen him before he left but now he has returned home as a baby-- younger than our youngest who is four.

His friends are heroes, they stand tall and straight, a smile of bride across their faces, they have served their country well. Even the men who can no longer stand, those who now walk with the aid of crutches or are bound to a wheelchair have pride etched in their smiles.

My husband cannot stand straight, his face is etched with pain instead of pride.

The doctors say he suffers from shell shock.

"It will pass." they tell me, "He will be fine soon enough, all you have to do is be their for him."

And every time they tell me this I sigh and wonder if the humiliation of being sent a white feather would have been better than convincing my husband to be a hero and fight in the war.

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