Animosity

Chapter 18 - The Second Time

Photo: Shell-shocked American soldier winces in pain as he leans against boxes in the middle of camp.

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        Hank leaned back against a nearby tree, the rough bark digging into his skin. In the distance, the bubbling sound of a gently flowing river caressed his ears, and he closed his eyes tiredly as he rested his head on the uneven bark behind him. There seemed to be so many rivers and streams in this country, so many beautiful rushing facets of water etched into the jungle, Mother Nature's veins distributing the source of life. It's so beautiful here, he thought. It's so beautiful.

He cracked his eyes open tentatively, reaching his hands around his rifle, lacing them together over the barrel. The gun was so dangerous, so deadly, and yet he didn't think twice about carrying it anymore; it almost felt like an extension of himself, just another body part. It had the power to kill and yet he found it so natural to hold, to use. He had never thought twice about it until now, and he almost dropped the rifle in disgust, wanting to throw it into whatever stream that the group had stopped by.

He didn't need to rifle to hurt someone, though, he could do that on his own. With an unwavering stare, Hank had watched Tom look after him in shock, dark blue eyes following him as he went to walk with Devy, feigning happiness when he felt sadder than ever. The small, dark-haired man had fought back tears, rubbing at his face with oversized sleeves, shying away from Buddy when the peppy kid tried to ask what was wrong.

"Nothing," Tom had murmured lowly, in a tone that stabbed a knife of guilt into Hank's gut. "It's nothing."

As soon as the first words left his lips, he immediately regretted them, wishing he could take them back almost instantly. He could see the hurt on Tom's face, the hope that was brought crashing down only to be replaced with bitter sadness. The problem was, as soon as he got started, he couldn't stop, trying to convince himself with each sentence that the things that he was saying really were true.

"It doesn't matter."

"That was a one time thing."

"I'm not queer."

He groaned softly, driving his fist into the tree behind him, wincing when he felt his the skin shielding his knuckles split. Why did he say those things to the one person that seemed to genuinely love him? Why had he rejected the man so coldly, acted as if remorse for his actions wasn't even an option? Squeezing his eyes shut, he took a deep breath, pain shooting up his arm from the wound that had opened on his hand, a slow trickle of blood running between his fingers.

He had denied all involvement with Tom, wanted to forget the night they spent together, wallowing in drunken bliss. He couldn't remember a lot of it, only the feeling, the feeling of being free and happy for the first time since he had gotten on a boat and sailed over to Vietnam... the first time since he had shot at someone, had someone shoot at him. He had felt safe, finally, but he hated himself for it.

The fact of the matter was, like his denials, Hank wasn't queer... was he? He wanted so desperately to believe he wasn't, that it truly was a one time thing, that it wouldn't happen again. He was a normal person, a normal man, the person that he was raised to believe he was.

Mr. Barlon, his father, hated any mention of the word. Strictly religious, like almost everyone in the community, he had participated in anti-homosexual protests, taking a tiny, 6 year old Hank by the hand and dragging him to every rally. Normal men, men that looked like everyday people on their way to work, had gotten personally targeted, bottles thrown at them on the street, slurs hurled at their terrified faces. Eventually, Hank had joined in too.